Shoplifter: E.O.W Series, Book 1

Chapter 18: When your Hope is Gone, Fake it.

I sit on the floor of the main bedroom, staring down the rows of sloppily made beds and hastily  pick the lock on Aidan's trunk.  It was all too easy to unlock, Aidan shouldn't have relied on a lock and key to stop me, picking lock was part of the job description when I joined.  I take the second to last soda, make a quick stop at my room and decide to listen to the rest of the story downstairs. I need to know if Tess is downstairs "embellishing" all the details. To maintain my solitude, I hide in the stairwell. The excitement of tonight has worn off and the turmoil that has been plaguing my brain recently is back with a vengeance. I have been trapped within a state of reflection, milling over all my past screw ups. People like myself have regrets and demons that we will never voice. Unlike my friends up there sharing their adventure on a table I hope to never voice my old actions through diction. As soon as those handcuffs clicked open and that precious sound hit my ears I began fighting my need to become lost in my own head. I can't just forget my past nor can I stop that sound from making me reflect on it even more than I recently have been. My mind starts to linger on how much I have been enjoying this soda. It's almost sad how much I enjoy drinking something from a can because for once it isn't alcohol. Legally I shouldn't even know this feeling. The sound of Noah's voice from the other room causes me to craw out of my thought.

"He says, Dummy it's a squad car do you think it has normal locks in the back! Well how the hell was I supposed to know!" The others are glad to have a new story to listen to. I sigh and pick up the cardboard and art supplies I brought from my room. Art supplies is a term that I use loosely. It  is more like, any object I could find that draws or contains colorful ink. I have even stolen dye packs from building to use the ink. Though It wasn't until the third try that I figured out how to safely use the ink without nearly blinding myself and ruining my old sweatshirt. I stole some white charcoal pencils that were little more than stubs that a high school was throwing away and began to draw the police car I saw earlier. The car is drawn from the vantage point I had in that dark alley. I take a second to listen to Roan talk about how I helped her run. They were all praising my name but I was in a whole different world, unable to care. I wasn't in a warm painted room, surrounded by friends and the smell of tobacco. Instead I was in a cold and lonely place, my mind, but that is where I wanted to be right now. So I hide myself away for about an hour with my soda, my paints and my regrets. I have done bad things to good people, I rob slightly worse people every day. I hurt Roan. She trusted me not to fall in love with her and I broke that trust on an impulse. If I had shown a little restraint she wouldn't have gotten mad at ,me and wouldn't have gotten caught. Sometimes I wonder if I blame myself for everything, sometimes I know it's all my fault. Sometimes I wonder if I have  soul at all because I don't blame myself for my life before I met the gang. I look down at my cardboard. The squad car was drawn in shades of powder blue and lavender with purple outlines, far from the real car. The buildings in the skyline are shades of orange with pink windows. They leave royal blue shadows from the yellow and green sunset shining down on them. A parchment colored street with chartreuse lines and blue details is blended with the brown shadow cast buy a violet colored mailbox. Everything was realistic yet slightly off, just the way I like it. I have always admired modern art, Fauvist art in particular. From early on I  inspired by the work of Andre Derain. All of his works are painted in crazy colors and are drawn in a curvy impressionistic style. I learned to paint by reading about him in books and as a child I wanted nothing more than to be a great painter. Until I was about ten I never felt like I could find a subject worth painting, that was until I discovered Warhol. Andy Warhol drew me in with even brighter colors and taught me that anything was beautiful enough to be art. He could make a soup can famous art, from then on I was inspired. Now I  draw anything I want in my own stylistically sloppy and depressing style and paint it in beautiful vibrant colors. It relaxes me, organizes me, I would graffiti this whole goddamn town if given the chance. I smile at my finished work, as perishable as it is. I finish off my coke, finishing something is satisfying for anyone, especially if it's a piece of art.