19. Therapy
NINETEEN
THERAPY
TRUTH BE TOLD: KEVIN GATES
KILLIAN
I 've been having such a hard time lately coming to terms with the way shit is going down. Having to kill my own father. Having to help the others kill theirs. Accepting Five into our family and into Cali's life and heart. Painting used to be my escape, my therapy, but it's been a minute since I've been able to get out and do anything.
Today I finally took the initiative and drove to my spot to admire all my graffiti and murals I've done, and it instantly made it easier to breathe.
So I started painting again.
The delicious scent of paint fills my senses—a sharp, almost stinging aroma that brings tears to my eyes and a tingle in my nose. Yet, I find it intoxicating and fucking addictive. Within the familiar confines of the tunnel that holds much of my work, I begin a new piece, momentarily ignoring the defaced "Cali" mural from a few months ago. I spray until the red can is empty, the rhythmic hiss a counterpoint to the blinding sun.
Winter has almost entirely been put behind us, taking the cold along with it. Sunlight streams into the dark space, a refreshing breeze whispering through the cracks in the concrete. I inhale deeply, then exhale, catching a whiff of burnt crack fresh in the air. The smell is nauseating, forcing me to hold my breath until it dissipates.
It's the fucking price of working in this neighborhood, I guess.
I remember my last visit here, Cali watching unseen while I was fucking some whore wishing it was her. Now I don't have to wish. I get to fuck her anytime I want.
The unsettling feeling of being watched looms again, echoing the last time. But this time, I know it's not Cali; she's with Dom, trailing Ash's father, putting the final details of his murder into place. I push the unease aside, focusing on the red petals I've painted onto the rose, resisting the urge to succumb to paranoia and look behind me.
Someone is here, but I don’t fucking care. In a few short weeks, our problems will be resolved—our fathers will be gone, taking their reign of terror and fear with them.
For now, I find solace in my form of therapy: painting.
Graffiti, in my view, is a neglected art form. The city is covered with stunning murals, yet we're relegated to bridges, tunnels, abandoned buildings—any space we can claim. But at least our work is visible to all, even if it lacks the recognition of something like a Picasso.
As I finish, the can of crimson paint lies discarded, a testament to my latest creation. The rose, a symbol of both beauty and violence, blooms starkly against the grimy concrete. I step back, surveying my work, the satisfaction a dull ache in my chest. It's not Picasso, not even fucking close, but it's mine. It's a defiant splash of color in a world drowning in grey.
The breeze picks up, carrying with it the scent of exhaust fumes and something else—something metallic, something sharp. My stomach clenches. It's the smell of blood. Not fresh, but old, clinging to the air like a persistent memory. I ignore it, focusing instead on the next can—a vibrant turquoise, perfect for the ocean I plan to paint crashing against the rose's thorns. The ocean of our escape.
The footsteps behind me are softer this time, almost silent. I don't turn. I know who it is by the scent of his cologne. Ash. He's here to check on me to make sure I'm still on track. He doesn't need to speak; the unspoken understanding hangs heavy between us, a silent pact forged in blood and betrayal. We're both playing a dangerous game, a game with impossibly high stakes. But we're winning. Soon, the game will be over. Soon, the city will be ours. And the only thing left to paint will be our future, a future washed clean of the shadows of our fathers. A future painted in vibrant, untainted colors.
"I swear, every piece gets even better," he says, standing beside me, admiring my finished piece.
"Haven't you ever heard practice makes perfect?" I ask, laughing, wiping the paint from my hands onto my jeans.
He lights two cigarettes, handing one to me, and the nicotine rushes to my head like an intense high, I'll admit, making me a little wobbly on my feet. I grab Ash's shoulder for support as my sight blurs and colors pop like a kaleidoscope.
"Woah," I mutter, feeling sluggish all of a sudden. "What the fuck kind of cigarette is this?"
Ash, smirking as he puffs away on his as normally as can be, winks, scooping my bag up off the ground and slinging it over his shoulder.
"The kind laced with that dust, bro," he laughs as he helps guide me away from my masterpiece, toward the end of the tunnel that I came in through.
"Bro, you could've at least warned me," I mumble, slurring my words.
I was never a fan of angel dust; downers are more my thing, but the different high feels good, loosening me up in ways I've felt so stuck in lately.
The tunnel’s mouth yawns before us, a dark, promising escape. The city sounds—a distant siren, the rumble of traffic—seem muffled as if filtered through a thick fog. My legs feel like lead, each step a monumental effort. Ash’s arm is a surprisingly steady support, his grip firm but gentle. He’s silent, letting the drug do its work, letting the haze settle over me.
We emerge into the harsh sunlight, the brightness a painful difference to the tunnel’s gloom. The world swims, colors bleeding into one another in what looks like another dizzying kaleidoscope. I squint, trying to focus, but the images remain blurry and indistinct. He guides me towards my car parked a few blocks away; its paint is glassy and perfect, the complete opposite of our own lives.
He opens the passenger door, and I slump into the seat, the warm leather surprisingly comfortable. The world tilts, then rights itself, but the dizziness lingers. Ash slides behind the wheel, the engine sputtering to life. As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of my graffiti in the rearview mirror through the iron bars of the tunnel—the rose, vibrant and defiant, a stark contrast to the grey city fading behind us. It’s a beautiful piece, I think, even if I can barely see it clearly.
The ride is a blur of sensations—the jarring bumps in the road, the smell of stale cigarettes and exhaust fumes, the rhythmic thump of the music on the radio. I drift in and out of consciousness, the angel dust weaving a strange, hallucinatory tapestry of images and emotions. Cali’s face flashes before my eyes, then Five's, Dom's, and Ash’s, then my father’s—a grotesque, distorted caricature of the man I’ve always known.
The car slows, pulling up to a familiar building—our apartment, a dilapidated complex on the edge of town. Ash turns to me, his face etched with a mixture of concern and something else—something like pity.
“We’re here,” he says softly, his voice barely a whisper.
He helps me out of the car, his hand steadying me as my legs threaten to buckle. The air is thick with the smell of decay and desperation, a fitting reminder of what's to come.
We climb the creaking stairs, each step an agonizing effort. The door to the apartment is unlocked, and Ash pushes me inside. The room is dark and sparsely furnished, which I've never realized before—the only light coming from a flickering bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling—the neon lights for once aren't on. He lays me down on the couch, pulling a thin blanket over me.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against the chaos swirling in my mind. “Everything will be alright. By the time you wake up, everyone will be home.”
I close my eyes, the last vestiges of the angel dust fading into a deep, dreamless sleep. The city, our fathers, Cali, Dom, Five, and Ash—they all recede into the background, replaced by a quiet, almost peaceful darkness. For now, at least, the game is over. The painting is finished. And I am finally free... in a sense.