Page 99 of SNOB

THIRTY

EMBER

“Keep up, will you?”

Picasso’s voice guides me, my hand in his as we walk the streets of Newhaven. At least I think that’s where we still are.

The world is a haze, streetlights a blur, and my head is in a state of non-stop pain as he tugs me along the sidewalk. No one bats an eye regardless of what I’m wearing here, a simple black mini, a black wig to hide my hair. They’re used to this.

Slap!

My entire face stings before I realize Picasso stopped in his path. “You fucking bitch.” He’s in my face, his thumb on my right cheek, the rest of his fingers on the other. He makes sure I look at him and only him. “Are you out here on your own?”

“Wh-what?” I mutter. I never know what he’s talking about. I’ve learned not to ask questions. Like why we don’t do any artwork. Or why he keeps me locked in what feels like a cell all night. And why there are always strange men around. On top of me. Under me.

I keep thinking it’ll be him. Mac. But it never is. And then I wake up in darkness, my body in pain again. My life feels like glimpses of reality. I don’t know what’s real. One thing I do know? Picasso and I are not a team. This is a dictatorship.

Slap!

My face burns for a second but it’s no different than my arms. Or my legs. Or between them. “Pay attention, cunt.” He positions me in front of him, my back to his chest. Then he tilts my head up. And for the first time in a while, I see something familiar.

It’s my old work. This one a shattered crown on a drawing of Mac. There’s more colour to it than I remember, making it pop against the dull brick. I’ve never seen it this large. Those iron eyes stare back at me, making my stomach knot in a way I haven’t felt in a while.

“Woah.” My eyes shift to the bottom of the paste-up. A hashtag sits next to a small black-and-white image of my face, my red curls the highlight.

#FindTheButterfly.

“When the fuck did you do this?” Picasso’s voice comes to my ear.

“I-I didn’t.” Not that I remember anyway. But the first smile tickles my face in forever.

“It’s the Butterfly!” A girl’s voice calls out from a distance.

“Fuck,” Picasso mutters, pulling me back from my work. A teenage girl runs to the art piece, her phone pointed at the art. “Well, thank fuck.” Picasso holds me back, his grip tight on my sore arms.

Evan is with us, his real teammate, and he says something to him in Russian. I’ve stopped trying to decipher it. Instead, my eyes stay on the girl’s phone. I watch as she posts the paste-up to the ‘Gram with the same hashtag painted on the wall. When she taps the hashtag, it renders more posts with the same one. She scrolls, revealing pages and pages of what looks like… my artwork.

She stops at one photo, a man standing in front of my work with a familiar smirk.

My stomach rolls, my eyes widening.

Holy fuck.

“Hey, what are you doing!” the girl yells just as the artwork… my artwork gets splashed with white paint.

My body stills, my eyes darting to Evan holding a bucket.

The girl approaches Evan. “Why did you do that?!” But an older man pulls her away from the chuckling psychopath.

Psychopath.

That’s what I called Mac.

But at least he encouraged my art. At least he believed in that. My hands turn to fists and before I know it, I’m swinging a limp one at Picasso.

I stumble when I do, all my power drained.

He lets me stumble around, humiliating me in front of the small crowd before he grabs my wrist again. Tight.

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