Page 100 of SNOB

“We’re a team, remember?” he says. “Get it together. Evan is just putting up some real art for us.”

Turning to the ruined work, only my face remains, the hashtag gone. Evan dips his finger in the bucket, finger painting on the space right next to it.

Call 555-569-6969 for a good time.

Creak.

Plonk!

The door locks again.

And tonight? Tonight I’m risking it all.

Darkness takes over me as I scramble to the corner of my cell. But this time, I don’t sink in the corner. This time, I don’t retreat into the darkness hoping I wake up from this nightmare.

Pushing my finger deep down my throat, my stomach twists before the contents spew out. I do it again for good measure, the smell of acidic garbage filling the air. I can’t see the ground, but I smell that familiar smell of sweetened alcohol, and I hope I got it all out.

It took a few more days to work up the courage. To follow the routine. To really pay attention to the way Picasso runs this joint. There’s a key. A structure. And I hope I cracked the code.

Metal sticks to my sweaty skin as the noises outside die down. This is usually when I’d doze off but not tonight. Taking this key wasn’t easy. It took me fucking with Evan to do it. Sure that caused me a couple of kicks to the gut, and bruises to my body. They never hit the face. And without him knowing, I got my hands on a bit of freedom.

I'm careful pushing the key into the hole, trying my hardest not to make a sound. The lock unlatches, a relief in my chest knowing I grabbed the right one. I won’t have to go through Evan’s rage again.

I wince when the door creaks, and I hope no one can hear it.

Pushing the door open, I move into the dark, concrete hall. It feels like I'm in a pound for strays, a sole bulb hanging from the ceiling to light my path.

Squinting, my hand presses against the wall for support as I move closer and closer to the end of the hall. To the big brown garage door. One of the broken glasses at the top isn't fixed, shattered enough for me to peek through it.

For a moment, my head spins, my mind flashing back to the very moment I met him. Behind a glass window. Before he ruined my life.

Before he changed everything.

And hell, now there’s no turning back.

I don’t see Picasso knocking back lines. I don’t see Evan tipping a beer into his mouth. As far as I know, the coast is clear. They go somewhere every night but not for long. For now, I’m happy my timing is right.

You don’t have much of it.

Things move like clockwork here. And if that’s true, I need to be quick.

While the space is mostly empty, finding my phone still isn’t easy. I check the crates, the chest in one corner and even the freezer in the mini fridge but nothing turns up.

My eyes land on a red tool chest, the paint stripping from it. Glancing at the elevator, I move towards the chest. Pulling out the smaller top drawer, my body stills.

Polaroids of women lay scattered across the drawer. I can’t tell how many photos there are. Hundreds? I don’t have time to count. The second drawer reveals tools. Tape, rope, glue, a hammer. Goosebumps rise to my skin when my eyes fixate on the rope, my mind revealing memories of Mac again.

Focus.

It’s not until I’ve searched the fifth drawer that I find what I’m looking for. An array of phones pile on top of each other and rattling through is like finding a needle in a haystack.

But the stickers on my phone help.

A bit of tightness releases in my chest when I see that graffiti sticker, my fingers wrapping around it. Then my shoulders drop.

It’s dead.

Biting my lip, I glance around the room before seeing an outlet, a white chord hanging from it. Moving to it, I plug my phone in, hoping it takes half the time it usually does to revive.

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