Notorious

6. Get the fuck out of my kingdom.

• Mackenzie •
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I have a soft spot for art. But I don't like anyone knowing I have a soft spot at all.

When I was four years old, I held a paintbrush for the first time and dipped it in auburn paint, moving it across the canvas like I'd been doing it for years. Ever since then, the only times I put my paintbrush down are when I have to face reality and retreat from the solid fantasy of art that I yearn to find my way back to all the time.

Now, I'm seventeen, and I'm dipping my paintbrush in auburn paint as I move it across the canvas since I've been doing it for years. I never have a sketch planned or anything specific in mind when I feel like painting. Mostly, I just hope for the best and end up producing whatever I can from abstract art to surrealism... I always try to find a way to look at my end-result and say: 'Okay. I don't think I've seen anything like this before.'

I hear the door slam downstairs and voices erupt from the bottom of the staircase. I take it as my cue to get up and shut my own door, then turn the volume up as I listen to Another Brick in the Wall Part One by Pink Floyd. At that, I succumb to the subtle relaxation of what I like to think is my own nature and proceed to paint.

To my deepest disdain, I don't manage to relax for long and instead end up close to perplexed when my room door opens and I find the last person I would've wanted to see after a pretty hectic Monday.

"Would you look at that," Chase muses. "I think I should head back and warn Jessie that his brother's quite a girl."

"What makes you say that?" I ask, deliberately appearing to be unbothered by his presence as I resume painting.

"I've never seen you look more like a lass before," he points out, seemingly honest.

I pause to think. I'm wearing gym shorts and an oversized grey T shirt I'd stolen from my brother, Mike, and my hair's left in thick, loose waves as opposed to the usual thick-rimmed beanie I'd usually shove over my head.

"I take that as an insult," I reply.

I hear his footsteps near me and I just know he's looking around my room. Scrutinising. And if I have to be completely honest, it's getting on my last nerve, but I don't want to show him that. He assumes his mere presence bothers me, and he's so right. But it'd only benefit him even more if I give him the reaction he wants and the satisfaction of achieving his goal.

"I didn't know you paint," he says. I ignore him. "Unless... is it really paint or is this just another collection of undercover food-colouring you have stored for me?"

"I'd never let my mind wander that far, so much as to give you that much importance, Chase, be sure of that."

"How unfortunate must I be."

Silence. And I still refuse to look at him.

"Isn't Jessie waiting for you downstairs or something?" I ask casually, dipping the edge of my paintbrush with water.

"Yes," he responded. "But I suppose I have a rather significant task to execute."

"Which is?" I question, frowning at my canvas.

When I find that he's gone silent for a few moments, I turn around slowly, feeling exceptionally awkward.

"What are you doing?" I ask, watching him stare at my heap of completed paintings by the bedside.

He glances at me then holds out his hand. I scowl at it and look up at him, genuinely puzzled. When I don't react, he holds my hand and gently pulls me to my feet.