Crimson painted the sink. Bloody tissues scattered across the counter and around Kazimir's bare feet. Nosebleeds had become a part of his life after he'd gotten addicted to cocaine.

Before returning to his room, he washed away the evidence. He scrubbed the sink until it sparkled and hid the bloody tissues under the piling garbage in the waste can. His secret was safe, but for how long?

He thought a change of scenery would help, but his addiction followed him like a traveling companion. Being separated from the root of his problem solved nothing.

Kazimir sat down on his old but reliable art stool and started working on a new piece. When he was younger, he used to think art was pointless. Sometimes people judge things too quickly in life and put labels on them before giving them a chance. Painting started as a way to earn cash for his drug habits, but it became so much more than that. With his paintbrush, he could imagine a place where he could be free.

Countless teachers who saw nothing but another troublemaker in their class never tried to help Kazimir discover his passion. They all assumed the worst for his future. But then, he met his high school art teacher, and he changed his outlook on art.

Rhett Lamphere had been a wild soul. He sported blue hair and a perpetually peppy tone of voice. Kazimir's initial impression of the art teacher was, where the hell did they find this fruitcake? That was before Mr. Lamphere opened up about his own history with drug addiction and offered Kazimir support. Kazimir tried denying he had a problem, but his former art teacher saw straight through his lies. Mr. Lamphere helped him stay clean for a few days before he'd mess up and relapse.

The day their principal barged into the classroom to tell Kazimir and his peers that Mr. Lamphere had died in a drive-by shooting on his way to work no longer felt as shocking. Three years had passed, but the memory remained vivid.

Vengeful thoughts had played through Kazimir's mind about harming the teen responsible for killing his mentor. But he knew Mr. Lamphere would've been disappointed in him if he'd gone through with it. Mr. Lamphere believed in giving all his students second chances. If he hadn't, he never would have gotten through to Kazimir.

A knock on the door interrupted Kazimir's daydreaming. "Hey, man. Open up."

"The door's unlocked," Kazimir told his roommate before he pushed it open. "Watch your step."

Tiptoeing on the huge white sheet Kazimir laid out across the floor, Jordy avoided stepping in any paint splotches. Kazimir looked up at his dark-skinned friend, who carried his Chromebook under his arm.

"Did you need something?" Kazimir asked, laying his paintbrush down.

"Your room is a mess." Jordy crinkled his nose. "It looks like Picasso's afterparty in here."

"Sorry. After I finish here, I'll clean up."

"You're fine. Art can get messy. If you're almost done, you wanna head over to Chipotle with me and my friends?" Jordy asked.

"Sorry, but I already made plans. Maybe next time?"

"Sure, no problem."

Kazimir smiled at him. "Have a good time with your friends."

"Thanks, I'll see you later." Jordy grinned back at Kazimir and walked out of the room.

Kazimir was grateful to have bumped into Jordy in a Facebook group for young artists. They talked all the time about Kazimir moving to New Syracuse from his hometown in North Dakota, and he finally got enough money saved up two weeks ago. Kazimir had a lot of problems back home, and Jordy needed a roommate to help with rent. It was the perfect plan.

After an hour passed by, Kazimir pushed himself off his perch, taking in the painting poised upon the shabby easel. His projects tended to take a few days to finish, but he'd gotten a good start on that one.

It was a piece of abstract impressionism of a heart in a cage. If Mr. Lamphere could see him now, Kazimir was sure he'd be proud. He had a nasty habit of disappointing almost everyone in his life, but never his mentor.

Strumming the soft bristles of his paintbrushes, he slipped his fingers down into a mason jar on his rolling cart full of paint supplies to retrieve a plastic baggie. He had enough coke to get by until tomorrow, but he couldn't let his stash get that low.

If Kazimir couldn't be high, he didn't want to be alive.

The artist sent a text to his dealer that he'd be on his way. He slipped an old camo hoodie on and fetched his keys off the nightstand before heading out. His shiny blue motorcycle awaited him in the parking lot of the apartment complex. He'd saved up forever to buy the spiffy cruiser, and it was worth every penny.

It wouldn't be long until a police car came snooping around, and he wanted to leave before it arrived. The owner of their apartment had a friend on the force who did him the courtesy of making sure no sketchy business went on around his buildings. After looking both ways, Kazimir pulled out of the bumpy lot and sped off.

Old buildings clung to the ground for dear life. Most of them were foreclosed or had condemned signs up. But even amid such atrocity, he still found beauty in their town. Trees danced in the wind, scattering maple and crimson leaves all around. Nothing was more lovely than foliage in the fall.

When Kazimir first moved to New Syracuse, the ginormous boots planted on the walkways confused the hell out of him. A local artist created three of them and had different stories painted on them. The one he drove by depicted a little boy in a sunhat walking through a garden of roses. He thought it was a sweet reminiscence of the artist's childhood.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Caraway Drive was notorious for gang fights and arrests. Kazimir knew he shouldn't be anywhere in that part of town. It was dangerous, but he couldn't help himself. Nowhere else in New Syracuse could he buy cocaine so cheap.

As he approached the Black Vipers gang hideout, a voluptuous young woman blew him a kiss from the sidewalk. A pimp parked on the curb watched his prized possessions bring in the big bucks.

When the parlor came into view, Kazimir reduced his speed and pulled off onto the gravelly entry. Clients' cars filled the front of the old hair salon so he parked in the back lot, where a security camera filmed his every move. The Black Vipers used the place as a front for their drug business.

A small bell dinged to signal his arrival when he stepped inside through the back entry. The lobby reeked of freshly sprayed Lysol. He removed his glasses to wipe away the fog that gathered on the lens.

Kazimir was used to the invasive pat down by the burly guard. Their precautions were understandable, but he still tensed up at having a strange man grope him as he searched for a weapon. Once he was allowed in, he hurried down the familiar pathway to his dealer's makeshift office.

When he opened the door, the sweet smell of cinnamon greeted him. It reminded him of the delectable cinnamon rolls he used to bake himself for breakfast as a child.

Closing the door behind him, he stepped closer inside, taking in the familiar setup of Samantha's new office. Why didn't she hang any paintings up on the boring beige walls? Her colorful notes of clients were stacked up neatly alongside her red pens, and her laptop remained on the center of the desk with her stuffed penguin perched on top. The artist took a seat on the salon styling chair and propped his feet up on the metal bar at the bottom.

Samantha turned her swivel chair around, revealing ghastly bruises on her face. She smiled at Kazimir as if nothing was wrong. It looked like someone had beat her again.

Kazimir gasped. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"Just another run-in with those damn Voiceless Rebels. You know how it is with their greed for territory." She twirled one of her purple pigtails around her finger. "They think they own the whole world."

He grimaced. "You need to stay away from them. I hate seeing you get hurt like this."

Reaching across her desk, Kazimir trailed his fingers across her bandaged arm. It was another injury she'd gotten from fighting with those reprehensible gang members. She rested her soft, warm hand over his, reassuring him that she was fine. Kazimir wished he had the courage to stand up to them and protect her.

"Remember when Jordy's brother, Luca tried to leave the rebels? They murdered him, made it look like he got hit during a gang war. Cops didn't give two shits about him. Just saw another troubled man," Samantha said. "When I take control of the Black Vipers, I won't let that happen to me."

"That's insane. Don't even think about that. You're already in too deep here by accepting this office," Kazimir told her. "Jordy would be so devastated if he knew what you were doing."

"I have to do this. It's too late to turn back now. Jordy will never find out as long as you keep your mouth shut. You wouldn't want him to find out about your coke addiction, would you?"

Kazimir gulped, shaking his head. "No, I wouldn't. But I'm worried about you too. I'd be devastated if something ever happened to you."

"You don't have to worry about me. I know how to take care of myself. I've even figured out the identity of one of the Voiceless Rebels." Pride shone in her emerald eyes. "You wanna see a photo of the dickhead?"

Samantha handed him her iPhone. The photo depicted a tall, slim yet buff guy he didn't recognize. He sported a denim jacket with the hood pulled up, hiding most of his blond hair.

"His name's Emmett. Him and his little bitch were the ones who attacked me," she explained.

Kazimir returned her phone, shaking his head. "That's why you shouldn't get involved. This Emmett guy could kill you."

"You'd be lost without me, wouldn't you? Where would you get your precious coke?" Samantha unlocked her desk drawer and dropped the eight ball in front of him.

Kazimir snatched the plastic baggie without hesitation. "Could I get a quarter ounce this time, please?"

"Why do you need so much?" she asked. "This is what you always get."

He pushed the bridge of his thick-framed glasses up his nose. "I just want it to last longer."

"Alright, but it's gonna cost you extra."

"I know." He pulled out his wallet and handed over the cash. "Thank you so much."

"No problem." Samantha reclined back in her chair. "So, do you plan on painting any today?"

Kazimir grinned as he stood up to leave. "I'm doing a graffiti piece downtown. I got the perfect image too."

Figuring out where to spray paint it would be the tricky part for him.

🎨

Kazimir's chosen location ended up being in a grimy, narrow slit between two walls, barely big enough to be called an alleyway. The dumpster reeked, just like the rest of Hell's Hollow. No wonder the kids called it Devil's Butthole. He missed the smell of Samantha's office already.

The wind roared in his ears when he removed his helmet after parking his bike. It rustled up his dark brown hair. The sun shined down on the artist as he unzipped the backpack dangling against his back. It contained all his precious spray paint cans.

Finding his ideal position was difficult, but he was always up for a challenge. That piece deserved to hit the heavens, so he hopped on top of the dumpster and climbed up the roof ladder attached to the bar. He always kept his grappling hook in his backpack in case he decided to spontaneously climb a building and spray paint, like today.

Once he got himself situated in the middle of the brick building, he directed the different colors against the wall to produce the realistic image of a dick. Kazimir planned to center the gangster's face right in the middle. He couldn't avenge Samantha by attacking Emmett, so he did the next best thing. He painted him as a dickhead.

Dark clouds covered the sky, shielding him far away from the truth. New Syracuse was drowning in mystery and misery. Kazimir was an outsider, but even he could tell there was something terribly wrong with the town. The gangs and drugs played a substantial piece, but no one was brave enough to venture closer to uncover the facts.

Kazimir shivered at the abrasive gust and clenched his spray can tighter. If he had known how windy it would be, he would have worn another hoodie. The gale only fought back harder and tried to pull him off the building, yanking his spray can from his hand.

Thankfully, he almost completed it before he lost the can. He wanted to make the balls bigger, but the small ones would have to suffice. He needed to get down before the wind blew him away.

He planted one foot precariously on the ladder then the other and unhooked himself from the building when he thought he was safe. The wind worsened as Kazimir tried to reach the bottom, but his left foot missed the next step. Instead of easing his way down gently, he dropped to the pavement below.

Kazimir's life flashed before his own eyes as he fell. Was this how it all ended for him? He tried to prepare himself for the excruciating death of busting his head open on the concrete below when rugged arms reached out and caught him. When the wooziness faded, Kazimir realized there was someone under him and quickly rolled off.

His golden hair resembled a halo and his eyes were a heavenly spring-green shade. Kazimir reached down to stroke his cheek, watching his lips curl in confusion at his touch.

Was it forbidden to touch angels? Kazimir wondered.

"Are you here to take me away from this horrible life?" Kazimir asked him.