Head Above Water

35. Decided

The street was dark and vacant as I pulled up in front of the warehouse that served as a secret entrance into The Underbelly. Per Connor’s suggestion, I had decided to pay Hoxton a visit. I thought he might be a nice diversion for a while, not to mention the fact it meant somewhat prolonging my time with Mal’s bike.

All I could hear was the sound of my footsteps echoing through the abandoned station as I made my way quietly across the platform and into the tunnel. No dripping water, no other subway trains, and not even a faint rumbling of traffic could be heard from the streets far above.

In the past I might’ve found such a scene eerie and disquieting, but not anymore. After facing my own demons, so-to-speak, the idea of facing those in real life just didn’t seem so scary anymore. That’s not to say I wanted to die, of course, but there was certainly something freeing about not fearing death. It opened up a whole new world of possibilities in life, and I was beginning to like it.

“Hox?” I called out searchingly. The tunnel echoed repeatedly, carrying the sound down the line so easily that I barely needed to raise my voice.

After a minute or two of unresponsive silence, I continued down the tunnel, admiring the unique and beautiful artwork along the way. I slowed once or twice to study a few new pieces.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I should’ve called Malcolm before heading down here. He could have contacted Hox to let him know I was looking for him. Instead, I realized he probably didn’t even spend much of his time down here and I was most likely wasting my time. Just because he created the place, it didn’t mean that he lived here or anything.

With a sigh, I resolved to head back to Mal’s place. I still had a few days to make up my mind.

Just as I turned around to leave, a particular work of art on the wall caught my eye and I froze. I hadn’t seen it on the way down because I’d been looking at the opposite wall, but now I couldn’t seem to tear my gaze away.

The painting was of a young man seated on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest protectively. His clothes were too loose and torn in places, and his hair was long and shaggy. His face was handsome, with almost angelic features, but they were twisted by a mixture of agony, rage and despair as the man screamed soundlessly toward the heavens. As if in torment, his hands were beginning to tear away at the skin on his face to reveal a ghastly skeleton beneath.

I gasped and actually took a step back, feeling almost overwhelmed by the emotions the painting demanded of its viewer. It was so evocative; as if the artist had infused each stroke of his brush with the very emotions he was struggling with.

“Powerful, isn’t it?” Hox muttered quietly as he advanced toward me slowly. I had a feeling it was for my benefit, so that he didn’t startle me.

“Yeah,” I whispered, still in awe.

“You just missed him, actually,” Hox informed me. “He started it last night and worked on it non-stop until an hour ago.”

“He?’ I asked in confusion before it clicked in my mind. Rick. My stomach flopped uncomfortably like the feeling you get riding a rollercoaster down a steep drop and I grimaced.

“I imagine this has something to do with you?” he asked gently.

I turned away from the painting finally, unable to look at it now that I knew the story behind it’s angst. “He didn’t tell you what happened?” I asked.

Hox shook his head. “He didn’t speak a word. Just came in, stared at the blank wall for a few seconds and then attacked it with his paintbrush. Seriously. I’ve never seen anyone paint with that much emotion before.”