A figure slumps in the shadows of a dark room. It's head bowed over a desk, a pencil in it's hand. Slowly and precisely it draws a line... then another... and another... until the lines form a shape. The shape of a dragon.
He walks towards the building they call school, bag hanging from his shoulder and a thoughtful gaze in his eyes. He will once again live through another day, with no one to talk to him. He will spend his time in school gazing into space, thinking of things that he would never tell nor reveal to other people. Is he a loner? Maybe so, but something tells me that he isn't alone. Not by far.
He walks home and sits down on the chair, in front of the television. His eyes stare blankly as he watches the symphony of colors and sounds which merge to form images, ideas, stories. He turns off the television, sits down in front of her desk and picks up a pencil. Then begins to draw again.
First a line, to form the head. Then some more to show the wings. The wonders of creation within a simple tool known as a pencil. The figure of a dragon rising from the horizon slowly materializes from a blank page. The sun appears behind its back, and clouds rise towards the heavens. And slowly, the image shifts...
He adds another detail to the image, then leaves his pencil on the table. He had thought of this many times, over and over before he finally reached his decision.
The blade gave a soft gleam as it cut across his body, leaving nothing but a cold figure and a dark pool of blood. Crimson drops fall on his dragon. The dragon carrying a boy to heaven.