The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Sixteen-

 Location: Central

I don't know what's been going on with me today. Everything seems so wrong, like nothing could possibly go right. Being chased by a gang is far from being a good thing, but something inside of me is going crazy. Like I've got an itch that I can't scratch. But that itch is somewhere in my subconscious, telling me things. 

Femi is curled up in a ball beside me, her face pressed against the far side of this cardboard box. I wish she'd roll over and tell me that she's okay, but I know she won't. 

Something is wrong with her, too. She won't eat, she sleeps so much that it concerns me, and she won't look me in the eye. Even when I say her name, or tell her how much I need her to be with me. Sometimes I do both, and she still keeps her eyes focused on someplace below my eyes. It's usually my hand that she keeps her eyes glued on, other times it's my lips. 

I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest, head ducked low under the roof of our shelter. It's started raining, and already the seams of the box are beginning to darken. It's only a matter of time before the thing collapses. What a way to spend the day after your birthday. Or at least, I assume that yesterday was the nineteenth. It might have been the day before yesterday, or it might be today. How would I know?

A chill wind blows across my bare arms, tickling the raven feathers inked there, and making me wish that I had a hoodie. Femi is wearing the one that used to be mine.

There are footsteps somewhere outside, slopping through slimy trash in the alley, their feet making sucking noises in the mud. I hold my breath, hoping that whoever it is isn't wearing a red rag around their wrist and they aren't bent on my demise.

I wish Matt hadn't tried to leave them. I wish he had just stayed put, and then this never would have happened. I wouldn't be in a box right now with the rain dripping in, and he wouldn't be off in some other town, doing God knows what. There wouldn't be a homicidal gangster-king living in my shop right now, sleeping on my couch, laughing as his evil henchmen tear down the hearts that I tacked to the ceiling for Femi. 

I hate people. 

Femi rolls over, her eyes clenched so tightly shut that little crinkles edge them like wreathes. Her forehead is pressed against my hip, and I wish the denim of my pants was cleaner so it didn't smudge her face with grime. 

Her mouth folds into a grimace, and she moans.

It hurts me deep down in my soul to hear that. Every time she cries it makes me feel inadequate. I can't protect her, can't honestly assure her that she'll be okay. I'm weak, and an idiot to ever think that I could take care of anyone when I can't even take care of myself. 

My stomach rumbles. 

The rain has worsened, and water has begun to soak through the bottom of the box.

Femi sits up, her hair a damp tangle of gray, her eyes hazy and blank. Before laying her head back down in defeat, her eyes trace the collar of my shirt. 

But instead of acknowledging me, she lays her head back down on the sopping cardboard, and tucks her knees up almost as high as her chin. 

I don't see any sign of the girl who held me after a nightmare in this person. I can't picture this shell of a human pouring moonshine into a half-dead man's wounds. 

My feelings tell me that she's still there, though. To keep pushing. To keep trying to bring her back. She's not quite too far gone. 

As the rain begins to slack, I reach down and pet her hair. It's soft, even though it's greasy and tangled.

"Femi," I whisper, bringing my lips closer to her ear. Whispering her name. A secret between her and me.