Chapter 3- Broken Colours
1275 Words
Rain hit the city like static. Not the soft kind — the kind that sounded like glass breaking on rooftops. New York wasn’t asleep; it just pretended to be. The trains still sighed beneath the streets, lights blinked like slow heartbeats in the distance, and somewhere, a siren cut through the dark.
Maya Torres sat by her window, sketchbook open, a pencil hovering above the page but not moving. The paper stayed blank. She’d been staring at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more.
The competition was in ten days. Her painting — The City Bleeds Colour — leaned against the wall at school, unfinished. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it: the red heart split open, the skyline dripping from its edges. But now, the image haunted her more than it inspired her.
She hadn’t gone back to the art room since that night the seniors mocked her. Not because of them — at least, that’s what she told herself — but because she couldn’t bear to look at the half-painted city anymore.
Her mother’s voice drifted through the thin walls. “Maya, you ready for school?”
“Yeah,” Maya lied.
She got up, pulled on her hoodie, and stepped out into the grey morning. The street smelled like rain and bus exhaust. Pigeons scattered as she crossed the cracked pavement, sketchbook tucked under her arm like a shield.
The Bronx always looked different after it rained — like it was trying to clean itself up but never quite could.
---
At school, the hallways buzzed with gossip. It was louder than usual — too loud. Heads turned when Maya passed. She caught fragments:
“— heard about the art room—”
“— teacher’s favorite—”
“— she’s just pretending—”
Maya’s stomach tightened. Her fingers clenched around the strap of her backpack. She didn’t need to ask what they were whispering about. She already knew.
By lunch, Jade found her sitting by herself in the corner of the cafeteria.
“You okay?” Jade asked softly.
Maya didn’t look up. “Depends what ‘okay’ means.”
“People are talking,” Jade said. “But they don’t know anything. You know that, right?”
Maya let out a low laugh that didn’t sound like her. “They know enough to run their mouths.”
“You should go to Mr. Daniels—”
“No.” Maya’s voice cracked like a snapped pencil. “That’ll just make it worse.”
Jade hesitated. “Then what are you gonna do?”
Maya finally looked up, eyes sharp. “Finish my painting.”
---
That afternoon, she slipped into the art room when the halls were empty. The smell of paint and dust hit her like memory. The canvas stood where she’d left it — tilted slightly, brush still stuck in a jar of dried colour.
But something was wrong.
When she stepped closer, her chest went cold.
A red X cut through the centre of her work — thick, jagged, still slightly wet. The skyline she’d built for days was destroyed. The heart she’d shaped from colour and hope was bleeding.
Her breath hitched. For a second, she couldn’t move. Then anger flared — wild, bright, and uncontrollable.
She dropped her bag, hands trembling. The words came out in a whisper, almost a growl: “Who did this?”
But the empty room didn’t answer.
She stood there, heart pounding, until she heard footsteps in the hallway. She turned, but whoever it was kept walking.
Maya stared at her ruined painting, the X like a scar across its face. Something inside her shifted — not breaking, but hardening.
---
That night, she couldn’t sleep. The rain had stopped, but her mind didn’t quiet. She kept replaying it — the brush strokes, the destruction, the laughter that followed her in the halls.
Around midnight, she got up and went to the window. The city pulsed below — neon lights reflected in puddles, buses whispering down the avenue. Somewhere out there, someone had tried to silence her.
She reached for her sketchbook. The pages turned fast, her pencil scratching like a heartbeat. She drew the same heart again and again — but each one came out darker, sharper, angrier. The kind of heart that fought back.
By the time she stopped, dawn was brushing pale light across her walls. Her hands were black with graphite.
---
The next day at school, whispers followed her again — heavier now, thicker. She heard her name attached to words like “trouble” and “teacher’s pet."” When she passed by two seniors near the lockers, one of them muttered, “Guess she finally got what she deserved.”
Maya turned, eyes burning. “What did you say?”
The boy smirked. “Just saying. Not everyone gets to use the art room for free.”
Jade stepped between them, voice sharp. “Back off.”
He laughed, walking away. “Whatever. Bronx girls always think they’re something.”
Maya wanted to chase him down, to make him take it back, but she just stood there, trembling.
Later that afternoon, she overheard two girls whispering near the stairs.
“Did you hear? Mr. Daniels covers for her.”
“Yeah. I heard they stay late — alone.”
Something inside her broke. She stormed out before the bell even rang.
---
She took the subway downtown, sitting in the farthest corner, sketchbook in her lap. The train rattled like a heartbeat out of sync. Every time the doors opened, faces changed — strangers, tired eyes, headphones, cheap cologne, perfume, noise.
Her reflection flickered in the window — faint, ghost-like. She didn’t recognize herself.
When she got off at her stop, the rain had started again. The alley by her building was darker than usual. She walked past it every day, but tonight, she stopped.
The walls that used to bloom with colour — her graffiti hearts, her marks of rebellion — were gone. White paint covered everything. Clean. Cold. Erased.
Maya felt her throat tighten. Her art was disappearing piece by piece — first at school, now here. Like the world was swallowing her colours.
She dropped her bag and pulled out a black spray can from the bottom. Her hands shook as she shook it, the metal ball inside rattling like a pulse.
She stood close to the wall and began to paint.
A heart — but not red this time. Black. Deep, wet, endless. The spray hissed like breath in her ear. The rain mixed with the paint, making it bleed.
When she finished, she stepped back. The heart looked alive — wounded but breathing.
Maya whispered, “You can’t erase me.”
And then she heard it — footsteps.
She turned sharply. The alley was empty, but someone was there. She could feel it. A shape in the shadows, just beyond the flickering streetlight.
Her breath caught. “Who’s there?”
No answer. Just the hum of rain on concrete.
The shadow didn’t move — or maybe it did, just slightly. Enough for her to see the faint glint of light reflect off something metallic.
Maya froze.
The sound of the train echoed faintly in the distance — rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the shadow was gone.
She stood there for a long time, soaked, breathing hard, staring at the black heart on the wall.
When she finally walked home, she didn’t look back. But the feeling followed her — heavy, quiet, certain.
Someone had been watching
- Writer
