Little Rogue
By Mr. Scade
The bar was not a fancy place, but it wasn’t cheap either. It was somewhere between been the sort of place business meetings took place in, or where your mates met up for drinks. The mood was mellow, emphasised by dark walls and minimal lighting mixing with slow music to give that just-perfect ambience of drowsiness. Everywhere people talked in hushed voices, creating a shroud of drowsy drunkenness that was almost like a lullaby.
After her dalliance with rueful actions, the Artist needed a quiet place. Discovering the note had left a bitter and salty taste in her mouth, and a natural disaster of emotions boiling inside of her. She had stampeded out of Gary’s home and found the nearest school. She regretted what she had done to that place, but perhaps the addition of certain taboo teachings and sexuality to the social strata of high schools would not permanently scar anyone.
The Artist was seating alone, on a very comfortable chair, admiring the texture on the wall opposite to her position. It was painted in crimson, using a broad brush, over the unadorned concrete blocks and scratchy cement. It told a story the Artist could read like a book: the wall had been built with concrete blocks of questionable to decent quality, and the person who had put them knew how to work concrete, but, perhaps by choice or necessity, they had left the wall without plastering, and then someone had painted over it.
The Artist thought she was looking at a beard. The thought made her smile and she chuckled, but the sorrow soon grasped her throat once more like an assassin in the night.
Her hand brought a cup of wine towards her lips, and she drank and drank until it was empty. She filled it again, emptying her second bottle of red. She made a motion with her hand, and someone replaced her bottle. The Artist didn’t have the habit of drinking; it lulled her senses, rusted her skills, and killed her judgement, but, as many people throughout the course of history had realised, it was an apt activity for when you felt forlorn and sorrowful.
Swirling, the red liquid danced in the glass. Staring at its shimmering crimson, the Artist saw her own reflection, her image on blood. She remembered something she had done many, many years ago, when the metallic scent of something redder filled the air and her hands grasped something sharp and deadly in a grip of anger and hatred. She closed her eyes and thought not of the blood that had come after the dark deed, but of the letter she had found in her coat and of the man whose hand had penned it.
She downed the glass once more, closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the alcohol took effect. A delicious fire crackled its way down her throat, and slowly it reached its destination only for a wall of fiery stuff climbed higher and higher until it wrapped her mind in a lull. She knew that if she drank any more she wouldn’t remember the night; although that was exactly what she wished—to forget—she couldn’t allow herself to cross that line. Vices and morals were kept in cages of imaginary lines that made it impossible for you to fall deep enough into on, but once the lines are crossed it is almost impossible to climb back up.
So the Artist ignored the predatory gaze of the waiter looking to increase his tip and pulled out an envelope hidden within her overcoat. The note had affected her, given her a reason to cover herself. Her legs were clad in leggings, her hands in gloves, her feet in boots, and the old overcoat covering everything else. She didn’t want to show anyone her tattoos (even though the desire was almost uncontrollable—was it not her duty as the current Artist to show the world her art?), and couldn’t do so. It was a sense of respect, and a lack of energy that held her back.
She opened the envelope and saw the image. Something that burned crawled up her throat and she thought she was going to vomit the wine, but her eyes watered and tears started kissing her cheeks. The Artist closed her eyes and took a deep breath, bottling up the tears in their prison. She couldn’t allow herself to cry, not in public, and not in private. She couldn’t cry, ever. Had the waiter been reading her mind, he would’ve heard a steel door slam shut.
The image was of an elderly man, with thick lines of charcoal where his wrinkles and furrows used to be. His wide, caring, yet devious eyes were depicted a bit too well. Drooping lips over a prominent chin, and a beard that seemed to be from a bygone age, and kept still in time gave his face a strong look. While the baldness and stretched ears seemed to label him as wise.
It was a perfect, incredible rendition of the man the Artist had lived with and loved, the man who had basically stolen her from the ills of the streets, and took under his wing. She sniffled at the memories, the torrent of memories—years upon years upon years of pleasant, unpleasant, harsh, fun and sad memories. She treasured all of them, all the grieving, and pain, and joy, and lessons, and happiness, and everything else the previous Artist had given her.
She ran her fingers over the image. Her fingers felt texture that was just like his skin. She remembered his fatherly caresses. It could’ve been a trick of memory, or part of the drawing itself, but she actually felt his skin, cold and clammy as it used to be.
Movement in front of her and the Artist raised her red eyes. Some fellow walked up in front of her and asked if he could sit. The Artist dissected his appearance, his colours, his personality with a single look. Twisting a pout to the right and raising an eyebrow, she gave an unimpressed look. The guy seemed to take that as an invitation and leaned to sit next to her. Without a word, she raised her feet and laid them on the rest of the chair. The guy sulked away toward a group of friends.
The Artist looked down and read the letter for the hundredth time.
“Hey, Little Rogue.” The handwriting was his, and the voice in her head was his, with all its cackling laugh and deep pronunciations. “So, it finally happened, didn’t it? Oh, who would’ve thought I was to last so long after passing on the Brush. Hah! Serves all of those idiots of the Magistrate right, don’t you think, Rogue? Outlived them all, I did!”
“Yes it does.” She whispered to herself and to the timeless spirit, his very laugh echoing in her memories.
“As you know, I died. I might have died from a heart attack, or I slipped on a hill and my body exploded as it hit the ground. Or I might be in a coma for all I know. But thing is, now you know I died, probably this morning, or a year ago. Depends on what you’re up to, when you got this letter, or just exactly where you are. As usual, I believe you’re up to one of your schemes, Little Rogue. Oh, you and your plans and experiments. You were always more experimental and wondrous than I ever was. Perhaps that is why I always said that you were better suited for the Brush than I ever was. But, remember, if they do not remember why they’re acting strange or worshipping statues, then they cannot find you. Always remember to be discreet, and chaotic. Chaotic is important. If there is no apparent reason or order to your actions, they will never find you. That is the only safe way the Artist legacy can keep last.”
The Artist’s legacy.
Amazing how long it had been since the Artist became the Artist. Decades ago she had been a girl called Little Rogue who had lived in the streets until the Artist found her. That girl had had the option of saying no when the mantle and the Brush were offered. But she didn’t. Little Rogue said yes, fearing what a no would throw her back into, and wishing she would lead a life as dramatic as her mentor.
And now she was the Artist, with the skills and means to do whatever she needed and wanted. If she so desired, she could rule a nation, like one mad Artist had done in the past. But she was content with her quiet life. And her quest. She had lived a quiet, uneventful life, but it wasn’t until she took up the quest to find the Museum did she feel truly alive.
Silent tears kissed her cheeks as they moved down her face. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, brushing away the worries of her future and her present.
Tonight was a night to remember the great man who had taught her everything, who had rescued her, and who had, indirectly, unleashed chaotic creativity upon Earth.
“There is nothing more I can say, or anything I can teach you, or anything I can teach you that you wouldn’t already know, but... Well, you know, Little Rogue. I loved you, girl. You were the daughter that I didn’t scare away, and you were the only good thing I ever did (various works of art notwithstanding) that truly was great.” The Artist read and chuckled. Tears bubbled in her throat. “What I am getting at is that you will be fine. And if you ever want to remember me, you have only to return to that place. Or, you know, think about me. There are things called memories, last time I checked. Luckily I never got so old as to forget the century and odd of memories I had. But, returning to your home, our home, would be better. You can go; the key is where it usually ended up at when I lost it. Go, if you want to.”
And like that, the letter stopped, suddenly and with no final goodbye. Just like the man used to talk to people; the conversation would heat up and he would stop talking and walk away without a word. He used to say he didn’t like to end conversations, and that he liked to keep people on their toes when talking to him.
The Artist stared at the piece of paper, at the beautiful and perfect self-portrait of the man, for a long, long time.
Someone opened a nearby door, letting in a gust of air conditioner from the other room. The cold air went up her legs into the dirty coat she was wearing. She shivered and cursed her decision to not wear anything underneath. Gods, how long have I been wearing this thing? Three months? Five?
At that moment someone sat across from her, blocking her view of the wall. The woman sitting across from the Artist was a smiling, thin beauty of some thirty years. She was wearing mismatched clothes that represented the entirety of the colour wheel.
The two women met each other’s smile and stare, and before anyone could realise it the Artist was pulling up the sleeve of her coat. In one sweep move the letters were hidden once more, safely kept away. Just like the colour wheel lady’s concentration.
The Artist looked around the room, noting the predatory waiter, and some of the rejected men. She noticed the wine bottle she had left unattended. Unwilling to show emotion, the Artist crossed the room and sat next to the colour wheel lady, taking the bottle with her just to keep up appearances.
“Hi.” The Artist whispered.
The lady shook her head, blinking rapidly. She looked around the room, as if unsure where she was. “Uhm, hey.”
The Artist looked at the lady, drinking in her image and colours. For a second, her memory flickered, and she saw her mentor teaching how to see and know people through their colours. She blinked the memory away, and looked at the lady she know knew. Really looked at her.
“I like your tattoo.” The Artist leaned closer, voice a whisper.
The lady smiled broadly; obviously she happy that someone had noticed. She reached and pulled up her long skirt, slightly, showing off a stylized spider trapped inside a stylized book. She ran a black-nailed finger over the blue and purple image. “Thanks. It is new.”
The Artist nodded. “I have some of my own. I believe you would like to see them.” Her words were a song, quiet and calming.
“I would like to. I like tattoos.”
And the Artist showed her what lay hidden under her sleeve. The Artist’s arm was covered with images of fires and forests, letters and graffiti from centuries before. And the colour wheel lady stared at them, unable to turn away, unable to blink; her mind was filled with the interlocking images on the Artist’s arm. She drank the images, absorbed them, became them.
“You like them, don’t you?”
“Yes.” The colour wheel lady nodded.
“You should take a closer look.”
A nod.
The colour wheel lady pressed her cheek against the Artist’s hand, and stared. She stared into the tattoos, into the images, into the billion worlds crafted into ink. She walked a beautiful forestland, and then ran through memories, and then experienced many a historic event. The colour wheel lady’s mind abandoned all independent, conscious thought as it enjoyed what it saw.
And, suddenly, the Artist leaned closer, her warmth eradiating into the lady’s skin, her breath kissing her neck, her words oozing into her being.
“Obey.” She said, and the lady shook in place.
The Artist walked, and the lady followed. People gave way as the Artist walked towards the restrooms, with the lady following suit. She manoeuvred with silent steps and diverted friendly stares with a sour look.
She opened the door for the lady, and locked them inside the empty restroom. The Artist turned around, a look of delight and need on her face. She needed the distraction, the venting out of frustration and sorrow; wand what better way than dominate someone so thoroughly?
The Artist walked in a close circle around the lady, noting the skinny arms and legs, the taut stomach, the long neck, the passive glimmer in her eyes. Oh, those eyes! The Artist stared into them and recognized the spark of strength, of life, of a personality not easily controlled. This lady was someone who didn’t allow anyone to push her around.
And yet the Artist had weaved her web of colourful control around her with no problem.
The Artist bit her lower lip, barely able to contain her need. She had so many ideas running loose in her mind. So many ways to dominate, control, change, paint this lady. Could she really try any?
“Undress.” The Artist commanded.
The lady took a deep breath, her hands fidgeting at her sides. She stared ahead, not looking anywhere.
“Undress.” The Artist repeated, her tone anxious.
This time the lady recognized the natural order of things and undressed, slowly. Before her eyes was a marvellous world of childhood memories painted in sharp contrasting colours, a self-cast illusion that filtered the Artist’s word and turned them commands she could not disobey.
The Artist looked, stared—drank the lady’s image. Two more tattoos painted the woman’s skin, one on her belly, the other on her right shoulder. They spoke measures of the woman who had become a thrall to her own filtered imagination.
Tentatively, the Artist leaned closer, running a finger over the woman’s breasts. The woman gasped at the cold touch, and then seemed to enjoy the Artist’s careful caress.
With an almost embarrassed look, the Artist leaned closer and sampled the lady’s lips with her own. Pressing them close, letting her warmth wash over the other woman, slowly pushing her lips inside the prison of her mouth, hands pulling the lady closer; the Artist kissed with the passion of a grieving friend, with the need to forget and celebrate. And the lady kissed back, with equal fervour.
It was a long time before the two broke the kiss. The lady’s eyes were still unfocused, but the newfound look of delight was genuine.
“What is your name?” The Artist whispered, her hands holding the lady.
“Felicia.” The lady smiled.
The Artist took a step back and once more inspected Felicia’s body. She turned her head to the right, finally noticing the mirror mounted on the wall.
When the Artist turned to look at Felicia, her overcoat was gone, air-conditioned air kissing her hard nipples and moist sex.
Felicia moaned, her body shuddering from unknown arousal and powerful memories. Her eyes roamed over the Artist’s tattoos, darted from one image to the next. When they found beauty in one piece, they immediately darted towards another, finding twice the amount of wonders in the next tattoo.
“Obey me.” The Artist’s voice reached Felicia’s core like an faster-than-light vessel crash-landing against a desolated planet. The impact force pushed her to her knees, and Felicia collapsed willingly. That was where she belonged, where she needed to be. The tattoos had told her so. She was to be on her knees.
The Artist sat over the washing basin, the mirror behind her reflecting a thousand little images. Felicia gasped at the mirrored images.
“Who do you obey?” The Artist intoned, delight in her voice.
“You.” Felicia said, slowly. A whisper.
“What are you, then?”
Felicia hesitated. She tried to avert her gaze from the Artist’s masterpiece turned body, but wherever she looked she stared into a work of art too beautiful for her mind. She was in a haze, in a delirium, and couldn’t—wouldn’t—escape.
Her eyes fell over the Artist’s sex.
The word rolled out of her mouth in a torrent of desire, of mindlessness.
The word marked her. Changed her.
She didn’t think anything, couldn’t think anything. She was that word, the Artist’s.
“Oh, yes you are.” The Artist’s very voice reverberated all over Felicia’s body. “And you should worship me.”
It was a suggestion, it was a command, it was a basic biological need, it was her nature.
Felicia leaned towards the Artist’s moist, welcoming sex and she obeyed the command.
Just like the slave she was.