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writingescapades · 28 days ago

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I Can Handle It

You would have preferred detention. Suspension. Expulsion. But the headmaster, giddy about some new method of pedagogy hovered over you, her guinea pig. So here you were, stuck for the next 3 months in art class. Two hours everyday with the expectation that by the end of it, you shed your old ways and come out a rose. You supposed you should have been grateful. In fact, you knew almost everyone in your life would lecture you on not squandering this last chance. But you couldn’t help it. Art wasn’t in your nature.

It didn’t help that the school’s best art student, Rafayel, was assigned to you. The word prodigy was humbling to a student as talented as Rafayel, and his distant attitude just cemented his holier-than-thou position. You didn’t understand why or even how the poor sop got stuck with babysitting you for 3 months. He must have done something real bad, and immediately, you felt prickles run down your arms in anticipation of the enigma before you.

The first meeting went as expected. He ignored you, transfixed on his work. You slouched into a chair and placed your feet above the table. With nothing in the room to catch your attention, your eyes drifted towards the window where sunlight brightened the buzz of students moving about. Days passed like this, until one day, your chair teetered too far back, and you went crashing to the floor. It would have been easy to get up and walk it off, if it weren’t for the fact that you knocked over Rafayel, causing a giant red streak of paint to go across his canvas. There was silence as two pairs of eyes stared at something that could not be undone.

“Sorry,” you muttered already anticipating the flurry to furious remarks from the frustrated painter.

“Sorry?” he spat. “Sorry? You think sorry is going to fix this?”

A redundant question. The bright red streak over blue ocean waves would not be something easily removed or hidden. You messed up. And yet, you could feel the excitement beginning to bubble.

“Want me to fix it?” you asked, trying to maintain composure

Rafayel gave you a scornful look.

“How would you fix it?”

“Dunno,” came your reply as you eyed the beginnings of anger in the painter. His eyes widened and hands curled into fists. You couldn’t help the smirk come on your face.

“Wanna fight?”

Rafayel looked at you incredulously and instantly, his anger swept away. Phooey. You were itching for a fight.

“Isn’t that how you got into this situation in the first place?”

You shrugged. “It’s how I can get out too”.

Rafayel snorted and shook his head. “Don’t involve me in your attempts for expulsion”.

He stood over the canvas, hands on his hips as he peered down in thought. You looked up at the clock and slipped out.

You hesitated to come into the art room. After yesterday’s fiasco, you were pretty sure the prodigy Picasso had all but kicked you out. But, you also didn’t want to deal with any more teachers or, worse, the headmaster whose concern was sickening. So you just sighed and prepared yourself for whatever awaited you behind the door.

The first thing you saw was Rafayel, hovering over a new piece. An almost complete piece. He did not turn to greet you, merely pointed towards one corner.

“Stay there,” the order came.

The area was a corner of the room with a makeshift barricade made of chairs. Inside there was foam padding.

“Is this time out?”

“Ya,” Rafayel replied. “For those of us who don’t know how to sit on a chair”.

You wanted to say something back but held your tongue. He was technically right, and you still did not apologise yet. So you plopped down and watched the new piece. An ocean theme again.

“You really like the ocean, huh?”

Rafayel didn’t say anything, and you supposed the silent treatment was part of the time out. Drifting your eyes back to the window, you watched lazily as birds twittered about. It was the beginning of spring, and the birds were competing for a home. Eventually though, you heard a response.

“Yes. I do”.

It was a soft voice filled with emotions you were not keen to pry into. The afternoon passed in this quiet lull. It wasn’t until the end of the session that you finally summoned the courage to apologize for your fuck up. You weren’t sure whether Rafayel believed your sincerity and accepted the apology. No doubt he was tired after working through the entire night and skipping classes the next day to make up for your blunder. You saw his exhaustion but didn’t know how help. The artist said nothing, his attention transfixed on his work, but the next day you saw paint supplies in your corner.

“The headmaster wants you to put your energy into art,” was all Rafayel said before drifting back to his work once again. This time you didn’t say anything. You’d bothered him enough as it is. So you drifted over to your corner where paper and paint awaited. A part of you already knew what to paint and when the two hours were complete, you silently slipped out once more. Hours later, when the sun set and Rafayel’s concentration broke, he flipped through your papers. Amateur brown birds on a simple yellow background. Clearly the work of someone who never held a brush before.

…..

You both fell into this new pattern. Neither one of you spoke, but every day there would be more paper and restocked paint. When you were bored of painting, you’d often watch Rafayel. The precise movements of his wrists revealed the depth of his skill. To hold an angle for hours, change suddenly, and still manage to prevent anything from splattering against the canvass; it felt very familiar. He caught you staring one day and merely lifted his brows in question.

“I’ve dislocated bones the same way you paint,” you confessed.

Rafayel turned his head away, but you could hear the humour in his response.

“Years of schooling and discipline only for a delinquent to compare my art to some playground squabble”.

“Bet you’ll remember my comment even after you become rich and famous”.

This time Rafayel couldn’t hide his snicker. He then turned to you and asked, “Why do you fight?”

You shrugged your shoulders, crossed your arms, and stared out your favoured window.

“Stick it to the man, something, something”.

Rafayel stared at you. There were faded bruises and cuts on your arms, going up past your sleeves. Your testy response was interesting given the reason why you were here in the first place. Rumours blazed across the school. You already had a reputation. Everyone knew not to cross paths with you, the leader of one of the most notorious juvenile gangs in Linkon city. Rafayel thought you only got involved with other gangs, but apparently anyone was fair game. At least, that’s what everyone at school assumed when they found you standing by the entrance doors with one foot resting on the beat-up face of a teacher. You didn’t say anything during all the aftermath despite all the gossip spread by staff and student alike. None of it mattered in the end. You got this punishment, and your gang remained exactly where they were before. Somewhat popular. Somewhat loathed. Somewhat respected.

“What did the teacher do for you to stick it to him?”

You shrugged then asked, “What did you do to get stuck with me?”

Rafayel turned back to his painting, and you returned to watching him paint.

…..

Sometimes Rafayel wondered whether your gang was truly loyal to you. Afterall, a leaderless gang can only last so long. And if you were expected to come clean after these 3 months, then there would be no gang awaiting you at the end. Surely you would have lost their support 5 weeks into this arrangement? But when he stepped into the art room, he was proven wrong.

You had come early that day and were half out the window laughing at something. Quietly approaching, Rafayel saw a few students clambering on top of one another, trying to hand a parcel over to you.

“Yah favourite, boss,” someone standing off to the side called up. Said person suddenly locked eyes with Rafayel and stared hard. They were the eyes of an evaluator, a familiar gaze for Rafayel and he instinctively slipped into a detached expression.

“He’s harmless Jex,” your voice called out to the boy below, and Rafayel understood him to be your second-in-command.

The boy, Jex, only nodded and turned back to the other gang members. As he issued out orders, Rafayel saw how you munched and watched your members run about. He couldn’t tell what you were eating, it was so smushed, but you ate with the same happiness and relish you showed your members. Catching his stare you turned suddenly and spoke.

“I’m leaving early today. Got work to do”.

Your voice was different then what you previously used up till now. It was matter of fact with an underlying steel. A voice accustomed to being obeyed. Rafayel wondered if that was your true personality shining through.

“Is that what you want me to tell the headmaster?”

You said nothing. Just scarfed down the last bit of food and walked over to your corner. But the whole afternoon left Rafayel in a foul mood. He didn’t understand why the scene by the window bothered him so much, or why your early departure left him bitter enough to threaten a toddler’s tattle-tale tantrum. Channeling his emotions, he painted with a fury that almost made him miss your voice when you started to head out.

“I’ll handle it”.

You didn’t show up the next two days, and Rafayel could only guess what happened from the gleams of information that floated about student conversations. It wasn’t until you showed up that Rafayel finally understood what occurred. There was a bruise under one eye and a busted lip. You had a few bandages on your arms and walked with a stiffness that made Rafayel wonder how many injuries you sustained.

“Is this what you meant by handling it?” he asked.

You gave him a cheesy grin before plopping down into your corner, groaning about the pain. Rafayel muttered complaints, but he found himself pulling out a first aid kit and walking towards you. he was about to dab your face with antiseptic, when your hand stopped him. You had a firm grip. Despite your injuries, Rafayel could tell that breaking his wrist would be child’s play. With the look you gave him, he knew he had to tread carefully.

“What? You think the headmaster will believe you were here yesterday with those injuries? Or maybe you should punch me so it looks like we got into a fight? I’m still upset about my previous canvas”.

A whisp of a smile appeared and left your face. You let go of his hand, but Rafayel understood you were still wary from the way your eyes watched his hands. For a while there was only silence and the smell of antiseptic between you two.

“Was it a rival gang?”

At your surprised expression, Rafayel scoffed. “C’mon. Half the student population is talking about it”.

“Didn’t know we were so popular”.

Rafayel just scoffed at your lie. After a brief pause, he asked another question. “So, did you win?”

“Course,” you replied with a confident grin.

Another pause and another question.

“Why’d you fight?”

“Why do any of us fight?”

Rafayel expected you to evade his question. Gang protection privacy and all that. Probably why you went around calling your second in command, Jex. Still, your nonchalant attitude irked him yet again. You didn’t seem to care about anything that was happening in your life or around it. You didn’t plan for anything other than what was right in front of you. Your path was on a downward spiral. Everyone seemed to have given up on you, and your life seemed to be going nowhere. And you didn’t care. You didn’t care, and Rafayel couldn’t understand why he cared so much that you didn’t care. He rapidly finished dressing your wounds, ignoring your hisses of pain. Then he returned to his paintings, to his world, and all but shoved you out of it.

“Member of mine got caught up in something on another gang’s turf. Had to give her a hand”.

That was all the information Rafayel would get from you, but that was all he needed.

“Next time your injured” he began, “come to me”.

Rafayel did not see the surprised look on your face. Nor did either one of you speak for the duration of the session. You didn’t take him on his offer and Rafayel didn’t bring it up again. Yet it remained between you two, tying you together.

…..

Rafayel watched the headmaster peruse through your paintings. With each painting, she held it primly between the tips of 2 fingers.

“They have very simple tastes, don’t they?”

Stacks of now crinkly papers lay around the table. Most of them yellow backgrounds with birds. A few trees, and one of Rafayel. Well, a terrible caricature of him.

“But, I suppose they’re improving,” the headmaster commented, isolating a few drawings.

They were drawing of birds, but the lines were smoother, as if the artist had more control over the paintbrush and paint.

Rafayel only nodded. If the headmaster did not notice the difference, that was not Rafayel’s problem. It was easy to mimic your paintings, but the hand of an experienced artist always sheds away the tell-tale marks of an amateur.

“You clearly are holding your end of the bargain,” the headmaster continued. She pulled out an item from her long coat. “As agreed,”.

It was a book. Well part of a book, but one that was very important to Rafayel. It was the history of Lemuria, told by Lemurians. Irrefutable proof of their existence and their sufferings. Rafayel’s history.

“On loan only,” the headmaster added, “We found it among that teacher’s belongings”.

Rafayel didn’t say anything. He knew it was mere coincidence because no one knew he was Lemurian. He would carry that secret to his grave. But if that teacher had this book, he wondered what else the teacher was involved in to bring forth your fury. He also wondered how the headmaster got hold of it.

…..

Rafayel’s art always caused a stir at school. Many adored the artist and his art. Some though, scoffed. Whether through jealousy or a genuine dislike for his art, there were always those who turned their noses at whatever latest piece the artist put out. This time however, the gossip turned into malice, and malice turned into action.

There were three students in the art room. It started with jeers. Silly painting. Prissy, sissy boy. Lemurian-obsessed freak. Rafayel had heard them all before, and as usual, he tuned out their squawks. But then one student pushed over his ladder, causing the artist to fall. For a moment he could only feel his pain, but then the world around him buzzed into life. The student who knocked him down was suddenly screaming. Rafayel heard the crack of bones, and he turned his head to see your fist land a strong punch across another student, causing him to hit the ground flat. It didn’t take long to take out the third student, before Rafayel saw you heading towards him. You gently helped him up, eyes alert for any serious injury, but other than a sore body, Rafayel knew he would be fine. Lemurians had stronger bodies than humans.

“Your painting,” you muttered staring up at the huge canvas.

When Rafayel looked up, he saw a red streak left behind from when he fell. Two canvases both with red streaks. Both incomplete, and the deadline just days away. You turned your attention towards the students, ready to give them a second dose of your anger but saw that they had scampered off.

“Those jerks probably went to tattle,” Rafayel grumbled.

“If they do,” you began, stretching your arms and cracking your joints, “I’ll handle it”.

But Rafayel wouldn’t let you handle it. Not this time. When the headmaster eventually came down to confront you, she found the two of you sitting at a table.

“You understand the seriousness of the allegations,” she began but quickly stopped.

On the table rested photographic evidence of the harassment and extortion students endured under that teacher. There were also pictures and samples of Lemurian artifacts. Illegal artifacts. All traced back to the teacher.

“Do you?” Rafayel asked.

At the headmaster’s silence, Rafayel continued.

“Did you know about the students?”

“No,” she said, and you snorted. “It’s true,” she protested.

“What about the artifacts?” Rafayel asked, but the headmaster just shook her head.

“A headmaster who is unaware of what goes on right beneath her,” you taunted. “No wonder your students came to me”.

“Those artifacts are illegal you know. Only on the black market. This one,” Rafayel said, pointing to an earring set, “went for 8 million”.

You whistled.

“Where does a teacher get such money?” Rafayel asked.

“I assure you,” the headmaster gritted out, “I don’t know”.

“Quite adamant about not knowing miss. I know ways to make you remember”.

Now the headmaster turned sharp eyes towards you, all pretenses of care gone.

“Threaten me again and I’ll expel you”.

You pointed to the pictures. “I think you’re forgetting something,”

“She’s forgotten quite a lot,” Rafayel murmured

“Nonetheless, my ignorance does not excuse your behaviour,” The headmaster said in an icy voice.

“Is that the excuse you plan to give to the board?” Rafayel asked. He cocked his head in mock curiosity. “What will the media make of these photos?”

“I am not in any of them!”

“Ah, but the school is, and you are its head. The board will want someone to take the fall. Especially since the black market it involved,” the painter said cruelly with a gleam in his eye. A smile appeared on his face when he saw the pale look on the headmaster.

Suffer.

“Alright, I’ll handle it,” she relented. “But you have to burn those images. Burn them! Burn them right now! Here!”

At her urgent tone, she dove towards the photos, desperation yielding to a possessive madness. But a sharp slap on her wrist snapped her hands back. You calmly collected the photos, then placed them on the table once more and pulled out a lighter. As the three of you watched the small fire burn away at the photos, Rafayel felt a small poke on his hand. In your hands, were a stack of photos. His photos that you deftly hid from sight. Clever devil. Rafayel slipped the photos from your hand and tucked them into his wrist cuffs.

“We shall call this fair compensation and speak no more,” the headmaster spoke. “But you are on thin ice!”

She glared hard at you but when her eyes passed briefly towards Rafayel, a flicker of realization and fear entered them. She left the room in a rush, but Rafayel didn’t like the ponderous look on her face. He had to hurry. Had to win the stupid context. Had to leave.

“So,” you began, interrupting Rafayel’s thoughts. “You’re a bit of a bad guy aren’t you?”

There was the obvious teasing in your voice, but underneath, there was also the beginnings of an understanding. An understanding that Rafayel wasn’t sure he was ready to share. So he said nothing.

“I think I’ll take a few days off,” you said, watching him carefully. “You’ll cover for me again, won’t you?”

“I hardly think the headmaster cares what you do anymore”.

“Ah, but she still needs to keep up appearances. But I think you’re good with disguises, aren’t you,” you taunted.

Rafayel’s jaw clenched but he said nothing. Despite this temporary alliance, you weren’t worth everything he sacrificed. You weren’t worth everything he protected. You were just a blot in his plans.

….

The remaining few days before the contest passed in silence. You simply stopped appearing and if the headmaster noticed, she hardly complained to Rafayel. Even the rumours around you and your gang dwindled down as anxiety and excitement over the art contest took precedence. Everyone was curious to see what their renowned painted would produce.

The painter himself was in agony. His back ached and his arms and shoulders were sore. His temporary blindness was settling in. it was inevitable after weeks of non-stop painting. He felt ready to die. He wanted to die after staring at whatever nonsense he managed to create in the remaining few days. It was a masterpiece. Anyone could tell at first glance. But even Rafayel knew it would not fool the judges. It was sorely lacking in the contest’s theme, life.

As he moved towards the door, he heard noises from outside. Then the door slid open and there stood the headmaster. She looked at him with mute excitement. Her eyes bright and empty. Her hands hung limply by her side as she staggered towards him.

“Lemurian,” she faintly whispered. “You’re Lemurian. I can’t believe it!”.

She began to laugh. “That stupid teacher with his stupid black-market tricks. He was going to land in trouble sooner or later”. She looked up at Rafayel with eyes and a giggle that sent familiar chills across Rafayel.

“I may have lost our collection, but I got something much better”.

“What are you talking about?” Rafayel asked, slipping easily into his naive act.

“Don’t bluff with me!” She snapped. “You think I was blind to your curiosity? To your art? You practically gave yourself up yesterday”.

“What does a headmaster care about silly legends of mythical worlds?”

“Lemuria did exist,” the headmaster spoke resolutely. “You cannot go into our museums and private collections and deny their existence”.

Nor should you reduce them to a mere exhibit!

“Still, I hardly think it should be your foremost concern”.

The headmaster sighed. “Do you know how frustrating it is to be a headmaster? You think we have power? But we’re only stuck in the middle”. She looked out the window where the birds you painted twittered and fluttered about.

“Every month I have to show progress to the school board. Every month they scrutinize me for this delinquency, low grades, God knows what for the rest of my life”. She turned towards Rafayel. “Then you came. Lemuria came. And I saw my ticket out of here”.

The headmaster pointed at Rafayel’s art. “Whether from you or through you, I will obtain my freedom from the board. Either I will bribe them with your success or with the appeal of a real Lemurian at our school”.

Rafayel clenched his fists. He had to tread carefully. Not everything could be eliminated, even if discreetly. The headmaster had to much presence for questions to not circulate. And he couldn’t buy silence, again.

“Surely,” he drawled, stalling for time. “The success of their students is all the board should be concerned with”.

The headmaster scoffed. “Please, have you seen these students? Half of them won’t make it anywhere in life. Look at ___. That kid is walking straight into a life of regret”. She shrugged. “They have no sense of responsibility or duty. Just a strain on society. Besides,” she said, a tone of confidence entering her voice, “It’s not as if anyone could say I didn’t try”.

She nodded at Rafayel. “You though. You’re going places, and one way or another, I will attach the school’s name onto you. I need this”.

“I could burn my paintings”.

“Then I’ll just inform everyone of your Lemurian heritage”.

“Why would the world believe in you?”

“They wont, initially. But in their eagerness to prove me wrong, they’ll find out the truth”.

A cruel smile Rafayel etched itself onto Rafayel’s face. The woman was crazy, that was obvious. No bribe would work. Rafayel was accustomed to people’s true nature to know that bribes, for such people, would never quench their greed. Fame was an addiction that never succumbed.

The headmaster reached out towards Rafayel’s arms. She spoke something, but Rafayel did not care to listen anymore. Instead he spoke. It was one word. One familiar word, that brought forth agony. Memories of lives long gone. Of carnage and destruction. One word that thrust unbearable torture onto the listener. The headmaster tried to let go of Rafayel, but it was too late. Rafayel’s eyes turned obsidian blue. He gripped her forearm tightly and watched as the headmaster’s face paled and her eyes rolled back. Her body began to shake and distort against the pain. She couldn’t even scream. Her voice being stolen as hundreds of his peoples were. She inevitably passed out and crumpled and Rafayel stood over her, eyes still pigmented.

He didn’t kill her, but she would forever wish he had.

A noise had him snap his head up towards the door. There you stood. A silent witness. Rafayel didn’t have to wonder if you saw everything. He saw it in your somber eyes, and he wondered if this was your true nature. The face of a leader.

It must have been, because all you said was, “I’ll handle it,” and Rafayel believed you.

……

It was a shock for everyone. The school, the news, the district. Hell, it somehow made it to a small column in the national press. After all, what would you expect when your saw a notorious gang leader sitting upon the beat up body of a the headmaster?

You already reached the limit with the previous teacher, but with a headmaster, you went past the line. Bruises littered the body, and where there were none, wounds appeared. Bones were broken in several locations. It looked like the headmaster fell from a great height, but whatever happened, the police could get nothing out of her. Her eyes were heavily blackened from what seemed to be repeated blows, and her voice was gone. The doctors concluded the loss to trauma, but the headmaster knew, you knew, and when the police saw her flinch when you arrived at the hospital, they thought they knew too.

No one tried to defend you. No one actually said anything when you were led away. You were a bad egg. This was bound to happen sometime or other with some person or other. The verdict was passed without a trial. There was no need when you admitted to the crime. So you were expelled and sent to juvenile delinquency. Ten years. It was considered a lenient sentence.

But it didn’t end there.

The art competition was postponed under the circumstances, and 5 months later, under dazzling lights a promising painter unveiled his latest piece. A poster board detailing the abuse and harassments suffered by students at a school. And above it all? The silhouette of the headmaster. A towering figure who remained ignorant or compliant. The media went wild with the reveal and the city followed with a storm. The headmaster got the fame she always wanted. Cases upon cases were stacked against her as students slowly came forth, starting with one student who was being abused by that teacher. The teacher you beat up. Your case was inevitably brought forth once again and under this new light you were judged. Eight years instead of ten, and the headmaster sacked and struck off all school, unable to ever work in the field again. With justice considered to be done, the case was closed and put to rest.

Ten years later.

The lights were too bright, and it was too noisy. None of it helped Rafayel’s ongoing headache. He could see Thomas out of the corner of his eye. Be social the manager urged as he pushed Rafayel out towards the mass of bodies. There were definitely genuine admirers, and the usual photo-takers and collectors. But now, Rafayel was done. When the manager’s attention was distracted by another potential client, the artist slipped out the backdoor.

Outside the smells and noises of the city wrapped around him. It was a hot day and he could already feel the humidity cling to his skin and slip into his pores. He’d entered into an alleyway. One of many that made up the labyrinth of the city’s underground. There was nothing charming about an alleyway, certainly not for the many that frequented them, but for Rafayel it was pivotal. He ensured there was always access to an alleyway at any of his shows. And when it was safe, he would slip out and wait.

“Still remember me after becoming rich and famous?” A familiar voice called out.

Rafayel looked up at you. You leaned on the wall and watched him with an amused smile. You were surprised when he first met you in Juvie. You were thin and tired, and it made Rafayel crack his exterior to the one person who protected him. He tried every avenue to get you out or to reduce your sentence further, but to no avail. Frustrated, he complained to you at the first meeting, until you snapped at him one day to leave it be. Then he came for every visitation period, often being the only person to talk to you about the outside world. Sometimes he brought in Jex who took over the gang in your absence. But no one, not even Jex, considered Jex as the new leader. Everyone knew the directions still came from you.

In the eight years, Rafayel made himself into the famous artist the world knew he would become. He made numerous enemies and only one friend. So when you got out, he didn’t hesitate to offer his home, his wealth, and his life for you. But you rejected them all. Claimed that visiting you for eight years repaid the fall you took and that no one would know any of his secrets. You were not a debt to Rafayel, but you had long disappeared into the alleyways. He managed to keep track of your activities through underground networks, channels, and general news. In two years you managed to bring some of the old notoriety back to the gang, but then everything went silent. He couldn’t even find Jex. Panic set in as Rafayel began to assume the worst. So the only thing he could do is cast his net and wait. Wait and wait until either the truth sunk into his bones or you deigned to appear before him.

Now you stood and all Rafayel could think of was to burst out asking, “Where were you?”

You always seemed surprised by his outbursts of concern and moments of care, as if you were surprised the world had the ability to care about you. It frustrated Rafayel to no end, especially when you went silent, like you did now, choosing to remain obscured despite a spot in the light awaiting you.

“I heard,” he began, more softly this time, “about what happened”.

You shrugged. “It was time to disband. We formed the group mainly to help each other. Now most of them got a second chance and are thriving. Jex even managed to get an apprenticeship”.

There was a gleam in your eyes when you spoke. Pride wafted from you as you saw the members of your gang, your friends, your family, grow beautifully into lives that, for once, benefited them.

“And you linger here because of some weird obsession of the past?”

You snorted at Rafayel’s teasing remark, but there was some truth in what he said. You didn’t do anything after everyone went their ways. Not smart or talented enough, the only place for an outcast like you was on the periphery. You didn’t mind. Your reputation preceded you. you were able to keep younger kids away from silly decisions and mistakes your lot made, and there were many who offered you their couch and food to camp for a few days. At least until you figured things out.

A peaceful silence passed between you two as you lingered in each other’s presence. It was familiar, like when you used to spend afternoons together, painting.

“Be my bodyguard,” Rafayel spoke.

There was a determinism in him that you found hard to refuse. A clarity of who you were and an acceptance of your need for freedom and independence. You would never have accepted a life you had no control over, no matter the luxuries.

“Do artists get threatened?”

“You’d be surprised”.

Again, the sincerity in his voice made you pause and consider your answer.

“Think you can handle the role?”

The beginnings of a smile, a real smile that Rafayel had not seen since high school made its way across your face as your eyes shone at the challenge.

“I can handle it”.

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