the second part of the story up.
The alarm rang.
The figure, sleeping in the bed set at the centre of this dark room, rolled over groaning and hit the snooze button for the third time. The room fell into silence once again.
Five minutes later the annoying buzzer sound went off again.
This time the figure dragged himself out from under the light sheet that was covering him. He turned off the alarm and stood up naked. He pulled on a pair of boxers and baggy shorts and shuffled over to the window and peered through the blinds down at the beach at the bottom of the valley. It was late morning and therefore the beach was packed with people.
The room was in a state of organized chaos, which means, that to anyone that walks into the room it will look like a complete mess, with clothes covering most flat surfaces, shoes left on the floor and empty beer cans and plates surrounding the computer’s screen and keyboard. A small desk in the corner is covered with drawing pads, pencils and markers, and scraps of paper torn out of some other source. But the owner of the room knows exactly where everything is without having to look for it for more than two seconds.
The walls are covered in drawings. There is not an area of wall without at least one sketch. The total effect is of being inside a comic artist mind. Pictures merge into one another and sometimes over lap, so you could be looking at a detailed drawing of a rose and then realize that it is covering half of an amazing drawing of a teenager in a hoodie, and suddenly you can not see the rose anymore.
He made his way out of his bedroom to the kitchen, stopping for a pee along the way. He poured himself a bowl of cereal and went and threw himself onto the sofa and turned on the TV. One hour later, deciding there was going to be nothing entertaining on, he got up and made his way back to his room, for long enough to put on a randomly picked t-shirt, a pair of old, torn in places running shoes, and a cap, and grab his backpack. It clinked as he threw it over his shoulders. Putting his mp3 player into his ears he walked out of the house.
His bike was leaning against the gate surrounding the small area of garden around the house. He unlocked the padlock wrapped the chain around the bike and took off.
He rode down to a section of the sea shore not invaded by tourists. In fact it was always empty as the only way to get to it, besides swimming three hundred meters, was to jump down a story and a half of sheer wall, and even then one would risk rolling down another two stories of steep uneven, unfriendly, rocky terrain before reaching the small stretch of rocky shore.
He climbed off his bike and chained it to a lamp post. He climbed down the wall by lowering himself hanging on his fingers and let himself fall the last few meters, landing steadying himself against the wall. He made his way down the ‘cliff’ along a path he had used many times before. Reaching the bottom he walked on to a point of flat wall. He threw down his backpack and pulled of his t-shirt. He leaned forward, opened his bag and pulled out the many spray cans and placed them against the wall out of the sun. He then pulled out a filtered gas mask and took of his cap long enough to pull it over his nose and mouth.
He had been working on this wall since the summer began. It was the largest wall he had worked on, and he was proud of the way it was turning out. Then looking up at the wall, he sighed, reached up and started spraying.
---to be continued---