The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Three-

Location: Central

Changing the oil in ugly cars is never as much fun as changing the oil in hot cars. Maybe because it's a tedious task that doesn't seem worth the time if I'm not making some enjoyment off of it as well as a few pennies, and maybe it's because it involves getting underneath a vehicle. A vehicle that is usually very low to the ground. 

It isn't as bad with Femi keeping me company, though. She sits at the edge of my foam work mat with both legs tucked up underneath her like she's praying. She appears serene, despite the annoying, orchestral music that blasts on my tiny electric radio even louder than it did yesterday. 

Femi's music is annoying at best, and infuriating at worst. It doesn't help my frustration.

"Femi, turn that down!"

The sound disappears completely, and her face appears at the edge of the car. She seems to be scowling at me, but her face never holds much expression, so I'm not sure.

"Sorry."

She backs up and the music comes back on, only a hair quieter than it was a minute ago.

I groan. "Please, Femi."

The music doesn't get any quieter, but she does crawl back to the edge of the truck.

"I said I was sorry."

She nods faintly, looking away. She's gotten like that lately. She doesn't look me in the eye when I talk to her, she doesn't jump every time that she hears her name. She's actually become pretty normal.

"Femi."

Her gray eyes run over me almost tiredly, like it's too hard hearing that word. Like it drains her of life.

Please. 

I shudder. That voice again. The one that infiltrated my mind when I read the words on her arm.

My name is Femi. It means love me. Love me. 

She lies down onto her belly on the cement, watching me. I can almost guarantee that she heard the voice too. She seems to be about as disturbed as I feel.

"It's okay," I whisper, picking my wrench back up, "you're okay." Whether to her or to me, I'm not sure. We both could use the reassurance.

She shivers, yanking the sleeves of my hoodie down to her wrists.

It embarrasses me that we can wear the same clothes. Those ones that I was measured for? They fit her fine. The pants might be a little bit tight in the hips, but they're actually usable. 

I get back to removing the oil filter. It's a tense and dirty work, since my drip pan is a good two feet from where the oil will soon fall, and once I get this last nut removed, the filter will just pop off and oil will go everywhere.

"Femi, can you hand me that pan?"

She moves closer to me so that she can scoot the drip pan into position.

"Thanks."

She goes back to her original place and lies back down.

A new orchestral song comes on, prettier than the last, with long pauses and soft notes. Definitely not the Turkish March, thank God. 

Then, along with the flowing notes, comes the flowing oil. I release the last bolt and slide the filter away, allowing the thick liquid to pour into the pan. A few drops splatter my clothes, and a couple hit my face.