Picasso's Promise

Episode 16| Rewind Time

Song above: Time Machine by Willow Smith

Overwhelmed by the walls caving in, I sat on my bed with an undeniable pain of not being able to breathe. The sight of my ceiling fan waning in and out of view, dulled by my shaky vision.

I felt like I was suffocating on my own breath. Agonized by the secret trapped inside, the words acted as chains in my throat —tightening around me the more I opened my mouth.

More than anything, I knew I could never speak about this night. What I saw, what I smelled off Picasso's clothes, and the minimal amount of remorse in his eyes as though nothing was wrong with what he wore remained engraved in my memory for an eternity. The foul odor of blood stuck to the roof of my mouth, encapsulating me in that moment of time.

Twisting to the left, I met my head to my lumpy pillow. The air in the room felt like it had evaporated, desolating my hope of a decent night into utter nothingness.

Things would never be the same.

I wanted to trust Picasso, but it was rather hard to trust a person when they were dressed in clothes drenched in someone else's blood.

After opening the door for him, I had shuffled into the wall to get away from Picasso, not wanting an inch of his body close to mine. He asked to speak to Martin, which I allowed. Though, I wouldn't accept any communication from him directed towards me.

From the bathroom, I could hear the water running.

With Picasso still in the shower, I stuck my head into my aunt's room. Partly surprised that she had stayed asleep through all the commotion, a sigh of a relief went through me when I saw her room completely empty.

"She left around nine."

I turned to the sound of the voice, seeing Martin with his back to the door of his bedroom. "I thought you heard her leave. She said goodbye to you."

"I was sleeping," I said. "Where'd she go?"

His bottom lip popped out, shrugging his shoulders. "She said something about going out earlier this week, but I wasn't really listening. Probably to her coworker's house. She lives three blocks over. Her names Mariah Jennings. She used to come over all time." Martin cracked a lopsided grin, but then paused as if unsure about his own smile. "How are you? You don't look too ok."

"I don't feel ok either. I feel I wanna punch a wall, better yet maybe a person—"

"Please, don't punch me."

"I was going to say ..." It was then when I noticed the clothes in Martin's hands, tucked to his side and folded into a neat pile. "Who's that for?"

He nodded toward the bathroom. "'Casso."

"Oh, you're giving him some of your clothes."

"No, these are his. He dropped them off earlier in the day."

"What?" I screeched, tightening my hold on the door frame. "He...he knew he needed a change of clothes?"

"Picasso's done this before." Martin said with a scoff. "He didn't start using this place as his hideaway spot just because you moved in, so don't feel flattered. He's got countless spots throughout the neighborhood on where to go when Picasso needs to lay low."

"If you're going to talk about me," bellowed a voice from within the bathroom, "then at least get the facts right."

Steam poured out from the door frame, hitting the ceiling. Picasso's head was low, not meeting my gaze when he walked out from his hot shower. Light hit the gold chain on his neck, glimmering more than the droplets of water that covered his perfect skin. There was a cross at the end of his neckless with Jesus resting in the middle of his glistening wet chest. At first sight it made me scoff, unaware at first at how loud I was until his eyes slammed to mine.

"What's funny?"

"You are," I said to Picasso. "Everything about you is a joke. Seems wrong for me to not laugh at the excuse of a man you make yourself out to be."

"Daaaaamn," Martin hollered. "You can tell she meant that shit. Said that with her chest."

"I don't need your input," Picasso declared, looking at me but saying it my cousin. His eyes softened for a split second, making me drop my gander to the floor.

I was mad, disappointed, and so many other things because of Picasso's inconsistency. Regardless though, my heart skipped a beat when the hardness in his features melted away, as though they would only for me.

For that reason, and that reason alone, I couldn't look at him any longer. To ensure my dignity would remain intact, I studied the hardwood floor as if the secret of obtaining eternal peace was placed between the lines where the pieces of wood met. Because deep within, I sensed that I couldn't find that serenity with Picasso.

"I can deal with this on my own and without an audience," Picasso noted, this time looking at Martin directly when he spoke. "Do you mind? I need to talk to Sydney."

Touching Martin's arm, I stopped him from going back to his bedroom. "I would mind, actually. I don't want to speak with you alone."

His brows raised. "You that scared of me now?"

"I don't want to be alone. There's a difference."

"It involves me," Martin chimed in with a shaky voice, "so maybe it's better that I am here."

The long drawn out sigh that came out of Picasso irked me. "I can tell her on my own."

"Looks like you don't have that choice," I said, crossing my arms over my chest and lining my back to wall. "Make it quick, too. I want to get to sleep soon so don't waste my time any more than you already have."

"I'm sorry about—"

"I didn't ask for an apology." I interrupted him. "I want an explanation on how this has anything to do with Martin."

He took a step out of the restroom, "Sydney, I have to apologize fi—"

"Get dressed," Martin instructed, handing the bundle of clothes to Picasso. I sighed, pushing off the wall and went to the living room. The two of them talked, or rather whispered to each other so softly that I couldn't decipher what they were sharing.

Whatever they told me wouldn't change how I felt, shell-shocked on the mattress in my room.

Picasso killed someone tonight and he knew he was going to, calculating his premeditated murder so far ahead that he planned out where to stash backup clothes. That was all the information I needed to know that I had to stay far away from this guy.

Taking the seat closest to the television, I reclined the chair and waited for Picasso.

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sorry for the lack of updates!
i needed to outline more of the story
midterm exams are also kicking my butt at the moment
i'm a sophomore in college
how often would you want updates?
i was thinking saturdays/sundays would be best for this book