Wrath will cremate Cecilio Velez to the bone.
Beewolf, his personal demon manifested from childhood nightmares, has taught them to think with fire. When he's about to be expelled from his fifth school, his older brother and current guardian has had...
Lowering the spray paint bottle, I step back to see the complete piece.
A headless silhouette stumbling between crags. The pieces of blood-red sky that peek from between heavy black clouds look like nowt but negative space until the watchful eyes start to emerge from the shading. Glaring cobalt blue on crimson: the only colours I ever use in addition to black and white. Partly because I can't afford a large range with the money Nicolás gives me, partly because I like how glaring the combination is.
There's little light in the emergency escape of whatever building this is, so I use my flash to photograph the graffiti. I open Tumblr, log into deathtobeewolf, select the best picture, and post. No caption.
I've opted for Monsall, a neighbourhood northeast of the city and as far as I can get from Moss Side. Maybe it'll throw people off my scent.
It were dumb to do the painting on the school doors. It felt radical in the moment but all it did were ensure everyone would pay attention. And contrasted with the hundred followers I'd garnered in my first six months of posting, the sudden influx were owt but desired. Most of those followers aren't here because they care about what I do, they just want to stay in the loop about the mystery of who I am. One of the many impulsive decisions I regretted twenty-four hours later.
I know something else you regret.
It happens the way it always does. Starts with a prickling at my fingertips that might be mistaken for fatigue or too many Monster Energies. Two heartbeats later, that possibility is smacked off the table. The pins and needles maul my palms raw.
Deep breaths in and out, I latch onto sanity.
It's too late. A six-inch wasp striped red instead of yellow, Beewolf enacts fight or flight in seconds.
I screw my eyes shut. Open them.
Throwing paint cans into my backpack, I dig out an old watercolour tin from the front pocket. The paints I used up before I turned nine but the metal container is perfect for weed: inconspicuous among the other art supplies in my bag and with two compartments to separate paraphernalia from completed spiffs.
I pry it open with butchered fingernails, fetch the remaining half of my zoot. I smoked the first after ditching Nicolás and its effects wore off as I were painting. Luckily, by then I were too immersed to notice and the task prevented any thoughts of our argument from surfacing.
Prevented? No, procrastinated.
When it comes to Beewolf, the only option is to delay its arrival, to buy some time, but there's no way to exterminate it, no Raid that'll kill the infestation.
The only way to get rid of it is to dull my brain into a withered fruit that holds no nectar, no sugar to attract insects, nowt for them to grip onto. Then I'm immune to whatever it has to say. Or at least numb and what's the difference?
You do know he was lying, right? Nicolás.
You absolutely ruined his life.
He's just too nice to admit it.
Beewolf peels all seven layers of my skin, one at a time, until my flesh slides right off my bones.
I fumble for the box of matches I bought from a corner shop earlier because Nicolás never gave back my lighter. Finley Jenkins, who taught me to skate, trusted it onto me six years ago with its manifesto carved into the brass with a pocketknife, BURN IT ALL. It'd be cheating (the only relationship I'll ever be in) to buy a disposable plastic replacement.
But fuck, do I regret that now. I've been outside from nine am to whatever middle-of-the-night time it is now. After hours of holding paint bottles in the biting temperature, my fingers are as clumsy as rubber hands. It takes four strikes for the match to catch flame and when it does, the sparks flare so tall I drop it.
Unlike the match, my neck burns where Beewolf stands with tarsal claws deep in my spine.
I dip my fingers into the cardboard coffin. This match lights at the first attempt but post-storm humidity kills the flame before my spliff catches on. I exchange the charred curl for a third match.
When the zoot is finally lit, I fill my lungs as far as my compressed ribcage allows. I cling to it for an illusion of warmth though I'm fully aware the only thing it'll do is stop me from noticing the cold.
It's slow to act, leaves Beewolf plenty of minutes to torment me.
A wonderful way of apologising. Spending your night getting high and vandalising someone's property.
I exhale the smoke through gritted teeth.
He hates you. If it wasn't for you, he'd still have his parents around.
I stare at the figure in my painting, as frozen in place and lost to reality as I am. Until someone yells from a window above and I leg it.
I finish my spliff in a ginnel so narrow I have to walk through it at a slight angle for my shoulders to fit. Leaning against red brick, I exhale wicked spectres until the ember dies out and Beewolf is trapped in a gelatinous prison at the edges of my mind.
Tossing the filter into a rubbish bin, I jump onto my skateboard and direct it homeward.
The old tarmac is ragged under my wheels. It fills my knees with static, and as I gain more speed, the crisp air scalpels my skin.
The funeral silence of Monsall is pushed away as I approach the city. Cars breach the speed limit beside me. Their stereos send earthquakes down the road and their brake lights crimson the icicles clawed to windowsills, turn them into blood-drenched daggers. By the time I'm through the city centre, my senses have woken up again.
Southern Manchester doesn't sleep, though not in any celestial sense—the anger infesting our streets grows carnivorous after dark.
Pins and needles butcher my fingers until my board's wheel trails are paralleled by spoors of blood. You'd think, "why ain't no one calling an ambulance?"But they can't see it. People only see blood when it crowns my knuckles or embellishes my cheekbones and they're much more likely to call the police than the ambulance for that.
Even with Beewolf banished, blisters crawl up my ankles. It's not fire, though. Flames can't burn my bones, but termites might gnaw until they cave in.
Notes
Tarsal claws: Hooks at theend of an insect's legs which allow them to attach to rough materials.
Leg it: Run, run away to escape something.
Ginnel: Narrow passage between buildings, alleyway.
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I have a Pinterest board called deathtobeewolf where I've pinned the style of art I imagine Cece would draw/paint. If you think it'll help you get the vibe of their art better, my Pinterest is linked in my bio :)
