No Resurrection | IC Drabble
Tinta Morada, or rather the building that once housed it, had reverted to a state similar to how Furia and her crew had found it. Though after her return it had been cleaned up some. The furniture that remained usable was donated, the patrolling android units kept the place clear of riffraff and cleaner than most abandoned spaces.
Though there had been traces of graffiti here and there, it started spreading after Furia scared off a younger version of herself in the alley. The building had become her early sketchbook and practice ground. In out of the way corners, glimpses into her current psychological state could be garnered. Hastily scrawled in paint pens or messily sprayed with the remnants of a nearly empty can of spray paint, questions and self-accusations glared against white walls. The things she couldn’t give voice poured out in a haze of color and chemical fumes.
Some she wrote just to get it out of herself. At times she would stumble back, once it was written, drop to the floor and stare at it, finally feeling a measure of relief. Far too often, reasonable self-preservation and censorship won out. Many of these outbursts were covered over with a wash of neutral-colored paint, splashed messily at the wall in a thick heavy coat, like a bandage covering a festering open wound. But some remained, if only because of interruption, forgetfulness, or the interference of her own overwhelming emotions.
Wandering through the halls of the upper floors, ducking into the formerly lively rooms, and peeking in the shadowy places, one could see signs of the roiling current beneath the relatively calm surface of the boss.
Given the patrols, and the parameters she set for them, Furia felt her former abode a safe place for this type of activity, at least while she was reacquainting herself with a long laid-aside skill.
Now, pedestrians were more likely to discover these unsigned outbursts in alleys only frequented by the likes of Shitrat, a regular visitor at Eli’s garage. But they were far more likely to notice the elaborate pieces cropping up all over town--the silly, the dark, the playful, and the blunt pieces that she poured time and effort into just to quiet the savage sea within her--all ‘signed’ with a small purple spider or the stylized signature, reading Araña.
