One minute, he was there, and the next, he was here, standing in front of Betty But
Not Betty. The Betty from his youth, but how could that be, when he was twenty-
four now and he had been fourteen, fifteen, sixteen when he knew her. They way she
looked at him made him believe she’d been waiting for him, reassured him that this
wasn’t a dream, and that sinking feeling began. He remembered thinking, No, oh no,
and having to hyperventilate for an hour and a half before she calmed him down and
told him he was here for a reason.
And it’s a good reason, he supposes, one that makes his skin itch with discomfort. It
all hits so close to home, right in the chest, and as Delsin drags the aerosol can in
front of the wall, his hood up and shadowing his face, he can’t help but think about
his life, his whole life and his mother and his father and his brother and the abuse
and the drinking and the struggle and he is so what? and just everything, everything
he was and everything he is and how he managed to get from point A to point B
without killing himself in the process.
The one thing she’d said to him after she’d calmed him down was, “Don’t let him see
you. I don’t know what that would do,” and Delsin takes that to heart. He travels
lightly, keeping to shadows and tree lines and rooftops as much as he can, out of
sight and out of mind. He keeps his hood up, keeps a bandana around his neck to
pull up over his nose and mouth at a moment’s notice. The only thing he’s gotten rid
of his his vest, because of his precious collection of buttons, and he feels exposed
without it, even though he knows its absence helps him blend in more than anything
else.
It’s one of his favorite designs, if not one of his most noticeable. He wants to just
get his younger self’s attention, wants to get him looking around, wants him
noticing. Tagging, the one thing they have in common right now, because his
younger self isn’t yet a Conduit and Delsin doesn’t know how else to communicate.
Pictures are worth a thousand words, and he leaves this one in plain view, blues and
whites on the side of a brick wall he’ll definitely pass on the way to or from school.
And he finishes just in time, too. After capping the can and throwing it down the
length of the wall, Delsin moves a few feet away and keeps his head down,
crouching with his back pressed against the wall, arms looped around his bent
knees. His hood remains up and shadowing his face, and he hopes he looks more
homeless than anything. He keeps his head down, balanced carefully on his toes,
and makes sure his sleeves are pulled down over his wrists, his hands, hiding his ink
and the paint still clinging to his fingertips. That’s where he is when he glances up
and sees himself, and his heart starts to pound hard. He recognizes those bruises,
remembers that fall, and his jaw aches with the phantom pain of it. It’s been ten
years since his father died, and he still has nightmares about him crawling out of his
grave to terrorize him every so often.
He holds his breath, watches his younger self’s feet, and listens as Delsin all but
chokes and comes closer to examine his handiwork. Only when the other is close to
the wall does Delsin dare to peek up in time to see him touch it. He bites his lip, a
hand lifting to push his bandana over his chin just a little before he looks back
down at his knees. His curiosity wouldn’t let him hide somewhere less conspicuous,
and besides, who would suspect someone lingering near the artwork to be the one
who painted it?
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
gummygunk
origamiaround
