Beauty From Adversity, Paint On Brick

20260815

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

It’s funny. Ever since we moved here, I dreamt of the day I’d finally leave. I never considered myself “one of the Southfield kids”. This festering estate was just my temporary prison, of no relevance to my identity.
And now… on the eve of my triumphant escape… my stepping out for fresh air somehow turned into a farewell tour.
Not that there’s much to tour. A ring of weed-choked driveways around the dirt square real estate people call a “communal green space”. The faded plastic swing and teeter-totter look so small and tacky now. But I hate to think how many hours I spent on them. Especially once we figured out how to make the teeter-totter slide around while playing. Sailing to adventure, in colourful imaginary lands. Anywhere other than here.
The only actual green is the tree, plus the moss and wisps of grass that cling on under it. Too small to be a proper climbing tree. Stunted and miserable, like everything in Southfield. But I loved sitting in it, until fucking Dave saw me and went on about “being too young to want wood between my legs.” While I didn’t understand, his tone and smirk made my skin crawl. I never climbed that tree again.
Come to think of it, that’s the only positive memory I have of queen bitch Sheila; her bursting out her front door to scream at him for being a creep. Threatening to call my parents, and the cops, and anyone else necessary to “get his paedo ass on a watchlist”.
She’s on the bench, of course. Pickling her lungs, like every evening it’s not pissing down. Normally I don’t even see her. After years of begrudging coexistence she’s just part of the hated backdrop.
But the fact I’ve been standing here staring at little kid’s play stuff, and remembering that time she glared down a leering bricklayer on behalf of a confused frightened nine-year-old, makes me say “Hey.”
She takes a deep pull on the cigarette. Gives me a blank sidelong glance. Probably waiting for me to ask something. But I honestly don’t have anything to talk about.
Then she says, in that raspy voice that always has a hint of nag to it, “Hey. Heard you got into some fancy art school in Dublin. Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
She huffs. “Glad all those messes you made were worth it.”
I roll my eyes. Honestly. Not like I’ve wasted time on graffiti in years. Too busy working on my portfolio.
“Hm.” Her eyes narrow and she squelches the cigarette. “There’s a thought.”
Assuming she’s aimlessly grumbling, I pay no heed when she stomps off. Just go back to examining the pitiful excuse for a garden and pondering why I’m suddenly maudlin about the fact I’m leaving a place I’ve always hated.
Because I’ve hated it for eleven years, I suppose. And now I’m losing that. Which is good, obviously, it’s just also… wrong.
I’m reminded of when dad finally managed to fix that squeaky step, and for months I was acutely aware of the squeak it wasn’t making. An annoying constant is still a constant. A landmark that grates everyday might be the most real thing in your whole world.
So… yeah. I still hate Southfield Estate. With a dull, bitter, aching passion. But that’s been the core of my life for forever, and I’m not sure how to reinvent myself and be just another student who’s got nothing to do with this place. And that’s kinda freaky to realise.
Just as I’m straightening all this out Sheila comes around the corner with a dusty great plastic box in her arms.
“Your parents were gonna give these back to you when you learned to behave, and I guess everyone forgot. Don’t suppose they’re any use to you now, especially moving all the way to Dublin, but…”
Holy shit. It’s a delinquent time capsule. Seeing it all piled together really brings home how much allowance they robbed me of, confiscating it. Not unprovoked, but still.
“Nah.” I manage a smile. “You could offer it at the school?”
“Mm.” Sheila frowns at the box. Probably thinking about all the mess school kids could make armed with proper outdoor paint. Then she points to the wall behind the square. “You oughta draw something for the next kids. Show ‘em something pretty can come out of a place like this.”
I can’t believe my ears. She’s usually the worst for complaining about that kind of stuff. But it’s not like she ever jokes, so I pick up a spray can and stare at the wall.
What to draw?
What mark do I want to leave on this place?
I’m holding cherry red. Slowly, driven by unconscious decision, I shake the can in a once-practised motion and leave a strident arc on the wall. At once I see it’s a petal, and the other colours fall into place, and soon the wall is covered in crazy flowers. Defiantly bright and whimsical. Blooming against the concrete and crumbling brick.
And Sheila just sits and watches. Puffing those nasty cheap cigarettes. But for once the stink doesn’t annoy me. It’s… right, for this sendoff. Wouldn’t be Southfield without it.
“There.” I declare finally, having used up most of the paint and all of the wall. “What do you think?”
“Think it’s not done until the artist signs it. Give ‘em something to look up. See how you’re getting on.”
That thought is equal parts intimidating and inspiring, and I carefully etch the professional signature I’ve spent hours practising onto a corner.
“There.” Sheila flicks away the last cigarette and dusts off her hands with a nod. “It’s good. And very… you. Be nice in the winter when everything’s real grey.”
Funny how professional feedback never made me feel this warm.
Next morning, before we set off, I take a picture in the daylight and add it to my portfolio. Titled “Beauty From Adversity”. An image I carry forever. Hate turned sweet.

Prompt was “Write a scene where a character is saying a final goodbye to a place they swore they would never miss.”