Chapter Twenty One

Marcus

Jane is dumbstruck, and I feel very, very confident as I watch her. I slip my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, feeling comfortable as I smirk at her. She stares at the area, slowly turning as if to take it all in; her eyes are wide, and her bright green irises almost looks cloudy as she attempts to process it.

Graffiti's a dirty word, and not even close to describing the artistic mish-mash that's sprayed and dripped across the wall. I originally thought that just only one artist could have possibly stumbled upon such a remote area, but each artwork is so drastically different. Where one artist prefers drips and streaks, another wants a softer, dustier effect. A girl with a grin on her face and a gun in her dainty hand stands next to a crouching lion which almost seemed ready to pounce out of the gray-scale background. On the other side, a graphic print is small and incredibly detailed, but when you looked at the big picture, a man's face stood out. The portrait bleeds into a more cartoonish character. It continues on and on, with typical Graffiti lettering in bold colors, to aquatic animals with an outer-space background. The eclectic designs can't possibly be from one singular artist.

I found this place a while ago, I was in eighth grade at the time, and I was broiling. It took a while for me to realize my home life wasn't normal, I think it registered in second grade, but it took even longer for me to realize it wasn't right. After it did, and I can't even hope to pinpoint that moment, I felt like I was a mountain dew bottle that someone had spent way too long shaking. The figurative Mentos were when the newest scumbag showed up, and "accidentally" doused my history book in beer when I pissed him off.

…

I could feel the pure venom buzzing through me as I let the rickety door slam behind me. No voices called after me, and no one followed as I stormed off down the dimly lit street. I kept my head bowed low and shoved my hands in my pockets, but my mind was racing, envisioning all the brutal ways I could snap his neck. I could picture it now, his eyes widening when my "shrimpy" little body slammed him to the ground and pinned him down.

The worthless spawn of Satan walked into my house, sat on my couch, slapped my mom on the butt and then winked at me, as if we were best buds. I didn't even know the jerk's name and of course, my mother just ducks her head and hurries to get him the can of beer he wanted. He put his filthy boots on top of my homework, and then had the nerve to tell me to stop gawking and get the hell out of his living room, because he had company coming over.

I told him to get his stinking worthless self off of my couch and reminded him that he hasn't been paid in months and should remember my mother's the only reason he even has enough to maintain that repulsive beer gut he's flaunting. He stood up and took a swing at me, but I ducked and darted out-of-the-way, being way more agile and younger than him. It only took him a moment to realize that wasn't going to work, then he spotted the American History Textbook sitting on the chair and tipped the beer in his hand over, destroying the expensive pages.

My mom promptly walked in, scolded me for being clumsy and demanded I clean up the living room, because "Jeff was having friends over." I didn't bother arguing with her and snatched up the soaked book and my smeared homework.

I didn't bother telling them I was leaving before I stormed out the back door and just started walking. After a few minutes, I found myself stumbling along a winding deserted road, with no idea how I got there, and no care about how I would get back. I saw the headlights before I heard the car, and my instincts took over as I darted through the trees, coming to a screeching halt when I found the ledge.

The trench was clearly artificial, with smooth cement and no hand holds, and I found myself curious about what lay at the bottom, and having no reason not to, I continued along the wall.

When I spotted the ladder, I couldn't see the spray paint just below me yet, but I could see the makeshift bench haphazardly propped up on legs of concrete. Even more intriguing than that was the sound. The water raced and rushed in a chaotic symphony that somehow just worked perfectly.

I climbed down uncertainly, relieved when the ladder didn't creak or break all together the moment I put my weight on it. I wasn't a big kid, but I had no idea how old this thing was. When I dropped down, I focused on the river first. It sat far down on the steep bank, clearly it rarely made it the wall at the top of the slope. I made my way down to the bench, and I could just make out scribbles that could be names etched into the concrete by the light of the moon. The trees were sparse, and it allowed just the right amount of brightness that when I looked back up, the vivid paintings popped out at me. I searched them all for a long while, each time I thought that I had found everything interesting in one of them, I would find something else. Eventually, I went looking for where the wall ended. The side I was looking at was the shorter end, and the wall that stretched along parallel to the river and the road was about triple its size. Some of the art crept onto the longer side, but it got sparser and simpler, clearly the group that had stumbled upon the space had only used it for a short time.

I had no idea what the giant concrete box's purpose was originally, and I'm still not sure, I couldn't dig too far into it without bringing too much suspicion on the area, which is the last thing I want. Somehow the untouched, unmanaged atmosphere was perfect, and just what I needed.

…

Since then, I've visited here often, but I haven't brought anyone else before, not even Anna, keeping it to myself just seemed too right. Not to mention, I doubt that anyone else would have the same reaction that I had. Jane doesn't seem to agree with that rule. She sits down after a few minutes, perching on the bench as if it were nothing new to her, and she seemed torn before taking in the river and absorbing the art. She keeps squirming to find the best angle so she can watch both simultaneously. The disharmony between the two seems to create a perfect harmony to me, and I get the sense she's of the same opinion.

We don't get much Street Art in Paxton, there isn't much of an art scene here period, but I can imagine there's a lot of it in Phoenix. Jane's still transfixed thought, so what do I know. Her fingers skim over the etched in names that catalogue the artists who left their paintings unsigned. I read them shortly after finding this place, and I remember being surprised at how many of the names were pseudonyms.

Jane stands up slowly, and carefully skims her fingers along the wall, tracing the face of the lion, one of my own favorites, as if she's afraid it will disappear at her touch.

"They're faded." She observes quietly, not looking back at me for confirmation, even though it's pretty dark. I can pretty easily make out all the details, especially since the moon is so bright tonight, but I also know where to look.

"Yeah, they've been here for a while… pretty cool though, huh?" I know I'm pretty much just stating the obvious, but my ego wants to hear her say it aloud.

"They're amazing." Her voice is awestruck, and completely honest, with none of the hard barriers or tight calculations that I'm used to hearing when she speaks. She's also not crying or screaming at me and that's always a plus. "Did you do any of these?" She asks, finally looking over her shoulder to make eye contact with me. I shake my head at her, but still can't get that stupid smirk from my face.

"Nah, I stumbled upon this place a couple of years ago." I shrug, and she tilts her head and purses her lips before asking the question on her mind.

"Then why did you decide to bring me here?" The question is intuitive, but it doesn't seem as aggressive as I expected her to sound.

"You seemed like you just needed to get away for a while." I shrug, already knowing I read her right. She smiles a little, and it's a shy kind of thing, but it's so genuine and pure. She pauses for a minute before sitting down beside me, leaving a foot between us. Her posture relaxes and she uncrosses her arms slowly. Carefully, She pushes her hair out of her face after a moment, takes a deep breath.

"Two days after everything blew up with Zach; my mom's doctor diagnosed her with Stage 5 lung cancer."