I reached for the brass knob covered in brush marks of acrylic paint and I turned my wrist, letting the door slowly swing inward, creaking. A gust of the over powering scent of wet paint and oil washed over me, and I started to feel lightheaded, partly from the smell and partly from fear because I’ve never entered his room before. I regained my awareness and cautiously stepped in…
      The only sources of light were small cracks between three or four overlapping wooden planks nailed across the window. Several flakes of dust floated in the light, like little bugs riding the air.
      I turned my head toward a simple, unmade bed with loose bits of paper and graphite sketches of scattered all over it. The wood floor was also covered in splotches of different colors of paint where they dripped of the tip of a paintbrush.
     In the far corner was an old rusty metal easel, blanketed with a dark colored cloth. I wondered for a brief moment what was hidden under it until my eyes zoned in on the walls. I felt my head lead my body all the way around and it was as if I were inside a giant kaleidoscope. Intricate paintings of all kinds of animals covered the walls. All of them were facing or pointing to one particular place on one of the walls. The spot would have been a clean patch of white, except there was an outline sketch of a hawk with its powerful, dominant wings outstretched in pencil.

     It was unfinished.

     Underneath the hawk was a desk with its surface tilted at a slanted angle, a blank sheet of paper lying on top of it.
Piles of old, thick books of well known artists and writers were stacked on the dresser and any other flat surface. An ashtray with a half used cigarette sat on the very top, the end looked like the user furiously smashed it out. Nicotine patches littered across the rest of the dresser’s surface, one of them had the words,“All for you, Elise” scrawled on them in black paint. The Picture of Dorian Gray, Bridge to Terabithia, and Their Eyes Were Watching God were spread out next the book pile. The only three books not covered in dust and the spines all looking fragile as if they’d fall apart upon their next opening.
      A stub of a candle was sitting on one of books, spilled wax frozen in time, hung over the edges and dripped down the gold, dusty pages.
Suddenly, I felt the fine hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. I froze.

     The door creaked behind me.