Page 93 of SNOB

At least I think it’s my enemy.

Tilting my head, I size up my work. I’m missing the depth of darkness in his eyes. The soul-sucking energy that sends you into oblivion.

Shaking the can, I fill in the spots that still have paint peaking out from underneath, committing to my work. Once it’s all filled, I pick up my brush and paint butterfly wings in the corner, leaving my stamp. My signature.

Contrary to his belief, this butterfly set herself free.

But he still lives in your mind.

And the painting in front of me proves it.

Sirens wail in the distance, my cue to wrap things up. It’s hard to tell if they’re for me but I don’t want to risk it.

Moving on from Grim Valley was a risk. But it was riskier staying beneath The Hill after what I did. As for Newhaven? It’s far from that, a haven. It’s a place where the fittest survive. My art is the only thing keeping me from succumbing and if I need to keep myself afloat, I’ll need to get back to it.

With my backpack of paint and a couple new sketchpads under my arm, I move to my spot near the community centre and set up again.

It’s hard keeping my artwork down with the gusty wind today. As I fumble with a rock, one of my drawings of Uncle Jake drifts off under the late afternoon sun. Just like the rest of my dreams.

I wanted a fresh start. A fresh beginning. But it feels like the opposite. It feels so much worse than where I was before. With Jake.

With Mac.

“Drive that bullet into my heart.”

“End us.”

And I did.

Thing is, it’s not that easy getting rid of Malcolm McKinsley. At least not in my head. I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t and he knew it. But I made sure we’d never come back from that.

We can’t come back from that.

“Well, if it isn’t the Butterfly.” A croaky voice makes me lift my head as my stomach flips, that nickname loud and clear. My heart pounds as my body stills, my hand tightening around the rock.

When I look up, emptiness fills me again.

An older man with a salt and pepper beard eyes my work, each signed with those butterfly wings. “I knew I recognized that signature.” He pulls the drawing that got away from behind his back. He smiles but it doesn’t feel like one, crow's feet by his tired brown eyes. His brown leather jacket matches the fanny pack he wears across his body. A white tee shows off his dad-bod. I wonder how many moms fawn over him at the PTA. “You’re the one painting over my shit.”

“Wait, what?”

“Didn’t you just paint over my tag under the bridge?”

My brows lower. “That’s you?” Sure street artists come in different shapes and sizes, but this is not what I expected from Pavement Picasso.

“Sure is.” He winks, and that tells me he’s not as mad as I thought he’d be. Not when he’s eyeing me like a piece of meat even in my torn-up jeans and dry hair. I keep it piled on my head, no use in letting my matted coils out. The last time I looked in the mirror, I startled myself, the lack of sleep really showing.

“Sorry.” It’s best not to fight with him. Getting by out here isn’t easy. Especially on my own. Selling supplies and whatever clothes I could get from The Hill got me some cash for food and a few days at a motel. That got used up, so selling my art is the only thing left to support my daily meal of Cheetos and jerky.

As for accommodation? The abandoned parking lot near the highway is a huge downgrade from The Emerald.

I couldn't stay in The Hill after what I did. I proved I’m a murderer. The Valley was too close and Uncle Jake was way behind on the lot payments for our trailer. Not only did they wheel Uncle Jake away, but our home too. Angelo’s current life would only bring more danger, especially after I stole his gun. So hitching the five hours to Newhaven was the safest bet. At least until I can get enough money to move on.

“No apologies necessary,” he says, crouching to get a better view of my work lined up on the pavement. His finger trails each page as he stares into my eyes. “I didn’t expect you to be this hot.” He’s as forward as he presents himself, my cheeks heating at his compliment. With a wider smile, he bites his thin bottom lip. That should lower the threat of his presence but my muscles remain tight. “When my guys told me they saw the Butterfly selling out here, I was ready to throw some punches.” He takes a page off the pavement, moving a rock away. “But there’s something here.”

He rises, his eyes falling to my chest before I pull an old Saint Bons sweater around me. Made out of wool, it’s the warmest thing I own. It still smells like him, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t heighten the comfort.

“So, whaddya say?” he asks. “You wanna be part of PowerUp Crew?”

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