His fingers are coated in a layer of charcoal, but he doesn't notice as his hand flies over the paper. His movements are quick and erratic, the lines he draws sharp, showing the urgency behind his actions.
He doesn't see the images being drawn on the paper, only the images in his head--dark forms rising from the earth, a rainfall of blood, the blooming of skeletal corpses.
These are the things he draws with violent strokes of charcoal as he tries to expel the vision from his head. Transferring it to paper is rudimentary but quick, and he doesn't have time to deal with a more efficient method.
His drawing hand falters, and he doubles over, clutching his head. The pain he feels is tremendous--like the clinging grip of claws in his skull--but he forces his hand back to the paper to continue drawing.
He can't see the sketchpad in front of him or his trembling hand clutching the piece of charcoal so hard that it's a wonder it hasn't broken. He picks up the speed, drawing faster, wanting to remove the images from his head, and with them, the pain.
The paper is full of jagged lines and smudges, a barely comprehensible picture, but he knows it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is the transference.
He draws one final object--a bright, glowing stone--and the images in his head finally disappear. For a moment, he can't see anything beyond darkness, but slowly his sight comes back.
He blinks at the mass of lines, his breathing harsh, before shutting the sketchpad. He holds it to his chest as he tries to sort through the things he saw in his head, the things he drew, the things he knows will soon come to pass, but he's exhausted, barely able to hold himself upright.
He stumbles to his room and drops down onto his bed, the sketchbook beneath him, though he hardly notices. He closes his eyes. Briefly, there's the afterimage of his vision, but it doesn't last long and what follows is the blessed silence of unconsciousness.
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