Marcus

Every evening in the city a bottle of blueish black ink would spill and make a mess of the sky. When the ink got thick enough, small stars would punch their way through. It was comical, everything in the city had an aggressive way about it. The pedestrians walked along the concrete sidewalks like they believed the slabs might give way to their heels. The dogs barked from behind raw wooden fences tirelessly, and some believed one day they might bark so long the gates would crumble in defeat. Then there were the buildings. They were hard geometric shapes that stood defiant of the ground. The only character they had was in their square windows and a shade so lifeless it must have been painted to match the city smog.

Marcus imagined his own life imposing on the city. He was a gentler kind of creature, with a hunger for colours and canvases that never seemed to be satiated. He took his own bite out of the sky in the early hours of the morning. He imagined a city of sleeping people, sleeping dogs, blaring sirens, quietly stalking stray cats, a black and blue mess of sky, and then his little yellow square window - a beacon of his life.

A closer inspection of the yellow square would tell the story of his life in great-cluttered-detail. There were canvases half painted, fully painted, painted once and then repainted. Cups of old coffee throughout the apartment like a small scattered army. Rags and clothes with splashes of colour, as if he had been to war as well and perhaps lost to the canvas. He was an obedient servant to the ideas and the canvases, and it was on the first night that this is where the story found Marcus.

He was bent at his easel in the shape of a question mark, painting an answer. The room was quiet except for the freezing rain that tickled the windowpane and the creaking of the radiator that fought the storm off. That’s when the first one came. A fist struck his door, once, sending Marcus to the floor. His heart, kicked into gear, pounded in his ears. He looked to the door, his mouth hung open waiting for words to present themselves but they never came. He was just about to ask who’s there when a small orange envelope was pushed under the doorframe and then footsteps - fast - down the stairs.

Marcus jumped to his feet, called to action from the fear of the unanswered question. He grabbed the door handle forgetting it was locked “Bloody hell. Open!” he fumbled with it, he swung the door open but no one was there. Marcus stood quiet, listening for footsteps. Nothing but a gush of wind answered, a chill rushed down his spine. He could feel the cold rushing into his apartment and he quickly closed the door, bolted it, and looked down at the envelope.

Cautiously, he opened it. Inside, lying in a neat stack where paper bills. He sat on the couch, cleared cigarette butts and coffee cups from the table, set the envelope down, and waited for something. Another knock maybe? A memory of winning a bet on one of his drunken adventures? The answer never came, only the morning did.

Next, he had a couple very anxious days. The first day when he woke to find the envelope still on the table, a sick lump formed in his stomach and stayed there, seemingly undigestible. He had to hide it. Now that he thought of it he wasn’t sure of the protocol for random envelopes of mysterious money. He thought hiding it in a pot would suffice. Two hours later he was in the middle of a brush stroke when out of nowhere he bolted upright, grabbed the money, and re-hid it. This happened two more times. The third time he got up and counted it. This turned out to be a bad idea. 20,000 dollars was in the bag. He hid it again, this time stuffed behind the toilet. The lump in his stomach began to burn.

Two days later he was a mess. He had tried to leave his house, but made it two blocks before he had to return to check if the door was still locked. At the beginning it had been the fear of the unknown. Why him? Did they get the wrong apartment? Did they know who he was? But then his thoughts seemed to grow feet and walk away from him. He couldn’t paint anymore, all he could do was think about what he could do with the money. That’s right about the time the paranoia set in. He had gotten attached to the possibilities. He couldn’t leave it behind the toilet forever, eventually he would have to get rid of it…or spend it. Eventually a decision would have to be made.

In a futile attempt to distract himself he started at another canvas. But at every creak or moan he found himself jumping in his chair. Eventually he had enough of the torment and let the small TV run to drone out the thoughts. Marcus had enjoyed a full day without even one thought of the bag. The TV had become a constant companion, and he was happily humming away with a paintbrush in hand. He had fallen asleep at his easel, when he woke under the door was a black notebook.

“Where is Johnathan?” the black notebook said in random cut out letters. He at first flipped through the pages, praying for a concise letter to explain the mistake, an address to where to send it, something, anything. He found his anything, but it didn’t put him at ease. In a small pouch at the back of the book was a piece of paper, on it a name, “Sebastian Clark”. They knew who he really was. It was impossible…but they knew. This was blackmail, this had to be, but what did they want? He didn’t have Johnathon - he didn’t even know a Johnathon. He had a bag packed now, He had done this before when he had to leave Sebastian behind. It hadn’t been his fault, but either way he was the one who ran.

He also had acquired a dislike for this game, which he now knew was a game, and he was being played. It was the city, the city always played with him while he did nothing but try to miss it’s hits. Marcus was on the couch, and had melted into it’s creases. He looked in the direction of the TV and flipped through his thoughts like channels. Each thought more frazzled than the last. That’s when it happened. A picture of a brown haired boy came on the news. He had an easy smile and the anchorwoman was reporting on his disappearance. “Johnathon Karmichael, a student at the community college, went missing last Saturday. Last seen on Granville Street, Authorities have received an anonymous request for his release for $20,000.” She went on to ask for any evidence but Marcus had gone cold. He lived on Granville Street.

Questions started pouring in from the window, from the tap, from under the door where this had all started. One question stood out - why him? He knew he had to do something. They had his real name and they thought he had kidnapped Johnathon. If he went to the police Sebastian would be found out, he knew that, the note had made that clear. They were framing him, that was also clear. And the only way out was to find Johnathon.

He had never spent much time in the hallways. They had about 4 working lights in the entire building which usually aided Marcus in ignoring looking for where the ripe unidentifiable smell came from. But tonight it helped him hide. He set himself up in an awkward corner under the stairs and waited. At first, fear and excitement danced through his veins. Each person coming and going might be Johnathon’s real captors. The urgency to find Johnathon was boiling under a tight shut lid. But none of the people seemed more suspicious than the usual tenants. One elderly lady wobbled her way up each painstaking step, he listened to her climb, all the while fighting with himself not to go help her. The hiding would soon be over - hopefully.

It was early morning when a man he had never seen before stepped into the hallway. Marcus tried to make out his face but then he turned in Marcus’s direction. His heart started beating in his throat and his fists clenched instinctively. The man didn’t go up the stairs, instead he walked towards Marcus. Just when Marcus was about to rush him for fear of no other option, the man walked past him to a small door. He opened the hidden door and even darker black seemed to seep out from the space beyond. He disappeared.

Marcus waited on baited breath. Every minute felt like an eternity. He could just run, he could take the money and a new name and never have to get involved in this. But it would follow, he knew it would, and Johnathon would never leave his conscience. Finally, the man emerged and slipped out into the inky night. Marcus waited for him to return, for him to walk up to his hiding spot, and find him out. He had to see what was behind that door. He was just about to crawl out when the door opened again. The man had returned, this time there were two of them. Without even looking at the door they started their way upstairs. That’s when Marcus saw it, a syringe in the man’s hand. They were going to find him. They were going to finish it.

They disappeared up the stairs. Marcus’s breath was heavy now, his thoughts rapid. “Leave, just leave, don’t be stupid, run”. He looked at the door to leave and then without thinking headed for the small door in the dark. He awkwardly made it down the steep wooden steps, a dim light lit up the cement basement. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, this is how you die. No staying upstairs is how you die.” He rounded the corner “Okay! Yup, that’s what I thought” Johnathon sat on the floor chained to a pole. He was beat up, he was dirty, he was passed out. “Are you breathing?” Marcus asked Johnathon. He checked for a pulse. His face was bruised and his lip freshly bleeding but there was a faint pumping under his skin. “Not much of a talker? Me either” Marcus said looking around the room for something to free him. In the dark was a pile of metal parts, looking through he found a piece to give him leverage. He was able to break the pipe freeing it from the wall. Freed, Johnathon slumped over and that’s when he heard the sound of footsteps coming closer.

“He’s gone, the boy, he’s gone” said the first man

“How?”

“How would I know? He’s just gone, broke free”

“No way he could have escaped after I left him”

“That damn runaway, thought he would be an easy one, didn’t you say that Roy? Now look at this mess.”

“I’ll find him, he couldn’t have gone far. I’ll check the alleyway you check the roof”

Marcus and Johnathon were jumbled in the dark, thankfully Johnathon was a quiet hider. The men left. Marcus smiled at himself, they were right, this really was a mess.

He left Johnathon outside the hospital. He left Marcus in that apartment with all his artwork. He found somewhere with colour and somewhere he didn’t have to punch his way into to be apart of. Years later he saw one of his paintings for sale, but he didn’t claim it. It belonged to another lifetime and a story he didn’t know how to ever understand.