Dahlia - The Velvet Witch and Her Dark Spirit

PART 1 - TRUST ISSUES

"But London is haunted," Marcus says, spinning his iPhone through his fingers.

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, looking around the stale classroom that smells like cheap cologne and acrylic paint.

But just like these outreach-program-teens, I've had my own run-ins with the city's ghouls. Almost daily, something will enter my vision that just shouldn't be there, a sound that only I can hear or a thought that isn't mine. For a while now, it's been this humming. A lilting female hum, trying to lure me in with her seductive tones and take me somewhere she thinks I need to go.

"It ain't ridiculous, Teach," Marcus says. "You draw that world for a living, innit? You told us the real adventure is in the Realm of the Ghouls."

"That stuff is make-believe," I say as the hum returns to taunt my lack of faith in it.

I sit back at the head of class and face the thirteen sets of nagging eyes that want me to say more. But I can't. I don't have the confidence to confront the truth, just as I don't have the confidence to stain the canvas in front of me or the one that sits blank in the easel at home. Any minute I'll have to face facts and call this a problem.

Marcus is rummaging through his bag. He pulls out a large hardback and holds it up in front of him. I instantly recognise my book of artworks which was printed almost ten years ago when I was twenty-five and hungry for success.

"The truth is found in what we can't see far more often than in what we can," Marcus says quoting my own words. "The spirit world is the real Illuminati. It runs the show by controlling the minds of the puppets in charge."

He's got me again.

"You say all kinds of things to sell books," I croak, almost choking on the last few words.

Nobody believes me, and eventually they turn back to their work. The humming in my head gets louder. I pick up a sketch pencil to distract myself, but it refuses to connect with the canvas.

This class used to be great when I was feeling inspired. I'd show them how to paint portraits and turn nightmares into twisted art. Or how to graffiti whilst avoiding security setups, how to jump fences and stack a pack with enough tints to get the job done, but not so many that they can't outrun the fuzz.

Some of them have serious talent too. Darren, for example, has a penchant for fine art and will randomly show up at my doorstep with a piece so good it makes my insides gurgle with jealousy. Street kids have stories to tell, whereas I don't.

Ten minutes later and five before class finishes, I catch sight of a Harry-Potter-looking face in the small glass pane of the door. It's Ruben, my one and only friend in this world. Though one as good as Ruben is all you need. I slide out of class, hoping he'll bring me solace.

"You look lost in there."

"Do I have a fucking sign on my head?" I grumble. "We're just finishing up. Give me five?"

I wrap up class after mumbling about homework then meet Ruben out front.

"They looked disappointed it all came to an end," he says.

"Everything comes to an end."

"Well, at least they'll know how to paint it thanks to their 35-year-old hipster teacher."

"Is that a compliment or a fucking dig?"

"Jesus, you're getting paranoid in your old age."

I want to say, 'Paranoia is just the tip of the iceberg,' but I'd rather gargle sand than talk about how broken I've become. I need another try-to-engage-with-the-world-more spiel like I need a kick in the bollocks.