His hazel eyes peer into mine, like he’s trying to see if I’m bullshitting him. I have a habit of picking up cool words. I spent my free time in the library or the music room, picking up new words was something I did for fun. If he was searching for answers about my unconventional methods, he would be searching for a long time.
There is a flicker of admiration for me in his eyes for a passing moment, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“No one’s said that before, about my work, beautiful maybe, but not toska.”
“Maybe because no one has looked at it through my eyes.”
The sun is starting to set over the buildings slowly meaning I need to return to the hotel before I get in trouble. I tug at my straps, clearing my throat.
“What’s your tag name? Do you have an Instagram I can follow to keep up with your work?” I ask, pulling my phone out.
“I don’t have a tag name, and I don’t do social media.”
I gawk at his large frame, not because he's handsome either, but because I’m shocked. This talent is unclaimed?
I look at the painting one more time, looking back at my Adonis savior who doesn’t move his face very often. I wanted to see him again, when I was older, and he thought of me more as a woman and not a blue-haired child. Maybe someday.
“He’s a fallen angel, right? Call yourself The Fallen. It’s simple, and you can give your art to an artist. It’s a great work, it deserves to be claimed. Careful who you save in the street, the next girl could be a serial killer!”
I start walking backwards toward my hotel, watching as he stares at me with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets hiding his painted hands. I smirk, pushing my headphones onto my ears, getting ready to press play.
“Paint me something one day! Something spectacular! That’s my thank you for giving you a name. Don’t let me down,” I call with a smirk. Check Yes Juliet floods my ears, but I can still hear his voice barely.
“Try not to trip over anyone else’s paintings, there’s a lot of graffiti in Chicago!” he calls back.
Maybe it was the eyes, or the art, but the University of Chicago just went to my number one choice out of my college options.
Two
Behind the Mask
Kai
“Cerberus!”
Get a dog, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.
Liars, all of them. Whoever said that never adopted a full-grown male Doberman who thinks he is a puppy.
I walk into the study, which I have turned into a personal library, and he is perched on my leather sofa chewing on what looks like Walt Whitman. Calmly, like he can’t be bothered, because he knows he isn’t going to get in trouble.
Spoiled brat.
I walk toward him, pulling the chewed hardback book, examining the damage. Leaves of Grass, at least he has good taste in poetry. I run an irritated hand through my hair, squatting down to make eye contact with the black and tan dog.
“You have a taste for first editions, don’t you, little one?”
I hadn’t gone looking for this dog. He’d seemed to find me. I was strolling back to my apartment after painting a mural on North Wabash when I saw him digging in a trashcan. His ears had been cropped and the wounds were bleeding.
He was rail thin, and it took thirty minutes to lure him into my car. I’d planned to keep him for the night, just get him cleaned up, fed, and then I would take him to the vet. But when I woke up and he was curled at the bottom of my feet, I couldn’t give him up.
I may hate the human race, but I have a soft spot for dogs. Plus, Cerberus didn’t like anyone but me. We had a lot in common, both of us looked threatening but underneath all of that we had just gotten unlucky and ended up with abusive owners.
I pet his head, tossing the ripped book into the trash. I stand up walking back to the hallway and grabbing the box I laid down. I walk down the long walkway of doors, reaching the end, and open my favorite room in the house.
It took nearly three years to remodel this house. But this room, just this one alone was worth it.
It was a rare 19th century Victorian home, dark green with dark red accents. The designer hated the idea, but I didn’t budge. It’s what I wanted, The Queen Anne style home was going to be exactly what I wanted.
Custom woodwork including the wooden staircase that showed itself as soon as you opened the door. The outside was old, but the inside was updated.
Victorian style kitchen, with a modern edge that I enjoyed because I liked cooking for myself. The black and white marbled floor, dark oak island, natural lighting.
It was sleek, not those ugly ass rugs your grandma puts down on the floor, but edgy, classical. I loved the balance of old and modern. Windows everywhere let in more light than I preferred, but I could buy curtains.
The outside gave an ominous vibe which is probably why people strayed away from it so much. They wanted their home to feel inviting on the outside, but maybe if they would have taken a moment to step inside, to look around and imagine what it could be instead of what it was. To bring their home to the inside of this house? It would’ve felt inviting.
All this house needed was some love and although I wasn’t the loving kind, I could purchase it.
I slide the cardboard box onto the work desk in the middle of my favorite room.
My sanctuary. Safe haven. The art studio.
I’d completely designed it myself. Every aspect from the second level of canvas storage with a sliding ladder for access, the grey floor, the dark wooden cabinets from floor to ceiling for paint storage, custom lamps and fans, charcoals, spray paint, acrylics—it was art heaven.
And it was all mine.
Hockey was my career, I enjoyed being able to play a sport I took pride in, I made money doing something I enjoyed and that was more than most people could say. But hockey was a means to provide for my other hobby.
Street art.
When I came over here from Russia, it was a culture shock.
You grow up in one place for so long and then you’re thrown into an entirely new life. I was quiet, damaged and talking wasn’t my strong suit, so making friends wasn’t exactly something I was good at.
Plus I wasn’t nice.
Not to mention I was huge by middle school so I was quite scary to look at.
At sixteen I was in a new country being raised by a new parent. It was hard adapting.
Nina was a strong, single woman with such an independent way of thinking. She was an artist in every way. A painter, a musician, a photographer, always discovering her next project.
So to help me adjust she gave me her eyes. She showed me how to view the world through an artistic lens, and I’ve never been more grateful for anything in my life.
I was recruited to the hockey team because of my size, and I had been good, I knew it was something I could make a career out of so I stuck with it. But art? That was the closest thing to love I’d ever felt.
Nina taught me canvas painting, acrylic, water color, charcoal drawing, just about everything she could. But nothing ever struck until I found my bible. My religion.
I was in a bookstore, looking for some new reading material when I stumbled across Subway Art, a collaborative work between Martha Cooper and Henry Chalfant. It changed the direction of my life, forever.
Graffiti.