Work Text
Everything is muted at night, in more ways than one. The lights, the colors, the sounds. Everything but thoughts, that’s when they’re their loudest. The only thing that can snap out of them was the thud of the bag hitting the ground, weighed down by the spray paint inside.
I need to get out, I need to get out.
I can’t do this anymore, I can’t do this anymore.
The thoughts that plague me every single night, every time my father raises his hand to me or my sister. Every time I have to stare at the mattress laying on the floor instead of in a frame. Every time I see bottle after empty bottle laying on every surfaces in the dark, damp apartment I’m forced to call home.
The only sounds that cut through the night are the faint sounds of the cars in the distance, so far away they’re almost a memory, and the sound of the aerosol spray as the wall before me turns from blank to red in all but an instant.
Shut the fuck up.
Worthless piece of shit.
Words are just words until they’re not just words anymore.
Words are just words until they eat their way into your soul, gnawing away until there’s nothing left but an empty pit deep in your core. Until the hole where your heart used to be fills with insecurities, with sadness. With anger. With
anything
you can hold on to. Sometimes anything feels better than nothing at all.
Painting is the only way for me to make any impact at all, the only way to get out everything I’m feeling. I hear the people on the street complaining about it, about how “that damn graffiti ruining the city”. Even then, I feel pride. They’re looking at me, they’re looking at my mark.
Purple splatters across the wall and purple splatters across my cheek, my passion throbbing through the wall like the bruise still throbbing on my cheek. Whenever I want to hit back, whenever I want to hurt myself, I take it out on the wall. On the sign. On the bench. Whatever I can find. The darker my mind is, the brighter the city becomes.
And tonight, my mind is an abyss.
If I stare into the abyss too long, it starts to stare back. And I can’t take that, not on nights like this. Every time I get into my mind for too long, all I can think about is how much I want to hurt him. About how I want to hurt myself even more. I’ve painted my arm red too many times, at least with the wall he never knows. He doesn’t know that it’s me that makes this city beautiful every time he drinks. Only I know that.
And them.
Well… him. He’s the only one that knows why I paint every time I paint, the others just know that all the graffiti is mine. And I’m okay with that. I think they know something, it’s hard to not put together how often I’m shaken up and bruised and bloody, how often I don’t want to go home. They just don’t talk about it, and I don’t bring it up. And that’s how we like it. I know they all have their things too but when we’re together it’s the only happiness we have. The only time any of us feel whole.
I swear he can sense where I am whenever I go out, and I feel his hand on my shoulder before I hear him. I jump and he laughs, he always thinks it’s a little funny when I’m jumpy. Not in a mean way, and he never makes me feel bad about it.
Completely the opposite, his laugh makes my heart feel brighter for the first time all day.
Just like it always does.
“You didn’t call me.”
“Didn’t know I had to every time I go out.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did know what he meant. He likes to at least know when things get bad again, he likes to be here with me while I paint. To talk, to make things less tense. To listen. To keep an eye out for the cops. The last thing I needed was to get caught, again, and he knew that.
“Sorry, didn’t think before I left. Just ran,” I say with a sigh, finally looking over at him. I have to look up slightly to look at his face, and the second I do I look away. I know he’ll see the bruise, but I really don’t want him to. I don’t want him to worry.
But he always worries.
And he always notices.
He reaches out and grabs my chin in his hand, jerking my face back to him. I avert my eyes but I know he can see my whole face, my whole shame. His fingers gently ran over the bruise, a stark contrast to the touch that was there not even a few hours ago. His hands were so big, rough from working hard. But he was never rough with them, at least not to me.
He let go of my face a heartbeat too late, but I couldn’t find it in myself to feel weird about it. But fuck did I feel vulnerable. I turned my face away again, wanting to hide away. I felt so naked knowing he was looking at my bruise and he knew what caused it.
“Is that the only one tonight?”
I nod at the question and look down at the spray can in my hand. “Yeah, that’s it,” I say, shaking myself out of it to give him a small smile. “And it’s not that bad, doesn’t even hurt anymore. I’m fine.” If I kept pretending things were fine, maybe one day they would be.
I had to hope that one day they would be.
I went back to painting, not really sure what I was creating just that I had to get it all out. He leaned against the wall as I paint, a cigarette dangling from his lips. I won’t lie and say having him instantly made everything perfect again, but it helped. It helped more than he could ever know. I felt my mind go from a tornado to a drizzle, my thoughts were clearer and I could finally breathe again.
Which sometimes could be just as dangerous.
I could break down at any time, I knew it. He knew it. It was just what
kind
of breakdown was it going to be if I did. But, for now, I was okay. I was okay and I was focused. On the wall, on the paint, on the sounds of the night. On him and his warmth next to me.
I heard the sirens about half a second after I felt him hit my shoulder and I moved on autopilot, grabbing up my bag and running after him without a second thought. This wasn’t my first time running from the cops, far from it, but it wasn’t always easy. We ran down the road, him ahead of me, hearing the cops trailing behind us on foot. I risk a look behind me and I laugh, the red haired cop behind me one I’ve ran into a few times in my trips to the station or when dad gets a little too loud and the neighbors get a little too nosy. I walk backwards for a moment, smirking and playfully flipping him off before I feel my arm being yanked again. We turn down a street and duck unto an alley and I laugh again.
His hand slaps over my mouth to keep me quiet until the cops run past, my heart beating hard from the adrenaline. We were unbelievably close in this cramped alley, and the second his hand was off of my mouth I was laughing again. I don’t know why I was laughing, I guess the whiplash of emotions I’ve gone through tonight was getting to me. Sometimes when things are confusing all you can do is laugh. Laugh because what the fuck, how is this my life? A cycle of abuse and painting and police. It was funny- it wasn’t funny. But I couldn’t stop laughing.
And then he started to laugh too.
We laughed until we couldn’t breathe, sharing still a few chuckles as we panted, our chests heaving as we calmed ourselves down. In that moment, there was just this. His warmth right in front of me, the smell of his cologne and faint cigarette smoke on his clothes, his breathing. I smile up at him and he smiles back, running a hand through his hair before looking at his phone. It was late, really late. I started to feel a panic rising in my chest, oh God I couldn’t go home. I didn’t know if my dad was passed out yet, and I didn’t want to take the risk. Not when I was finally feeling okay.
“Let’s pick up some food and go watch some Netflix,” he offered like he could sense my worry, and maybe he could.
We linger in that tiny alley a few moments longer before he finally leads me out to the street, and we make our way through that muted night once again, back to his apartment.