Graffiti

Crumbled brick and chipped mortar littered the ground of the library and mazed through the sodden books and shelves that were now turned to shrapnel. Vanilla, and sweet grass perfumed the air along with the musk of dirt and gunpowder. The library used to be a refuge for Nero when he was a boy. Now, it was a refuge again, and a makeshift hideout in his attempt to survive. He wasn’t a soldier; he was different, and his strengths weren’t of the physical type. He had a mind that many would envy, however, others saw him as damaged.

The crackling of distant guns was barely audible over the cascading rain that collided with the rusted tin paneling. There was little left in the town to keep safe from the weather or enemy troops straggling through. What remained of the roof of the library did little to keep the rain out. Newly formed waterfalls drained from the upper levels and splashed against the leaning and semi empty shelves that were left. Few areas in the building were unaffected by the battle that shattered the town. A whole side of the building was gone, and the jagged piles of brick were the only reason he was able to climb inside. Nero’s boots crunched the small fragments of man-made stone and the pieces scattered away from his feet with each step.

Abandoned. Left to fend for himself in the chaos and ruin. The weight of solitude began to push on his shoulders and forced him to sit on a pile of brick. He took a quick inventory of the things he grabbed from his house before the battle ensued and his home was leveled along with many others. He had a camelback bladder, a hunting knife, a small mirror, a wool sweater, socks, and a rain jacket. He also managed to grab a box of protein bars, a few apples, jerky sticks, and gauze, which he would end up using right away.

Next, he needed to figure out how bad his injuries were. When the blast hit his house, all the windows shattered, and he wasn’t clear of the shards that flew towards him. He had only looked back for a moment when a piece of glass ricocheted towards him, slicing his face open. Small stinging shards also embedded in the back of his calf, but he was less concerned about those. The warm blood that was once dripping down his face crusted, and the rain he could only imagine, diluted it enough to run down his neck and shirt.

He pulled out the small mirror from the inner pocket of his pack and held it before his face. The cut didn’t hurt, but there was clear damage done as the incision like slice started just below his cheek bone and carried over into his hair and to the top of his ear. He gently touched the damaged flesh. No more blood came out, but it was sore, and he had no way to clean it. After staring at it for a few moments, he rested his hand on his leg: feeling defeated. He began to bounce his leg in anxiety. A soft rustle emanated from the rafters above him.

High in the exposed supports for the building, a figure shook in the dark. As the animal’s body quaked, a feather drifted down. The cream colored and black speckled feather cascaded over the bookshelves and narrowly missed one of the streams of water. Nero watched it fall, long enough to see it disappear behind a tower of soaked books.

Looking back to the ceiling, he noticed that his mirror casted a reflection that illuminated the heavily shaded corner. With this guided ray of light, he could make out the shape of an owl. Trying to hold the spotlight steady, he saw the bird following the jittering light. A soft coo emanated from the bird, and it stretched its wings to show its soft array of color. The opaque down on the creature’s chest was littered with small black dots that loosely resembled music notes on a stained page. Its wings were painted like burned logs that were left out of the flame. The dark brown and occasional rust tint almost reflected the light of the mirror. The owl now grew bored of the light and faced Nero. Its face was outlined black with the shape of a heart.

Nero’s breath caught in his throat, and he whispered, “Beautiful.”

The owl expanded its wings and stepped from the beam that was its temporary perch and glided down to rest on top of one of the shelves. The owl’s movement seemed fluid, until it tried to land. In the moment of rest, Nero saw that the owl’s leg was broken. The irregular angle of its leg made Nero feel guilty. His wounds weren’t fatal, but to this owl, it would be. He had no way to help, and the sad fact made his chest feel heavier than it already was.

The rain finally ceased, and Nero collected what padding he could to make a small area to sleep on. The owl stayed on its perch and watched him the whole time and made only slight movements to keep Nero in its eyesight.

After multiple uttered swear words, and trying to remain quiet to avoid attention, Nero had finally collected enough to make himself comfortable for a few hours of rest and assemble a plan. It was hard to focus, he knew there was a good chance that he wouldn’t survive the night, regardless of if he went to the woods or stayed in the library. The chances of troops coming through his small town again were great, but until he could figure out what to do, he was better off staying put.

Night came quickly, and the temperature dropped at the same rate as the sun. Even though it had been hidden behind the clouds for a good portion of the day, the grays that engulfed the land turned to fog, and soon his breath loomed like the hanging clouds in the valley. Soon, everything was covered in a thick layer of frost, and the sky was clear enough to see the stars.

The broken roof of the library was patched with small sections of the sky. The thousands of stars that Nero could see through the beams glimmered the same as the frost that crawled up the walls. It reminded him of fireflies, or maybe holes punched in a black canvas held up to the sun. He thought of camping, hiking, or just about exploring the overall land. There was a cave a few miles away, tucked into a crevasse of rock, and he had stopped there many times to rest when he was out backpacking. He would have to make the trip as soon as the sun was up. That was his best chance at missing the war efforts and seeking safety at this point. Nero pulled his clothes tight to his body, and then looked towards where the owl was perched. He thought it was still there, at least he hoped. It was a comfort to know there was something nearby. He adjusted on the padding he laid in the corner and wished he could start a fire. The cold crept down the back of his neck and settled between his shoulders. His eyes wandered around the darkened room one more time before he drifted off to sleep.

†

A screech and a pop echoed in the library and jolted Nero awake just in time to see the silhouette of the owl escape through the broken-down wall. The sun was beginning to rise and faint watercolors were pressing over the sky and every shape was a blur. Nero blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to find clarity. Crunching of gravel and sliding of ice underfoot crept through the isle next to where Nero was laying. Someone was there.

Nero had left his hunting knife in the outside pocket of his pack, and he reached for it with as much caution as possible. The thud of footprints drew closer and were about to round the shelving. Nero stayed still and pulled his knife to his chest. He rested the six-inch blade against his jacket, waiting for the exposure of the newcomer.

Silence. Nothing but the faint hum of his lungs taking in air could be heard. Nero breathed into his own coat to avoid the escaping heat to give away his spot. The newcomer didn’t have the same concern, as Nero saw a plume of vapors escape between two rows of books. He scanned the bindings and fought his own vision to focus. He saw eyes, staring at him. Then a barrel of a rifle peaked through, pointed right at him. He rolled off his makeshift bed just as the pop hit the rocks behind where Nero’s head was. It was time to run.

His legs and feet weren’t fully functional, and the stiff muscles were on the verge of cramping from the stagnant position he was in and the cold. He forced them to move, and he dodged behind a shelf just as a second shot rang out, shattering an icicle to his right. He shrunk, making himself low enough to be covered by a row of books. He hoped it would be enough to stop a bullet, but he doubted it. The soldier that was now in the library with him was on the hunt, and he stomped after Nero. It was clear he wasn’t concerned about being quiet as he kicked bricks and yelled in a language Nero wasn’t familiar with.

Nero continued down the bookshelf, thinking if he could lap back to his pack, he could grab it and make it to the woods. He could lose the soldier in there. But he was not so lucky. The stomping stopped and Nero heard a bullet being chambered behind him. Instead of turning to look, he ran back towards his pack. Mistake.

The gun fired, and a hot pressure grazed the outside of his left side. It wasn’t enough for him to fall, but he did stumble a moment, and slowed enough to hear another ‘click’. His new enemy was out of bullets. Nero reached his pack, he swung it to his shoulder and turned right as the soldier had reached him, his own knife in hand. Nero turned and felt his opponents knife dig into his bag. Thinking the weapon may be lodged enough into his supplies, he turned back around with his own knife up, ready to fight. The blade made contact and slid into the abdomen of the soldier. Without much hesitation, the man punched Nero in the already split cheek and this sent him to the floor. He scrambled away, knowing he only had a moment to defend himself. To his left, he saw a rusted pipe laying among the rocks. He grabbed it and got to his feet. The soldier advanced and Nero swung. The pipe slammed into the man’s side, but it did little to faze him. He kept coming. Nero swung again but this time connected with the man’s cheek, ripping the meat open. Nero’s face was warm now. He knew the punch he received had split his cheek open again but he also felt like some of the sprayed warmth came from the soldier’s blood. The soldier stepped away now, knife still stuck in his side.

Both men stared at each other, the feeling of the battle was over, but Nero still held the pipe like a bat, in case he needed it one final time. The soldier smiled and removed the blade. Blood soaked his jacket and began to pour down his leg. He fell to his knees, then to the floor. His body was barely cushioned by the confetti of books that littered the area.

Before Nero could react, he heard clapping. He turned and saw five men standing on the other side of the broken wall. One had a rifle loosely pointed at him, one was still clapping, and the remaining three were just watching the battle.

The man clapping stopped, “I wish I could say that was impressive, but let’s face it, he is only down because you stuck him. The pipe was a nice touch though.”

One of the other men stepped over the lowest part of the wall. He eyed Nero but didn’t stop until he was a few feet from him. “What are you still doing here in this town?”

Nero wasn’t sure if he should answer. But figured conversation was better than taking his chances fighting again. He knew he wasn’t really a fighter. “I was just leaving. Got delayed.” He gestured to the man lying face down on the floor. His blood steamed slightly as it cooled and began to freeze to the floor.

The man stared at Nero a moment. Then a small laugh came out as a rush of breath from his nose. “Yeah. Well, you are coming with us now. Any chance we have at winning this war will rely on resourcefulness and quick thought. We will find a place for you.” The man turned and walked back out of the building, then turned and waited for Nero to follow.

He hesitated. He looked around the library and felt guilt that the owl was gone, and he hoped it would find some way to survive. He walked over to the feathers the owl had left and picked up the biggest one. He slid off his pack and dislodged the knife. Conveniently, it had stuck into an apple that Nero could only imagine was frozen almost solid. He then placed the blade in an outer pocket. Then he went to grab his own.

After collecting his things, he followed the men who were waiting for him. The man who was originally pointing the gun at him laughed and grabbed Nero’s chin. He looked over his face. “You look like hell. Like someone painted all over you.”

Nero didn’t say anything. He thought back to the owl and how it looked like it also had been painted. He grabbed a chunk of ice from a nearby icicle to hold to his cheek. He could feel the sore set back in and the blood was oozing from the cut. The ice cooled the wound.

The man handed Nero a wound-up pack of gauze. “Welcome to the crew, Graffiti.”