The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Twelve-

Location: Central

Femi isn't here when I wake up; in fact, all of her paints and brushes are gone. My hoodie is gone, too, no doubt still on her. 

It disturbs me that she isn't around. Why would she leave? What might she possibly be doing? 

I have no clue, and that scares me. But what can I do? It's not like she belongs to me. I have no claim over her. That reality doesn't keep me from worrying a bit, though, as used to people randomly disappearing as I am. The words from my almost-forgotten dream echo around in my mind.

She'll leave you.

I shiver, cold, but still throw the blanket away from me.

Matt is still lying there, the bandages around his torso almost covering as much as a shirt would, dingy white against his coffee-brown skin. 

Femi. Femi, Femi...

Femi.

I stand up slowly, picking up the empty can from dinner last night.

If only she had stayed long enough for me to get her to eat something. The way she reacted to my suggestion of her eating dinner last night was weird. I hope that she doesn't stop eating all together. 

Matt groans from his pallet on the floor, startling me. My heart pounds faster than it already was as I pick up a can of beans. I had better get him something to eat, even if it means a minute of a distraction from my search for the gray girl.

"Pary, what are you doing?" He pulls his face into a grimace so concentrated that his eyebrows mold together and I can't find his eyes. 

I look down at the can and turn the handle of the can-opener, trying to distract my thoughts away from the fact she's gone. And the fact that I need to go look for her. "Food, bro."

He blinks. "Where's your girl?"

"She's not my girl, Matt." My pulse throbs in my throat, my fingers. 

"But where is she?"

"I don't know. She's gone, and she took all of her paint and stuff with her." I prop him up with a pillow, wincing when he does. For some strange reason, admitting that she left hurts. I hand him the whole can, not bothering with myself.

I'm starving. I can actually feel my stomach throbbing. It's not a pleasant sensation, but eating would slow me down even more. I'm about to get up when Matt grabs my wrist.

He looks up at me, his gaze unsettling. "Do you have any idea where she might go?"

I shake my head. "Not really. But if she took her stuff with her, she's either leaving me, or she's going to paint something. But if she was leaving me, I'd at least expect her to leave the jacket. I need that thing, as crappy as it is."

He nods, setting the can down beside him. "I almost hope it's the first one."

I glare at him, my heart rate picking up. "Man! Why would you say something like that? She can't just, she can't leave me like that! She needs me, and I—" I gulp, not managing to squeak out the next part. I need her.

"Pary, I realize that you're attached to her, but if she's out there painting alleys, she's not safe. Not by a long shot."

I want to yell at him, or leave to look for her. But all I can manage is a pitiful whisper. "I know, but she's always so okay..." I trail off, realizing how stupid I sound. She's always okay. While that is true, it's also very stupid. You can't guarantee someone's well-being by how they were yesterday, like I did with Matt. That's ridiculous.