Chapter 2

My shift has come to an end. It's quarter past eleven in the evening. On Friday nights, I always take another hour, or two, in my shift. Due to this, I don't have the time to get to accept my classmates' invitations to join their parties or treats. It's not like I like parties either. I kind of don't. Also knowing that I have to work still tomorrow, I really have to sleep my tiredness off.

I've been a freelance artist since tenth grade. I started with painting pictures of my customers' pets until I decided to make my service exclusively on human portraits. That was when my inbox has gotten busy. I've even painted the mayor's family and, O boy, it was a one-of-a-kind experience. With this, I make enough money to pay our monthly rent in the apartment. I'm grateful I've found one of my God-given talents because it's helped me, Mom, and also eases up my mind most of the time. Whenever I hold a brush and splatter paints, I feel free of life's burdens.

I stand straight by a streetlamp. I fight the urge of closing my eyes while these little gusts of cold, comfortable wind seem to go against it. I've been in this exact area for at least five minutes. I wonder what's caused the taxi's delayed service.

I then open my phone and open the small website I created a year ago. There are three messages in the inbox tab, and they're all customers. Two are art commissions while the other one says 'Can I get your address?' I crinkle my brows at the message. I then reply with 'Sorry, sir, ma'am. I only work face-to-face with my clients in the art studio. You can directly message the studio to reserve your slot since it's busy on weekends.' I pocket my phone and then rub my palms rather aggressively. I just want to go home and drift off to sleep.

My mind suddenly gets out of the possession of tiredness when a honk clamors to my left. I turn in the direction and see, not the taxi I've hailed, but the barbaric guy's luxurious car. He stops the car in front of me and then rolls the shotgun seat's window down. I avert my eyes from his faint silhouette that I'm a hundred percent sure is staring right into my soul. My heart starts pounding hard again. He doesn't have to do this to freak me out. His one-time appearance in a day would already do the trick.

I find my throat dry and respiration fast right before he honks his car again, giving me more discomfort, and less sense of safety. I then decide to turn my gaze to his frame and try to find his eyes, but the surroundings aren't that lit up to be successful.

He gets out of his car, revealing his stoic facial expression, and throws his arms bent over the roof of it. He taps and taps the roof as if he's drumming to a beat and then smirks at me. He's a total creep. I have to get out of here. Maybe I can go back to the restaurant and spend the night there, which sounds absurd and commercially unethical.

I put out my phone only to find out that the driver has, unfortunately, turned down my call of service due to an emergency, as he says in his message. I sigh in great defeat. Why is the night like this? The whole half of the day rather. I cross my arms while the guy continues to annoy me with his little drumming session. "What are you here for?" I finally break the eerie silence.

"Nothing," he cheaply responds.

"Please leave. I regret kicking your leg." I'm not lying though. I have to get rid of him, so all I need is to give up and say, "I'm sorry."

"Apology denied. I'm sorry, lady."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugs. "Yeah."

Is he mad? Just got out of a rehabilitation center or something? I have to get away from him right now. He's sounding like a serial killer in the process. I'm about to traipse across the street to my right when he screeches to a halt in front of me.

He grabs my wrist, harder than he did at our first encounter I wish had never happened. "Where are you going?"

I laboriously get out of his grasp. "To avoid being killed in cold blood. I'd rather die being hit by a ten-wheeler truck than you shooting or stabbing me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Aren't you here to kill me?" I have to overplay right now. I have to get through this as flawlessly as I think I can. "You've got a butterfly knife in one of your pockets, right?"

"Oh, I see what you're doing here." His free arm encloses my waist and then pulls me against his body, his hands clenching the fabric of my uniform. "Let me ask you this one more time, lady." He brings his lips to my ears, disturbing me more. "Do you know me?"

Why does he keep on asking me if I know him? It's not like I've met him before. I'm not good at remembering faces. Have I done something bad to him? Did I scratch his car? Should I call the police now? I think I should. I really should. "I'll hit the police station if you don't stop touching me."

"Try me." He raises a brow rather arrogantly. "It would be easy for me to break out. Effortlessly."

I now know why he's been asking me if I know him. He's a person of wealth. Just by his words, besides his look and aura, I can tell he must've grown with a silver spoon in his mouth. I don't know why some people with riches act as if the world revolves around them.

He finally frees me. "Now, if you ever run into me again, you know what to do. Apologize as you're supposed to, or else you'll really get a taste of," he gently presses his thumb against my chin, "my war."

And with that, he gets in his car and then takes off. I'm left statuesquely still in my place. His war? He's so idiomatic. How old even is he? He's like two years older than me yet he acts like a decade younger — so callow.

I luckily get another taxi and reach the apartment at almost midnight. Mom is already in her bed sleeping tight. I kiss her on the forehead and pull the blanket up to her forearms. I turn up the room air conditioner and then head to my room. I bring a mug of coffee with me and start to communicate with my customers online regarding the schedule of their requests.

*****

I open my eyes to a crumpling sound. I see Mom cleaning the empty bags of chips off my table. Oh, great. I slept on the chair. Mom beams me a 'Good morning,' so I smile back. She signals me 'There's breakfast waiting' which I just nod at. After she gets out of the room, I yawn and stretch my arms to the sides. I rise to my feet and charge my phone and laptop.

Tomorrow, Mom and I will be attending her cousin's third wedding anniversary. I told her I wouldn't attend, but she was disappointed, so I agreed in the end. It's not that I don't want to go with her. It's not either because I'm not that close to other relatives. I wasn't going because Kent, my first and last ex-boyfriend, will surely be there. I've moved on. I have, but I don’t want to see his face yet. But that's impossible now.

I saunter out of the room and meet Mom at the dining table. I sit across her and shove food into my mouth. While eating, we talk about her cousin's wedding anniversary and school stuff. We also spend some time talking about what I want to take in college. I've always wanted to be a professional artist and make it into an animation studio someday.

After our talk, I clean the table and wash the dishes. I take a quick shower and tell Mom I'm heading to the art studio. I remind her of the scheduled taking in of her medicine and what to eat in the fridge for lunch since I spend the whole half of the day in the studio. I then kiss her goodbye before escaping the apartment.

I get on my bike and pedal through the busy streets. I want to have a car someday. It would lower the risk of getting hit by gigantic vehicles, or picked on, on the roads. I have to work well and am going to achieve it. Another word to cross out on my mental bucket list — 'Car.'

I turn up just right in time because the co-manager of the studio is still dusting the windowpanes. I park my bike in the bicycle shed on the side of the building and then come inside.

"Hey, sir," I greet the co-manager. "Good morning."

"Oh, Stella," he says. "Two clients messaged me you'll assist them."

"Oh, yes." I put off my backpack, my lips pursing. "Only two?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Nothing, sir. There was just this anonymous user account who I redirected to the studio's page."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Never mind it." I make a step forward. "I'll help you with the rear windows."

The co-founder beams a smile. "Well, thank you, Stella."

I nod and smile back. I proceed to the working station and then dust the studio's thick frosted glass windowpanes. After the light work, I go to the storage room and turn on the lights. While picking up stuff I'll be needing later, a face flashes before my eyes — my brother's. I shake my head and shrug off the faint hallucination. I always get them when I overuse my mind. But my subconscious is like telling something to me. Is something wrong with Sean? I wonder how my brother has been doing lately.

Anyway, as time passes by, I eventually meet the two clients in the waiting area and talk about their demands for the portraits I'm going to make. After our long session, they hand me pictures — one is of a long gone son and one of a family of three. They then talk with the co-manager and fix the pricing. Hired artists in the studio get a forty-five-percent commission from their respective works. That's why I've never regretted approaching the co-managers when I was an eleventh grader.

After a couple of hours of sketching and painting two whole canvases, I take them to the completion room and frame them with the customers' chosen wood and design. I then bring them to the waiting guests and then they gratefully bid their goodbyes. The co-manager gives me my commission and then I proceed back to the working station.

Some of my co-artists are still at their work, so I clean my spot in silence. I utter a "Great job, guys," before leaving. I go to the washroom and cleanse the splatters of paint off my skin. I also tell the co-managers that I'll never be able to come back tomorrow because of the occasion and they send me words of agreement.

And with that, I leave and head to a food park. I order my all-time favorites — cups of mashed potatoes and spicy Japanese ramen, half a dozen of fluffy rice cakes, cream soda, and a can of beer. I go to my reserved table and lay my meal on it. The food court is currently a sea of heads, so I don't have any option but to listen to the clamorous crowds and stalls. I'm halfway through my ramen when a person sits across from me. As I lift my head, my very life is shaken again — the apathetic, sadistic, moronic guy.

His pitch-black locks are fallen down his forehead, quite obscuring his thick brows. He lays his elbows on the table and then taps it arrhythmically. This beating thing annoys me so much. He locks his deep grays with mine and then parts his lips. I don't avert. Why would I? I laboriously ignore the negative energy he naturally gives off.

I then flinch and focus on my mashed potatoes instead. "Are you following me? This is stalking," I mumble.

He takes my cream soda and then has it tossed down. He licks the vanilla off his upper lip and lets out a sound of, I guess, satisfaction. Satisfaction from the drink or successfully putting me out? Both, clearly.

I've outfaced his presence throughout my meal, but when I'm about to reach for the bottle of water, he snatches it like a pickpocket he may be. Whatever. I'll just buy another one since this immature boy doesn't know what 'respect' means. I stand to my feet, put on my backpack, and then take off to a drinks stall. I buy a bottle and then ramble through the crowd, my head frequently turning back to ensure I'm not followed by that freak. I then let out a sigh of gratitude as I step out of the food court's grounds.

The freak appears beside me, his hands pocketed into his rough jeans. "Diving in the crowd to lose me, huh? Nice, but it's an ancient strategy. Always has been."

I walk at a rather fast pace. "Stop blabbering." I hasten my steps, but with the long legs he has, the possibility of outracing him is zero to none. "Why are you doing this? I've never known you in my life. Have I done something," I stop and face him, "wrong?"

"Well—"

I cut his response off by pushing him behind a building. I don't want people to think I'm related to him or whatsoever.

He sneers. "Ooh . . . Acting all aggressive, huh?"

"Can you please leave me alone and never ever show yourself to me?" I slap his imminent grasp on my wrist. I'll never let him do that again to me. No more intimidation of him nor my subjection. He needs to grow up, psychologically. "I already said I'm sorry even though it was both our faults, so please. Leave me the hell alone and I'll never bother you at any time and anyplace."

He clenches his fists and jaws and is about to utter a response, but I leave immediately, not turning back to him. I jog to my bike and then hit the road with a short-term self-idolatry in me. 'You've made it, Stella,' I mentally compliment myself. Now, I'm sure that the guy will never disturb me. I now feel safe.