Graffiti King

James was just a normal person, every day was the same, he caught the same train and went to university the same. Until one specific day, the same was different, that day he became someone else, someone he had abandoned years ago, he became himself.


2. Prologue

   Sometimes people need to do something that’s wild, dangerous, probably stupid, and sometimes something completely illegal. There are many reasons for why they wish to do it, whether it be because of peer pressure, or maybe simply the exhilarating thrill, or rarely sometimes it's about sending a message. There’s also one other reason, simply, as an escape. To escape from their worries and problems, from the suffocating regularity of their daily life, and feel alive again.

   And that was the reason why the figure was here tonight, he stood tall, the street lights casting his shadow over the train station. It was difficult to identify the figure, for his face was covered beneath the shadow of the hood from his oversized windbreaker, and a pale white mask covered his nose and mouth. His legs sported black tracksuit pants, skinny to the point that it didn’t match his oversized jacket. His fingers were encased in black gloves, which were loosely clutching multiple metallic cylinders. His tools for the night. The rest of them could be found within his backpack that was slung over his shoulder, tightly pressed against his back to prevent bouncing so that it made it easier to run. His whole outfit was reminiscent of the urban street wear that was trending with the teenagers of the city. 

   The figure crouched low on the fence, looking left and right to make sure the coast was clear, before dropping silently onto the tracks. His bright red high-tops glinted softly in the lights, the only contrast to the rest of his clothes. He began to run quietly, dashing from shadow to shadow, avoiding the light as much as he could as he made his way down the tracks towards the platform. As he neared his destination, he began to slowly get his spray cans ready. He knew exactly where his art was going to be, he had scouted out the place many times before during the day. The wall that lay opposite the middle of the main platform, the place where this art would catch the most attention. It was a blank wall, with nothing on it, plain, clean, and quite boring. The artist approached the wall silently, eyes glinting as he saw the wall, and although his mouth was covered in a mask, it was clear that a sly cheeky grin was hidden behind it as he saw his blank canvas. 

   And so the artist got to work, he didn’t have much time to do his work, as the station would soon begin to bring in the early birds. This was the only time the station was the emptiest, the period of time after the last train of the previous day and before the first train of the new day. Yet that didn’t mean the place was completely devoid of life, overnight workers and station staff still lingered nearby, most too sleep deprived to notice that their bleak station was about to have a makeover. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t out of risk, he still had to be careful, he was vandalising at one of the most open areas of the station. And all they needed to do to catch him red-handed, was to look.

   The artist paused, and from his pocket he withdrew a neatly folded paper, carefully opening it up he stared at its contents, before he continued his work. His heart hammered within his chest as he felt the exhilaration of his risky crime. He longed to rush the art, to quickly finish and leave the place, but rushing meant mistakes, and if that happened, then all his effort and risk would have been a waste. So instead he patiently kept at it, carefully ensuring there weren’t any flaws.

   After what seemed like years the artist finally stepped back, taking a moment to appreciate the final result of his hard work, even in the low light he could see its greatness and he sighed in satisfaction, it was difficult to create art in such darkness, especially with no clue of how the colour would look. And he wondered how long his masterpiece would last before the station staff had it destroyed. He left a small sign off on the bottom, etched in white, two letters, AJ. And then with that the artist nodded, pleased with himself, and packed his tools away into the bag. And with a final glance the figure was gone, as quickly as he had come, and the only trace that he had ever been there was the quickly drying art left upon the wall.


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