The Real Drawing

I sat at my desk, bored. My pencil gently drifted over the paper. I was trying to draw a self-portrait, though I never considered myself an artist. The room was dimly illuminated with a lamp that sat on the corner of my desk.
The sharp point of my pencil broke before I started drawing the hand. I sighed, and reached for the sharpener. It was one of those small ones that dropped the shavings off wherever you happened to be. Luckily, I had a small trash can at my feet. As I twisted the pencil, I surveyed the drawing. 
It was actually pretty good. I had finished the head, neck, and left shoulder. I was working on the left arm, and there was an out-of-place pencil mark where the pencil point had broken. I had not drawn a face, and since I was feeling lazy I decided to shade in his shirt gray. The pencil was sharp. I turned the sharpener upside-down and watched the pieces fall into the trash. I brushed off the remains with my finger and gained a lead-streaked index finger. Wonderful. 
It was weird, but I had a very subtle feeling in my hand as I gently stroked the pencil. The drawing's hand was forming, but I could feel my hand feeling weird. When I drew the final finger, the pinkie, the feeling was gone everywhere... everywhere except my pinkie. His left hand was done, and the weird, tingly feeling in my own left hand was gone. That was certainly weird, but I wasn't going to just give up because of a feeling. 
It was late, I was tired... that was it. I moved on with the drawing, and started the other shoulder and sketched his right arm. 
The tingle feeling, like small birds inside my arm, moved down my right arm the further I got in the drawing. I had to endure the feeling in each of my fingers as I drew, each finger seeming worse than the last. Finally, it was over. He had a head and upper torso. The feeling was just driving me crazy though, and I decided to take a break. 
I stood up from the desk, pushing my chair back, and walked out of the room and down the stairs. I needed a drink of water. I went into the kitchen and spied an empty glass on the counter. When had this last been used? Was it okay to drink out of? I sniffed the inside and got a faint aroma of Cream Soda. When was the last time I had Cream Soda? I put the cup in the sink, silently promising to do the dishes later... tomorrow... sometime, and grabbed another glass from the cupboard. I filled it with water from the sink, and drank. I instantly felt more relaxed. I could barely remember the tingle now. Feeling more mentally strong, I put the glass on the counter. 
Tap.
A sound made me look up. It had came from my kitchen window. It was dark outside, so I couldn't see anything. Was somebody out there? Did that jackass kid who lived next door try to throw a rock through the window? 
Thunk.
There it was again! Curious, I pressed my face to the window. I squinted outside, trying to see. I could barely see the tree in my yard, and beyond that-
TAP!
A sudden hit on the window made me jump. I saw a dark shape dart away from the glass, and laughed. A bird! A bird had slammed into my window, and he was still trying to get in! Chuckling to myself, I turned away from the window as the bird tried again, only meeting with another Tap. 
I walked back upstairs, trudging up each stair tiredly. A thought crossed my mind, a thought of going to bed, lying in the warmth of my blanket, the comfort of my pillow... nothing could hurt me in my bed... But these feelings faded as soon as I saw the drawing. 
I had to finish it. 
Picking up my pencil, feeling the rough texture, I started drawing his lower body. Now it was as if my hand were moving on it's own and I was a spectator. I watched, fascinated as his left leg formed. I gasped when I realized the tingle was back. 
I thought my leg had fallen asleep, so I began to bounce it under the desk. It made a thumping sound on the dark carpet, but the tingle moved down into my feet. It was as if I were wearing shoes made from the sensation. It was in no way a pleasant feeling. One leg to go. The tingle was worse than ever before, but I continued on. Trudged on, more like. 
I was practically squeezing the desk. I have no idea how I managed to move my pencil. Finally, the vague outline of a person (wearing a gray shirt) was on my paper. The tingle was gone. It was over. I realized I should have drawn pants on him, when the paper shuddered as though wind was blowing on it. 
The drawing moved. 
It moved the deformed arms I had given it and put the hands on the paper, basically pushing itself off the paper. It came down onto my desk, a 3D model of the doodle that was somehow moving, leaving a blank piece of paper in my hand. The drawing wobbled on weird legs, and looked for a moment that it would topple over but managed to steady itself. It limped toward me, a faceless thing that would surely be in my nightmares. 
Tap.
That tap on the window again. What was it? I looked to the window without even thinking that I was turning away from the drawing, and froze. A skeleton wearing a cloak, somehow not the Grim Reaper, was floating outside my second floor window. It raised one bony hand and thrust it forward. A flash of pink went through the glass and hit my drawing. 
I turned in time to see the pink thing hit it. The drawing thrashed around in what looked like agony. It flung its arms around and did some crazy dance before it melted into a puddle of lead on the desk. The puddle shrank and disappeared. I looked toward the window. The thing was gone. 
On my desk, next to a blank piece of paper, was an eraser.
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