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  A tear slid down his cheek, and I lowered my hand. “You don’t understand, Pop.” He said it in a whisper, then turned and strode down the hall to his room. I sat back down and dropped my head into my hand. I wasn’t sure where I went wrong.

  OTHER THAN A FEW curt questions and answers, we didn’t talk during breakfast the next morning. Jeffrey seemed distracted and troubled, and I didn’t want to intrude. I felt that he had finally come to his senses and was working up the courage to apologize to me and present some kind of plan for turning his life around. So I gave him his space.

  I was shocked, then, when he grabbed his keys and walked toward the front door. “Where are you going?” I asked, none too gently.

  “I have work to do, Pop. Please let me be.”

  I hurried over to him and grabbed his arm. “You are not leaving this apartment.” I held tight. “What work could you possibly have to do? Tagging some neighborhood dogs? Maybe getting arrested again, so I have to leave my home and walk these cursed streets?”

  He pulled his arm free and turned to face me. “That’s the problem, Pop. You never leave the apartment. Ever since mom was hit by the car, all you’ve done is sit in your chair and look at old photos and read old books.” He was animated, and his desperate tone didn’t anger me so much as make me sad. “I’ve begged you to come with me, somewhere, anywhere. Hell, Pop, you won’t even go on the balcony.”

  I dropped my arm back down to my side. I wanted to ask what this had to do with his delinquency. I wanted to ask why he was attacking me when he was the criminal, but he looked so concerned for me that I felt I had to respond. “There is nothing outside for me. You’ve seen how the city has changed. There is no beauty left. It’s all gray and drab. Why would I voluntarily walk through such a depressing world? Why would you want that?”

  He shook his head. “I get it, Pop — clouds, concrete, smog. You’ve said the same things for years, but there is beauty in the city.” He walked to the door, opened it, and then turned back to me. “Mom saw it.” He closed the door behind him. I stood for a long while, unmoving, staring at the door. At some point I went to bed.

  A DAY LATER I had unlocked the front door and considered going out to look for him, but I never opened it. It would have been hopeless searching amongst that sprawling compost heap.

  I phoned the police on the second day and asked for help, but they already knew that Jeffrey was wandering the city. They called me back the next day. There was no bail this time.

  I asked what happened, and the policeman curtly told me to just check the news. I did. Jeffrey had painted non-stop since he left our apartment, in a manic attempt to spread his tags across the city. The judge who originally allowed him bail was being pilloried by the press for releasing the infamous “Nanotagger” the first time. It wouldn’t happen again.

  I hadn’t watched or read the news, so I didn’t realize that Jeffrey had generated worldwide attention. To some he was the new Banksy. To others he was a new breed of criminal, permanently vandalizing the city. To me, he was my son, my misguided, damaged, motherless son.

  I ignored Jeffrey’s calls. His messages were plaintive requests for me to come talk to him, but I just couldn’t do it. What was there left to discuss? His final message was a request for me to attend his sentencing. He had something important to say, and this would be his last opportunity to say it to me in person. I was sure he assumed I wouldn’t leave the apartment to visit him in prison, and he was probably right. So when he asked if I would come as one last show of fatherly love before he was gone, I knew I would.

  I made the walk to the Laura Tejeda Courthouse. It was the big one halfway across town, which only made the walk worse. Even the bright windows of the glass buildings did little more than reflect concrete and smog. High up one building I noticed the black paint of Jeffrey’s hand. It was little more than an oval. I tried to see it as art, but could not. It was just graffiti. Ugly black graffiti.

  The press was everywhere. Microphones were thrust in my face, holo-cameras with bright lights aimed at me. I ignored the shouts of “Mr. Chapman!” or the rudely personal “Bill, Bill Chapman!” and shoved the microphones aside. People stared at me as I walked down the courtroom aisle, but I paid them no mind and sat near my son. He saw me and smiled. He wiped his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and then looked at me again. He held up his forefinger, as if telling me to wait.

  It didn’t take long. Jeffrey pled guilty, and that was that. The judge asked if Jeffrey had anything to say. He stood up. His hands were shaking as he turned and faced the people packed in the courtroom. “I want to apologize to the citizens, officials, and merchants of the city.” His voice trembled and was almost a whisper. I doubt many heard him. But I did. “I cannot explain why I did what I did, but I do accept responsibility for my actions.”

  Jeffrey then turned to me and started crying. “Pop, I have so much I want to say to you about what I did, but I’m afraid you won’t listen. So, I’ll just ask you for a favor, one simple favor.” I lowered my head. I didn’t know what he wanted, but I was sure I couldn’t help him. The thought of being powerless to help him brought tears to my own eyes. “Pop, all I ask is that you go out to the balcony of our apartment, look around the city, and think of me.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “It may not be a lot, but it would mean a lot to me.”

  He then turned to the judge and stood quietly as he was sentenced to ten years in prison for maliciously defacing public and private property. The fact that he used molecular paint was ultimately the real problem. He stole it from the shipyard, and stealing nanotechnology — even paint — was a felony.

  I walked home, and the city was even more depressing, if that was possible. I sat down in my chair and pulled out the computer. I spent the rest of the afternoon looking at baby photos of Jeffrey playing with his mother. I cried.

  I went to bed without stepping onto the balcony. I knew what Jeffrey was trying to do. I knew that he thought I was agoraphobic and that having me at least step on the balcony would be a step to freeing me from our — my — apartment. But Jeffrey just didn’t understand. I walked to the police station. I walked to the big courthouse. I could leave whenever I wanted. I just didn’t want to. The city and world were just too ugly.

  The next morning I checked the news. It was the same story. Jeffrey was an anti-establishment hero. Jeffrey was a symbol of the cancer eating away at the city. I closed the computer window. The last thing I saw was a holo-image of Jeffrey standing in the courtroom.

  I looked through the dining room. The curtains to the balcony were closed. I may have failed him as a father, but I could at least do this one last thing for him. It was silly and stupid, but it meant something to my son, so I did it. I walked over, opened the curtains, and looked out into a sky of gray clouds and smog. I shook my head and opened the glass sliding door.

  I walked outside and over to the railing. I looked down at the city my son had used as his canvas. The view staggered me, and I grabbed the railing for support. I looked across concrete sidewalks, streets, glass, buildings, and kiosks — all of them permanently marked with black brush strokes. Each mark was a small part of a majestic, gorgeous whole — a painting of my wife as big as the city itself.

  I held out my hand into the air, reaching through the distance to touch a piece of art that was untouchable. My wife’s eyes, the curve of her cheek, even the mischief in her smile. It was all there.

  I couldn’t believe the scale of Jeffrey’s accomplishment. Each small piece of black paint was part of a whole that could only be perceived from this balcony, this exact spot. She looked back at me — the city, my wife. She was beautiful.

  Ten years was too long to wait to hug your son, but sometimes you don’t have a choice. I wiped my eyes and moved my chair out to the balcony.■

  About the author

  Jake Kerr began writing short fiction in 2010 after fifteen years as a music industry columnist and journalist. In 2011, Lightspeed published his debut st
ory, The Old Equations, in its July issue. The story went on to be finalist for best novelette Nebula Award and the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. A graduate of Kenyon College with degrees in English and Psychology, Kerr studied under writer-in-residence Ursula K. Le Guin and Peruvian playwright Alonso Alegria. He is currently working on his first novel. Kerr lives in Dallas. Find him online at jakekerr.com and on Twitter @jakedfw.

  “Perspective” © 2012, Jake Kerr

  About the comic’s creators

  Brian White is the editor of Firesideem>. His day job — well it’s actually a night job — is on a newspaper copy desk. (Yes, newspapers, we still have those.) A committed word nerd, he is also the proprietor of Talk Wordy to Mea>, a blog about words, editing, and other oddities. He lives near Boston with his wife, Lauren, a theatrical lighting technician, and their cat, Bast, who is most likely asleep or shredding their couch as you read this. Find him online at talkwordy.coma> and on Twitter @talkwordy.

  Steve Walker is a freelance comics artist having published with companies such as Image Comics, Random House Books — most notably the first two volumes in the graphic novel series The Sons of Liberty — and the upcoming The Battle of Blood And Ink, for Tor Books. When not pushing lead at his drawing table, Steve can be found teaching comics and sequential art at the Art Student’s League in Manhattan. He lives in Pennsylvania. Find him online at stevejwalkerstudio.blogspot.coma> and on Twitter @The_SteveWalker.

  Frank Cvetkovic’s life is like a broken Infinite Improbability Drive. If it’s completely random and just happens to suck, it’s probably going to happen to him. He is the writer and creator of the wildly unpopular webcomic, Punch-Up, and various other works. He currently lives in Cleveland, where the home teams never win and the rivers occasionally catch fire. Find him on Twitter @GoFrankGo.

  “An Honest Mistake” © 2012, Brian White and Steve Walker

  About the illustrator

  Galen Dara is an illustrator who has worked with Edge Publishing, Dagan Books, Apex, Scapezine, Tales to Terrify, Peculiar Pages, Sunstone, and the LovecraftZine. She is on the staff of BookLifeNow, blogs for the Inkpunks, and writes the Art Nerd column at the Functional Nerds. When Galen is not working on a project you can find her on the edge of the Sonoran Desert, climbing mountains or hanging out with a loving assortment of human and animal companions. Find her online at galendara.com and on Twitter @galendara.

  Cover art and illustrations © 2012, Galen Dara

  Backers illustrated: Cara Peterson (left), Laura Darby.

  Scarred

  DAMIEN WALTERS GRINTALIS

  Maryland

  Violet carved her hate into her flesh one name at a time.

  Her skin was riddled with scars, some barely visible, others dark and ruddy. The oldest, the first name, was on her right ankle, above the knobby bone. It revealed a halting progress, with many gaps in between the lines and curves.

  He suffered for a long time.

  ANTHONY LOOKED UP from his dinner plate and smiled. “This is really good, babe.”

  “Thank you. I wanted to make something special for tonight.”

  The cooking classes were her idea. Anthony had been worried about the knives, of course, although he hadn’t said anything with his mouth. Only with his eyes. The first time his hand had touched one of her scars, he’d paused, his eyes curious. Concerned.

  She’d looked down at her hands. “I had a … problem when I was younger, but I’m better now.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “Nothing,” she’d said. “Nothing at all.”

  A breeze blew in through the open windows, fluttering the curtains, and the late spring air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Children’s voices called out and their neighbor’s dog barked several times, a deep, growling sort of bark. She and Anthony grimaced at the same time, caught each other, and smiled.

  “Happy anniversary, babe,” he said.

  “Happy anniversary.”

  She smiled and twisted the ring on her finger. The year had passed so quickly, yet seemed a lifetime. Anthony had asked her to marry him on their sixth date. Crazy, perhaps, because they’d barely known each other, but she’d said yes without a second thought. Three weeks later, they were standing hand in hand in the courthouse promising forever, a promise she intended to keep.

  Mrs. Anthony Cardno was a good person.

  But Violet isn’t and you know it.

  That wasn’t true. She was a good person. Sometimes she got … lost. That was all. But it was all in the past. She was better now. So much better.

  WITH ANTHONY SOFTLY snoring in the bed beside her, Violet clasped her hands together on her chest and recited the names. Too many names.

  “Please forgive me,” she whispered when she was finished.

  She rolled onto her side and touched Anthony’s cheek, his skin soft, yet rough at the same time, beneath her fingertips. The sleeve of her pajama top slipped up to her elbow, revealing the edge of a name: Sabrina. Her best friend in grade school. Violet closed her eyes.

  It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. She hadn’t known.

  Liar.

  SHE WOKE BEFORE ANTHONY and padded down to the kitchen to make coffee. From the kitchen window, she saw the next-door neighbor’s children, already up and about, kicking around a red rubber ball. She smiled and touched her belly. Two months ago, she’d thrown out her birth control pills. Nothing had happened yet, but they were both young. There was plenty of time. Anthony would be a wonderful father. And she would be a good mother even if the baby didn’t sleep well or cried all the time.

  “You were always crying when you were a baby,” her mother had said time and again. “Drove me crazy. You’d cry if you were hungry or full, wet or dry, it didn’t matter. It was like you came out hating the world and wanted everyone to know it.” Her mother would tap her cigarette into her overflowing ashtray, pat Violet on the bum, and smile. “Grab me another beer, okay?”

  When her mother had married her stepfather, Violet had hoped that everything would be okay. Now she had a real family. Her mother would be happy, wouldn’t drink so much, and wouldn’t forget to go food shopping or pay the electric bill. But her stepfather had only made things worse. So much worse.

  But we took care of him, didn’t we?

  No, no matter what he’d done, he didn’t deserve what happened. No one did.

  LONG AFTER THE SUN had faded from the sky, she and Anthony took a walk through the neighborhood. The children and dogs had been collected for the night, and lights behind windows winked out one by one. His hand gave hers a quick squeeze.

  “Next year we’ll go away someplace for our anniversary, how does that sound? Somewhere with a beach and blue water.”

  “And fruity drinks with paper umbrellas?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her softly beneath the glow of a streetlamp. Then they heard the shout. She jumped, pulled away, and scanned the street. No one else was outside. The shout came again, more muffled this time, from a small green house with a swing on the front porch.

  Anthony took a step toward the house. Violet shook her head.

  “Don’t.”

  “But if someone is hurt … ”

  A voice snapped in anger, followed by a whip-quick sound that Violet knew all too well — a slap.

  “Let’s go back home.”

  Anthony gave the house a long look. Violet tugged his hand.

  “Come on. It’s not our business.”

  VIOLET WAS COLLECTING her mail from the mailbox at the end of the yard when a dark-haired woman and a little girl of perhaps four or five in a yellow dress and white ruffled socks walked past. She looked up just in time to see the bruise darkening the skin of the woman’s cheek. Violet’s hands clenched into fists. The little girl pulled her thumb out of her mouth and offered up a wide, innocent smile.

  You can make things better.

  No, it wasn’t her fight. She didn’t
know them at all. She watched them turn onto the sidewalk leading up to the green house.

  But you could if you really wanted to. Just one more time. Help them, then I’ll go away.

  The voice whispered so sweetly, but it lied. Oh, how it lied.

  VIOLET PULLED OUT A KNIFE to slice tomatoes for a salad and paused. The overhead light glinted in the metal. She closed her eyes and saw the little girl’s face. The woman’s bruise.

  You can fix it.

  “Leave me alone,” she whispered.

  Two years after her mother had married her stepfather, the voice spoke to her for the first time. Eight-year-old Violet had been sitting in the corner of her bedroom with the door locked, wiping tears away, with a fresh set of bruises on her upper arms.

  “I hate you,” she’d whispered. Over and over again.

  I can help you, a voice said.

  She’d jumped up, stifling a shout, looked under the bed, checked inside the closet and out the window. The voice had laughed softly.

  I won’t hurt you.

  She’d covered her ears. Buried her face in the pillow.

  Trust me. It will be easy. So easy.

  It had whispered and whispered, and eventually her hands had dropped from her ears. It had told her what to do, and when the house had fallen silent, Violet had tiptoed to the kitchen and pulled out a small knife.

  Good girl. That’s a very good girl.

  She’d closed her eyes when she had touched the blade to her ankle, and the pain had not been nearly as bad as she’d imagined it would be. Beneath the copper bright tang of blood, she’d smelled something dark and terrible like the sweet stink of roadkill or the scummy water left in a vase filled with dead flowers. She’d felt something light brush against her skin, opened her eyes, and saw a shadow flickering across the floor. One quick flicker and then it was gone.