The Last Mural

Part I

It was around six o clock on a warm evening in early summer. The streets had finally fallen silent, and a deep calm had descended upon the city. The last of the workers, the Late shifters, were at last home and probably even now crashing into their beds in preparation of the next one.

A tremendous siren sounded, screeching and wailing through the echoing streets, signaling the beginning of curfew. Anyone out after dark without a reason – the only reason accepted was the one that you were going to work – was arrested immediately, no questions asked.

On the top floor of one of the uniform apartment buildings, a dark haired man of about twenty-five years was sleeping. He was a tall, pale man of slender build with piercing black eyes and a high, intelligent forehead. He rolled over in his sleep, nearly over the edge of the bed. He stirred restlessly, and feverishly pushed away the covers that managed to be not enough in the winter and far too much in the summer.

The low sun was shining directly through the west window, falling in harsh orange shafts onto the floor and across the man’s face. It was the final straw. He reluctantly awoke. The day’s events came back to him, long hours of work, and he was tempted to close the offending shades and go back to sleep until the next one. But there was another memory there, too, that tasted sweet on his lips and gave him a glow. For a minute, still only half conscious, he couldn’t remember what it was.

Then beside him, a young woman not yet twenty also awoke. It was then that he decided not to back to sleep. Instead, he rolled back over towards her, and smiled, albeit with eyes bleary with sleep. He was surprised when she smiled back at him, her bright eyes gentle and full of affection. He felt himself melt under the green gaze. Yes, he was still very much in love.

He held her for a long time. How long before they found this one out? If they could see him now, stroking her hair, enfolding her in his arms, then he would die. He was sure of that.

She kissed him sweetly. And then spoke.

“Are you going out again?”

“I’ve got to go,” he replied simply.

To that, she had no instant reply. She raised her face and let him kiss her. He felt the tightness in her shoulders, and, as he moved his hands, across her back and stomach. She was holding back. And she was also, he realized, very much afraid.

Clumsily, because the words would not come, he tried to reassure her. “I won’t get caught. And even if I did...I would never say…never betray you…us…this….”

“I almost wish you would.” she murmured, drawing closer and laying her head on the side of his chest. Her mass of golden hair brushed softly against his skin. “I could bear dying, but that would be much, much worse. I love you,” she added as an afterthought.

The words warmed his heart. “Someone must know…and I must tell them. I can’t go on living without, without trying.”

“I understand. I’m selfish, though.”

“Me too…the thought of someone else in my place, it infuriates me. I don’t want to consider it.”

“I would never let another.”

He put his hand on her heart. For a long time, there was nothing else to be heard or felt save the steady pulse of her heart.

She was almost asleep when he pulled away at last. He got up slowly, as if something pained him, and limped across the room, stiff. He dressed methodically, all in dark: black pants, a grey sweater, and an ink-black jacket. The sun was descending rapidly. Soon would be entirely dark. He tore his gaze from the shadowed streets to her again.

“’Go back to sleep,” he urged. “It’s easier that way. I promise I’ll be back. You won’t even know I’ve gone, I swear.”

She was quiet as he slipped his feet into his boots and even as he turned to the door. Only when it was obvious he intended to leave did she speak.

“I’m coming for you.”

He paused. Turned. She was sitting up in bed, the covers pulled up to her neck.

“What do you mean?”

“In three hours, I am coming looking for you, if you’re not back.”

He smiled suddenly in the face of such devotion. “Okay. I love you.” He crossed the room in a quick stride and kissed her lips with more force than before. “Goodbye. Sleep well.”

“You know I won’t,” she said as he rose, but she lay back down and pulled the covers up again.

The man stepped out into the hallway. He looked about him. No one seemed to be about.

In a matter of minutes, he was standing flattened against the high side of a building in an alley. A patrol car went by, but they did not see him in the gloom of dusk.

He waited a minute until he was sure that the danger had passed. He carefully made his way through the darkening city. It was the hardest part of the journey, this first. He was breathing shallowly and his palms were slick.

At last he reached his first destination. From a jagged hole in the side of a crumbling building he pulled a medium felt sack bulging with clanking cans. Stowing it inside his coat, he began anew.

This time, he was oddly calm. The back streets, the alleyways, the shadows: here he was more at home than the open streets and glaring lights. He hurried now, his head clear.

Between two buildings there was a little backstreet. He could reach out with his hands and touch the dank sides. It was dark, and smelled foul, and he almost ran, not caring to look up and see the tiny strip of grey sky high above him.

The alley opened into what would have been the main street of the city, but now was just another road in the business district. There was a certain building he was seeking on this deserted strip. He looked around, and confident of his secrecy, walked into the empty street.

When the world did not end or at least no one yelled for him to stop, the man walked through the middle of the street to the wall of his choice. It was long and high, but it had been completely painted over with a coat of thick white paint.

The man smiled grimly. Only to be expected. Too many people would have walked by to let it stand. He had chosen it for that reason.

He had mere hours before he worried her. Wasting no time, he unpacked the sack. There were six spray cans: purple, orange, yellow, green, and blue. Moving so his back was to a streetlight, he shook the orange can and began to paint the wall.

The first hiss of escaping paint scared him. It seemed to echo through the dead street. His hand jumped. No matter how many times he did it, the sound always startled him.

He worked quickly. He knew what he had to say. The rest was up to the spray paint.