Page 5 of Crescendo

“So...art. You like it?”

I shrug and then nod. Up this close, the stranger doesn’t seem so threatening. He may be tall, but he’s nearly as thin as I am. There’s a gracefulness to the way he walks, like a dancer, almost—nothing like Vinny’s hostile, jerky movements that make me suspect that he’s always anticipating the moment someone might put a bullet in his head. This man—or maybe he’s more like a boy. His eyes are close-set and definitely blue. There’s a line of stubble along his chin, but I wouldn’t peg him as any older than nineteen—maybe two or three years younger than I am.

“Is this a stupid question?” he asks suddenly, his mouthcracking to display two rows of slightly crooked teeth. I think he’s smiling.

For some reason, I try to smile back. “Yes. I like art... Yes.” My mind may have stupidly forgotten the timer on my freedom, but my body hasn’t. My skin burns beneath the stranger’s fingers, almost as if threatening to betray me.He’ll know. He’ll know.

I yank my hand back, twisting it out of his grip. This time, he lets me.

“So, art,” he says quickly, as if trying to postpone the moment I’ll turn on my heel and run away. For some reason, it does. Talking is too addictive. Too tempting. Words hold less power here, outside of Vinny’s fortress. It’s way too easy to let them slip. “What kind?”

“Music,” I say on command. I couldn’t stay silent, even if I’d wanted to; the answer is ingrained in my soul.

He laughs again and continues to tug me down the alleyway, one slow step at a time. He’s savoring this adventure. I’m anticipating its violent ending. Almost two whole minutes, now...

“Music.Oh, God. Which bastion of modern music do you subscribe to? Composer Swift or Maestro Bieber?”

I shake my head, not recognizing the references. “Bach,” I say. “Yo Yo Ma.”

“Ah...a true musician. Singer or player?”

“Cello.”

He nods as if the answer had been obvious all along. “So, you make music as well as fire with those magic fingers, little Pyro?”

I don’t answer. My love of music is like an old wound that can never fully heal. Some days, I think it’s starting to close up, the rent flesh knitting together again. Other days, Vinny likes to cut it open and rub salt into the festering gap. Afterward, he’ll always kiss the bleeding sore and murmur, “All better.”

Like tonight. Tonight was his peace offering. His gift. My torture. Pain mingles with hope and shame, and it’s suddenly harder to breathe.

“You all right?” the stranger asks, cocking his head.

I flinch. Even my facial expressions are suddenly out of my control. I fight to return my mouth to its worn, “charming” smile. Vinny’s man can’t be far now, but I’d hear him coming, at least. I won’t let the man in front of me pay for my stupidity.

“I’m fine...”

“Save the pouting for when you see this piece of shit, okay? It’s just up ahead.”

We travel ten more steps, though once again, I can’t help but feel like we didn’t go very far at all. I can still hear the same sounds I heard when I left the hotel—the same concierge yelling for a taxi and the same cadence of honking horns.

Abruptly, the man stops, and I almost run into him.

“Voila,” he says, gesturing to yet another brick wall. “Boom, there it is.”

“Wow.” I take a step forward, transfixed by what’s in front of me.

Right here, in the middle of neatly laid bricks, is a whole new world slapped onto the impromptu canvas. A man watches me from amid it all, larger than life, his glowing, red eyes transfixed on my body as if he can peer right through my flesh and into my very soul. Vinny wouldn’t call this art.Vulgar, he’d say before rattling off something demeaning in Italian. Tailored suits and well-made cigars—thatwas where his appreciation of the word ended.

“Is that supposed to be the devil?” I blurt out while some inner part of me laughs at the notion. The devil lives in a high-rise. He wears suits with custom cufflinks and sips imported champagne from glass flutes.

However, if I still believed in the fantasized version of Lucifer, this mural would depict him well: a dark shadow lurking in the bowels of the city...watching. Always watching.

“Something like that,” the stranger says. “Though...a little more abstract. He’s missing something. Here.”

I flinch when something cold presses into my fingers. They curl around it automatically, and I glance down to find that I’m holding a can of spray paint.

“Maybe you can help.”

“I...I can’t.” I try to give the can back, but he backs away, holding both hands up. “I’ll mess it up.” My voice cracks. In a world of “perfection,” mistakes are harshly punished. “I can’t—”