No Academy (boyxboy)

Chapt. 11

There was other items that filled the safe, such as some assorted usb drives and coins. What also stood out was a book, a note book. The backing was strong and dark and the paper looked thick, it was stacked on top of another book. Curiously, Waylon bit the bullet and took a look at them. Although he had a habit of breaking the boundaries of his...roommate, tormentor, employer? He knew better than to read someone's journal, any teen movie could tell you that much. The book underneath was more interesting to him, it was a book on art history. The book focussed on the life of Amedeo Modigliani- the Italian painter. His work was haunting.

Waylon noticed the influence in Harlow's work. Those gaunt, androgynous faces that gazed at the viewer. He noticed little tabs placed within different chapters of the book. As he turned to each page it highlighted aspects of his life and work, at least the aspects that stood out to Harlow. How his paintings focussed on his lover at the time, his poverty and untimely death. There was no notes, so Waylon couldn't dissect what made this resonate with Harlow. It made the mystery surrounding him grow deeper.

Time passed as he turned those pages and got lost in the writings, the turbulent and short life of Amedeo was at points stomach churning and grotesque. His relations with prostitute and dependency with alcohol and drugs, struck a cord with the dark haired boy scanning the pages. He wondered what a life like that would lead, how it seemed every immortalised artist suffered in life and death. A sense of shame in his gut. He had no outlet, no passion, in a selfish way he felt jealous. How come these people, tragic and tormented got to leave behind a legacy of art and culture? Why couldn't he be gifted with a talent to churn his dependencies into—instead he was both a failure and talentless? It was bleak, that all his suffering was for nothing. That there was no other thing immortalising him, apart from the ways in which he failed himself. No art, no music, no writings. Just the thoughts and words of others, cruel rumours. The book closed with a resounding thud, thick pages pushing against each other. Waylon put everything back and closed the safe.

He didn't want to read on nor consider delving into the mysterious dark journal of Harlow's. Instead he locked the safe back up and went to open the secondary one, whichever was in there he hoped it wasn't as sentimental nor personal as the previous. The padlock on the safe seemed more worn from fingerprints, the numbers turned grey from tampering. This safe was clearly used more often, perhaps day to day—noticeably heavier than the previous. For a second Waylon considered leaving it be, feeling himself overstepping already. However, he reminded himself that Harlow was still a raging asshole. Clicking open the safe, for a moment Waylon was left speechless.

It was money, a lot of money.

Bands of cash stacked and shoved into the locker, far more than anyone in the facility could get there hands on. Was this how much Harlow was making from selling? He couldn't believe it, it hadn't been that long so there was no way he made this much in just over a month. Harlow must've been doing this far before he dragged Waylon into it. A feeling of dread settled in his stomach. He shouldn't mess with this, he couldn't mess with it. How true were Kian's words? About Harlow's background? This was so much money. It's not like the safes were small, and this thing was practically bursting. Waylon needed to get out of this business and fast, just what sort of people would he be getting involved with? Images flashed back through his mind, of when he was taken to court. Imagining himself behind bars again, this time for something far worse than his own dependency. He knew Harlow was a criminal, a dealer, but the idea of him dragging Waylon down to this level over some cigarettes was ludicrous.

Head heavy and a sinking feeling in his gut, he hastily closed the safe and repositioned the two as if they'd never been touched. Standing from the floor he breathed deep realising they'd been shallow for a moment, making him more lightheaded than he already was. It's like that scenario, if you found a suitcase full of money would you take it yourself or turn it in? Now imagine that but you've already got a minor criminal record and the suitcase belongs to a violent criminal who's also your roommate—and you're practically the indentured servant to said roommate at this point. Really who wouldn't want that kind of luck right?