We Love in Technicolor

Invader

Sometimes he can't sleep. Sometimes she paints the town. On the one night they bump into each other, they realize that they don't always have to wander the 2 AM streets alone. Sometimes they like to have company. Sometimes they hold hands under the glow of flickering lampposts. Sometimes they cling to each other. Sometimes their love is so vibrant, even the walls color. Three-shot.

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Just a little rush, babe
To feel dizzy, to derail the mind of me
Just a little hush, babe
Our veins are busy but my heart's in atrophy
Any way to distract and sedate
Adding shadows to the walls of the cave

-Sedated, Hozier

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Adrenaline coursed through Beverly's fingers like cheap alcohol, and she grinned beneath the bandanna that masked the lower half of her face.

She stepped back a bit to examine her handiwork, while her hands clutched the spray paint bottle.

The graffiti itself was something that she was quite proud of, even though it was a relatively simple design. It was just a boy in a black jacket with his back arched and his head a splatter of dark red blood. Near him, an aimed gun shot an array of colorful skittles at the body.

The sudden rustle of autumn leaves had her whipping around to the find source of the sound. What was she doing? She never lingered around after she was done. Throwing a glare at the stack of paper stencils that she had to pack up, she swiftly tagged her art and capped her spray bottle.

She thought she heard another crunch, but when she looked up, the alleyway was thoroughly empty. Shadows from flickering lampposts cast the corners of the back street into startling darkness. She had been sneaking out for so long, she had learned to ignore the incessant, paranoid voice in the back of her mind telling her that there were murderers lurking everywhere. But, at moments like this, the voice came back more frenzied than ever.

Her breath came out in a shallow pant, and she hurried to roll her things up and shove it into her duffel bag of supplies. Her fingers burrowed into the pocket of her sweatshirt, and she fingered another, different kind of can: pepper spray.

If need be, she could run like hell even with her full duffel bag.

The crack of a twig had her eyes snapping up and she took a defensive stance as her gaze darted around. She was confident that the source of sound was just some nosy passerby instead of actual policeman, but that did nothing to tamper her fear.

Growing irritated with the frantic pounding of her heart, she finally called out, "Who's there?"

To her surprise, a figure stepped out of the dark. Something about his familiar gait, stopped her from sprinting away right then and there. From the broadness of the figure's shoulders she could tell it was a guy. However, from her position, she couldn't make out his face; a gray sweatshirt was pulled low over his forehead, shielding his face, and a worn, black bomber jacket was pulled over his broad frame. Dark jeans that were frayed in some places hung low on his hips.

He was big enough to crush her like a bug, but, for whatever reason, his stature didn't seem outwardly aggressive. In fact, he took hesitant steps that made him seem curious rather than threatening. Something about his stature made him seem vaguely familiar, but she dismissed the thought immediately. Why would her classmate be outside at this hour of the night?

So, even though her knees were practically knocking together, she raised her voice to resemble a brave, confident tone, "Who are you?"

Instead of answering her question, he stepped closer and, nodding to the street art, said, "Did you do that?"