Tap, tap, tap.

A sleep-deprived boy sits curled up in the damp dark corner tapping his thumbs to unknown beats.

One tap, pause. Layton had always carried a strong love of the arts since he was a small child. District 3, though it seemed entirely unlikely, was a stronghold for the arts and creativity. Growing up in a world where people create grand mechanical devices from small nuts and bolts inspired grand ideals and imagination in young heads. If anyone could create anything with their eight fingers, two thumbs that sparked so many brilliant and incredible ideas in a young Layton’s head. World’s could be fabricated at his fingertips, things that once had not been possible could be made, could be found under the thick greasy fingers of a dedicated child.

One tap, pause. Layton had never been able to really get a hold of any of the factory jobs. Things like building engines (like his father) had never been able to actually happen for him. Screwdrivers and hammers wouldn’t operate in his hands like a guitar to a piano player; tools were the strings he had to play when he was trying to play melodies with bright white keys. None of the hands on work had ever worked out for him; his creativity lay elsewhere, under numerous coats of deep harsh blacks and eccentric reds. Layton loved to paint anything he could pull out of his brain. He created fantastic new worlds, enhanced the beauty of people he saw as gods, and condemned those who he hated to literal cliff-hangers with rocks about to fall.

Two taps, pause. Sleep was always something that danced gracefully just out of his clasp. It teasingly approached slowly some days and just as it’s about to fall into his open arms it jumps with a sudden jerk and laughs ferociously at the weak boy. They called it insomnia. Layton would spend hours at night tossing and turning and counting trying to catch the z’s would float right above him. He prayed for dreams to cover his drooping eyelids, to invade his mind with visions of hope and love and aspirations and the worlds that he created in his fingertips. Dreams, dreams that he wished would grace his presence, but dreams to him were nothing but the still pictures painted across his canvases.

Three taps, pause. Even nightmares would be welcome. To feel the anguish and pain of the subconscious torturing him, that would even be a blessing. He'd tried all the methods, eating dairy before bed, let the fears of falling from high, the feels of being smothered, thoughts of death and despair encompass him, but nothing would work. Layton could never fall into the proper layer of sleep, every rest period was short and unsatisfying. He's found comfort in counting though. Long nights spent staring at the ceiling had resorted in a fascination in patterns. Patterns in numbers.

Five taps, pause. Math had always been fun. Solving riddles, using the long hours of the night to fly through complications he had been presented with. Layton loved math. The way numbers mixed together and did the things they did was so utterly, well, cool. There was a particular sequence in which he'd been interested in. The Fibonacci Sequence. A pattern in which the two previous numbers together was the next in the sequence. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, etc. He'd taken to spending nights tapping his thumbs in patterns that followed it. One tap, pause. One tap, pause. Two tap, pause. Three tap, pause. Five tap, pause. Repeat. Over and over, hours on end tapping his fingers. Layton is detached from the world around him lost in a world of numbers and figures and lack of sleep and dreams.

Repeat. Days meld together, the same thing over and over. Work, paint, tap, no sleep, rest. Only really ever present in the world with paint brush to paper. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5. Repeat.

They say that he slept every single night as a child.

Layton was born to Ethel Laverne and George Adler in a small home tucked away in the corner of District 3. Tucked away near the fence, the outside of the small townhouse was far from dirty. Ethel had always been a clean freak, which seemed so ridiculous from living in such a dirty place. The faded yellow outer shell, though dull and unappealing never had a speck of dust that crawled into the crevices, never were the windows painted with fingertips. Layton grew up in a house that was clean and a safe environment for a young child.

His father, George, worked in the motor industry of District 3. In the technology district, he constantly helps working on the advancement of motor vehicles for the Capitol. This, to Ethel’s dismay, led often to grime soaked floors and dirt treaded everywhere throughout the house. Though it was never too much of a predicament, it often did cause disputes, but Ethel and George were always as happy as could be. Together. Layton came into their lives two years after their marriage, needless to say he was a surprise, but a happy surprise and they both welcomed the change in their life with open arms.

Ethel always had big dreams for her children and raised the little boy to be a superhero of sorts implanting great ideas of grandeur in his head. You can be anything you want, Layton. The world is yours to claim. If only the world had been that simple. Layton grew up a little different. With no immediate skill in the world of technology, he was immediately made different in school where they learned the trades of their District. Inability to do anything, useless, he struggled through school, struggled with identity. Who could he be if he couldn’t be a mechanic, or an inventor? What difference would he make?

Layton discovered the night time when he was twelve. Sure, he’d known of the night before, but didn’t everyone? Layton truly discovered the night for the hypnotic, soothing qualities it possessed when he turned twelve. Every night he would trace the black sky through the stars and create his own constellations. He’d listen to the slight clanks of the factories still buzzing along at all hours of the night; somehow the clanging was hypnotic to him.

From that point on, he’d never really slept. With a maximum of 4 hours of sleep if he was lucky, Layton often fell into a dazed and lost state, always looking just beyond you. Almost as if he wasn’t there. With factory hours being elongated and her son in a useless state of being, Ethel fell in to a state of deep crippling depression. Layton started realizing the dust collecting in the corners of windows, and flecks of dirt splattering the dead yellow. It became incredibly depressing, the yellow. This is when Layton discovered painting. One day, lying lifelessly against his home’s fence, the yellow just angered him so much he took a paintbrush and painted it a slight brown. Three coats, two weeks, non-stop.

Layton, who was wasting away, discovered a passion beyond anything he’d ever hoped of achieving from school. Taking up an awful job at a factory sorting nuts and bolts by size, Layton continues his education and his painting to this day.

They say that you can never paint the night sky, but he’ll try.