I stared at the numbers on my alarm clock. The red number glowed in the dark of my room, illuminating the desk that stood next to my bed. The whispers light lingered over my sketchbook, paint brushed and coloured pencils that were scattered over the table.
I'm so nervous, yet deep down I'm actually sort of excited about it. Then fear slowly creeps in, followed by doubt. What is wrong with me? My head is spinning with all these mixed emotions. I don't know how to feel. I need to get some rest so I'm calm about tomorrow, and that I have enough energy to impress the panel. I turned over trying to get some sleep.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes with the hope that I fall asleep.
“Hey Allison, so nice of you to come?” as I walk into a room
I look around, where am I? This place looks familiar. I've been here before, but I can't quite remember when I've been here. I look around at the colourful paintings that are hanging on the walls, paintings of trees and animals- it was clear they had been painted by children.
I turned around and looked at the small desks that stood across the room. I looked down at the nearest desk to me.
ALLISON WYATT. My desk?
Then it hit me. This was the desk I sat at when I was 6.
“Miss Rousseau, what's going on? Why am I here?” I ask my teacher. I was confused to why I had returned here. I hadn't been here for over 10 years.
“We've welcomed you back, to thank you for remembering us and making sure that future generations never forget.”
I looked around. The room was empty.
“We? There is nobody else here.”
“Here we are.” A sea of voices washed over me. I was surrounded by children. They were all around the same ages- 5 or 6. Suddenly I realised where I was and who all these people were.
I was back to my old school and all my old classmates.
“But I haven't won. They might not like them”
“You have won. They loved it. They each piece. We loved it. We loved how you painted everyone of us.”
I could feel my eyes filling with tears of joy. They were the reason I had entered the art competition in the first place. I didn't want people to forget the sadness that had occurred. I wanted people to remember what had happened and to never forget the heartache that guns can cause. I wanted them to know that life goes on, that we should learn from the mistakes of the past so they are never repeated in the future.
I wanted people to remember those that lost there lives.
“Allison, every since you entered this classroom, I knew you would do great things with your art. Now you have. Just have faith in yourself and you will succeed. Also congratulations about getting into the scholarship for art school.”
The sunlight washed through the blind. My eyes popped open. What had just happened?
I thought about the dream as I got up and made my way into the kitchen. Could that be real out I really have won the art competition AND got into art school.
Come on Allison. You seriously believe that a dream was true.
As I walked down the stair, I saw a pile of letters sitting under the front door. Instinctively, I walked over to pick them up, sifting through them to see if there was any addressed to me
There was a white envelope with my name on it. In the corner it was a logo SPENCER COLLEGE OF THE ARTS.
I could feel my heart racing in my chest. This was it. What had they decided? Would I be going to art school, or would I be forever banished to working in the local cafe. I ripped open the letter.
….. in regard to your application to attend our establishment to study fine art.... I would like to congratulate you in successfully securing a full scholarship....
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