graffiti - z.m.

{ 10 }

[nora’s pov]

He didn’t really say anything as he looked briefly around before opening the little black door to the brick building he lived in. The facade and the door were both stained with graffiti which honestly didn’t surprise me at all - neither did it surprise me that the entire stairway of the construction was dark and narrow. The windows of the facade had been dirty and smashed in some places. It smelled like dust, alcohol, and graffiti paint in here; it looked absolutely disgusting with the icy cold light from a flickering lamp, whose dirty glass lamp shade had a piece cracked off. Cigarette studs and empty bottles floated in the corners of each floor and I was wrinkling my nose the entire climb following closely behind Zayn. How could anyone live here? I could hear loud party music coming from the neighbor building maybe, yelling from a door we passed, and in the very top of the building Zayn finally paused and with practise opened the door with his key - doing so easily even in the darkness. He looked over his shoulder at me with a gaze of puzzlement I couldn’t quite understand; there was something hidden in the beautiful hazel eyes - some glittering thought I had no idea what contained which was kept trapped as his very own secret. Then with a inhale he pushed the door open and stepped in.

It wasn’t that big and it wasn’t that light and it wasn’t that clean but it was definitely better than the state of which the stairway had been in.

My eyes sought in through the darkness till Zayn turned on a little lamp which stood on a wooden box which had been turned upside down and was now used as primitive table in the entrance. A few newspapers lay scattered in the corner along with some different spraying cans and shoes - and a fix bike with absolutely minimum equipment stood against the wall. He let the bag drop to the floor while I stood back tripping on my sore feet, which felt incredibly disgusting after having just climbed that staircase with bare feet. I sure was going to take one - if not several - foot baths using so much of that Italian bath salt that Vera probably had to go and fetch me some more from the little speciality shop in Soho.

I could see Zayn turn on more lights further into the room and soon his voice, which was now totally drained from the softness spoke loudly; “you coming or what?” His words made me jump and I darted forward till I was in the little living room that was connected with the equally tiny kitchen at the other end of the room. Two windows - clean ones - were facing out towards the street; I could just make out the dark shapes being of the rusty fire escape which I had noticed from the street as well. The wall facing towards the street was covered with - art - that was all it could be called. I almost lost my breath looking over the strange patterns that tangled up in beautiful creatures and symbols, which were all made from graffiti. But it would be a shame to merely call it that; this was definitely art. I could just make out small lines which had been scribbled across the wall here and there but I stood too far away to read them.

Opposite the kitchen at the wall in the end at the entrance where I stood; was a sofa placed up against the wall. It seemed like someone - probably Zayn - had been sleeping in it not long ago as a mess of a few pillows and a blanket was piled there. It looked pretty worn and even just from here I could spot several burn holes probably made with the ember from a cigarette.

Before I could look further around this first room with the art covered walls and study the posters, the boyish objects which lay around the place or even ask a question about the place; Zayn interrupted my thoughts from the kitchen as he grabbed something from the little fridge, “you want something to drink? I can’t offer you diet coke or water bottled from fucking Norway though.” He looked over his shoulder and back at me; I dared to step further into the room and tiptoed over the floor - making sure not to step on any of his belongings which lay scattered around though it was mostly clothes.

“Ehm whatever you are getting is fine,” I couldn’t stop feeling a little unsure of that sarcastic tone in his voice. He had almost flinched at the mentioning of ‘fucking Norway’ - I had almost dared to ask him in a sassy tone if he meant the Norwegian water brand ‘VOSS’ but had kept my mouth shut.