(Legitimately the first thing I have ever written wherein I didn't immediately give up on.)
He was leaning outside the building, staring at a discarded brick from the wall across him with his bleak thoughts clouding over his mind. It was a dark and cold night with his jacket barely doing anything to prevent the bite of icy air from reaching his flesh.
He then started to hear Harrow whisper his rehearsed speech clearly reinstating that if any cops by chance come, he won't be at all responsible for it because after all he runs away from everything.
Like the rest of us here.
Harrow's companions started to pick up the spray paint cans and started doing their usual graffiti. He was observing the way his companions were carelessly flinging the aerosol cans to each other with wicked grins, enjoying like naughty children.
Harrow beckoned him to come over and handed the worn wooden box filled with a variety of paint cans and brushes to him. Most of them looked so ancient and once again he admired how strong these cans are to withstand numerous crashes and bangs they endure from the people who use them while on the run.
Yes, he did envy the strength of inanimate objects. And it's all because they don't feel the pain.
"Hey, Beckinford, don't just stand there, alright? Do what you got to do," Harrow said to him encouragingly, a twinkle of mischief shining in his dark eyes. He was choosing his own set of colors to play with.
It's that time again.
He nodded and walked towards his reserved spot of the wall.
The other guys paused what they were doing when Harrow commanded them to stop, giving him space to choose where he'll work.
Everyone in that group knows that Cael Beckinford has his own section to vandalize on and no one questions it. And as dramatic as it sounds it was the way they operated every plan Cael has been in.
He ignored the tinge of theatrics as he scaled the farthest wall he picked. Taking a deep breath, he started working.
In a flash, his dark and sullen thoughts were transformed to swirls and loops of color on his dull concrete canvas.
Thoughts about his mother and father lying unconsciously on the road full of snow after a terrible accident and the shadow of the paper lying on the table that dictated he might be kicked out of school was too overwhelming for him.
He was frustrated, angry and exasperated all at the same time and he used this all as an advantage to create a colorful and scenic painting.
He knew the irony of it all, how his bouts of anger made him create such a breathtaking view and as much as he was exceptionally good at it, he wasn't proud of it at all because this was just an outlet to release all of his feelings.
Feelings, he learned, when pent up all inside would never end up well.
When he was finally done, he took hold of the red spray paint can and wrote the initials E.A at the bottom right corner of the painting with a hint of a smile. It was just enough for him to see it and not visible enough for anyone to notice.
A hand slapped him on the back and he turned to see Harrow grinning at him.
"Beckinford, you never cease to fail me, don't you?"
Cael just shrugged at him and bent down to retrieve the cans of paint to return back.
Harrow took it from him and told him to meet him and his group at the park tomorrow evening again for another meet up.
He nodded and asked him what they'll be doing and Harrow responded with just the usual things they always do, limited to him bored out of his mind while leaning on wherever places he can or him painting whatever he is in the mood for. He doesn't usually question any invites Harrow gives but he was getting wary about why he was suddenly being asked to come with them constantly these days. For the first time in eighteen years he was glad to finally inch his way to having friends but Cael doubts they feel the same way and they weren't exactly what he defines as friends.
