METHOD OF BEDLAM ━ 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 ²

𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 ; oddly good to hurt

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iii. nineteen : ❝ oddly good to hurt ❞

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠: she - dodie

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Somewhere in Small Heath

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Mar found herself back in the familiar streets of Small Heath, the market bustling with activity. Amidst the crowd, her sharp eyes caught sight of a familiar face—the Digbeth kid from the bar.

"Hey, you're—" Mar began, but the kid interrupted with a timid response, "Digbeth kid."

A hint of amusement played on Mar's lips. "No, your real name, kid."

"Harold." the kid replied shyly.

"Ah, yeah, Harold Hancox. I remember. Where are you off to?" Mar inquired, genuine curiosity in her voice.

Harold hesitated before answering, "I, uhm, we're—"

As Harold fumbled with his words, Mar couldn't help but notice the innocence that radiated from him, reminding her of a newborn child untouched by the harshness of the world.

"Don't be so scared of me, yeah? Am I that scary-looking?" Mar teased.

"No, no, Ma'am. You're really pretty." Harold stuttered, his nervousness palpable.

"Marianna. Call me Marianna." Mar offered with a warm smile, her demeanor shifting to make the encounter more approachable.

"Marianna, you're not scary, Ma'am." Harold assured; his nervousness evident in his voice.

Mar chuckled softly, appreciating the earnestness in the Digbeth kid's words. "Help me with these, yeah?"

Harold nodded eagerly, a sense of purpose overcoming his initial shyness. "Y-yeah, of course."

As Mar and Harold worked together in the lively chaos of the Small Heath market, the barriers between them began to dissolve. In the simplicity of shared tasks, a connection forged—a brief encounter that spoke of camaraderie beneath the gritty surface of their surroundings.

Back at Mar's workshop near the Garrison pub, the air filled with the scent of paint and the subtle hum of creativity. Mar meticulously set up her tools for painting, arranging brushes, palettes, and canvases with a practiced ease.

Harold observed silently, his gaze following Mar's every movement. He watched with fascination as she sat by a stool, her focused expression reflecting the passion that fueled her art. Resuming her brush strokes on a half-finished sketch, Mar entered a world where colors and shapes danced under the guidance of her skilled hands.