The Artist

There was something about the dark, empty streets of London at night that felt like a warm embrace.

Escapism? Was that what these 11pm post-library walks were? Tegan asked herself, as she strolled across the concrete, her current favourite song purring in her ears as the inky River Thames came into view. 

Escapism was what a lot of people liked to imply Tegan indulged in. 

Her mother, for example, who said it kindly, for she reminded her of her at that age. 

And Brently, who insinuated it with a sneer whilst questioning her maturity because her homework diary still had a photo of her favorite boyband on it, and who ironically didn't seem to realize that being a bully at at eighteen was even less mature. 

And her History teacher, Mr. Bleacher, who implied it with disappointment every time he realised the notes she had been writing in class were in her personal journal rather than in her textbook.

Tegan did like writing. The pages of her journal were thickened with wear, the leather-bound book nearly full to the brim with cursive ink. 

Sometimes Tegan wrote little stories in there, imagining scenarios about her favorite film characters. Other times she noted down her favorite song lyrics or poetry lines. The rest of the time, she wrote whatever came to mind, bleeding her internal world onto the blank pages with black ink.

And sometimes she just wrote down the same mantra over and over.

It's going to be okay. 

It's going to be okay. 

It's going to be okay.

Tegan used her journal when things started to feel like too much at school, often swapping it out to replace her Psychology textbook, or reaching for it when her next class was coming up sooner than she would like.

Writing and late-night walks. Those were the tools in Tegan's arsenal. And she was finding the need to utilize those tools more and more frequently.

What with exams around the corner, and the fact she wasn't so sure she would even pass them. Which meant not getting into her top university and disappointing her parents. And which meant never getting a job and basically having her whole life ruined.

And with friends who she would probably never see again because they were moving for uni. And boys who either didn't pay attention to her or paid more attention to her than she was comfortable with. And that damn Brently, who she was forced to sit next to in two out of four of her classes.

Those things. When she thought about all those things, that's when the fear came.

Often the fear started out small, like a little niggle in her mind's periphery. But then sometimes the fear enveloped her like a weighted blanket. Increasingly hot and heavy as she tried to break free from it.

Tegan tried to shake away the thought spiral. Why did she let her mind go there? On her peaceful nighttime walks of all places.

But now her steps were getting a little faster, and the song in her ears too up tempo, the beat now competing with her quickening heartbeat.

Once Tegan reached the bridge, some of the heaviness lifted. She stood on the narrow pavement and faced east, gazing at the comforting blinking lights of the city, which sparkled like multicoloured stars, reflecting onto the placid water below. Satisfied, Tegan continued walking the paved bridge. 

There weren't many people around at this time of night. But this didn't scare Tegan. In fact, she enjoyed the serenity. 

Now that Tegan had passed over the river, she was firmly in South London territory. Here it was all cobbled bricks and orange street lights and overhead railway tracks and graffitied tunnels.

Tegan didn't know why her thoughts wouldn't stop following her tonight, tagging along as closely as her shadowy silhouette which trailed behind her. 

Maybe it was because her exams were looming closer and closer. There was no redoing them. That's what Mr. Bleacher kept telling her. But how was it fair that an hour in a chair could dictate your whole life's direction? 

The looming, uncertain future was beating in her ear like a distant drum. 

Tegan tried to mask the beats with her own internal words.

It's going to be okay. 

It's going to be okay. 

It's going to be okay.

But the thoughts still circled. 

Tegan wasn't too bad at English, so that exam wasn't a worry. But Psychology and History. She could definitely fail those if she didn't study adequately. And what would happen then?

Tegan walked on, sticking to the main road while passing by the winding side streets that spurted out from it.

Then something caught her eye.

A glint of color among the dark streets. 

Tegan turned and walked down the desolate back road to investigate further. As she did, a vibrant mural came into view, sprawled against a dark brick wall. 

It was an abstract collage of shape and color. A smile tugged at Teagan's face. This is why she loved walking around London at night. Around every corner was the promise of some sort of magic. And here it was, a piece of art in a place one would least expect it, as if put together just for her.

But more exciting still, she recognised the art style. This had to be the work of the anonymous street artist whose murals were appearing in London, following the route of the river. Tegan had recently read an article about him. The Nocturnal Artist, they had labelled him.

The paint in front of her appeared fresh and unweathered, like the mural had been newly done. Was Tegan the first person to discover this new piece? 

She pulled out her phone from her pocket, snapping a photo for evidence. But as her phone camera zeroed in on the art, she spotted something on the mural that she hadn't initially. She removed her phone from view and re-inspected what was in front of her.

Among the shapes stenciled in the blobs of color was a sentence:

It's going to be okay.

Tears threatened to brim to the surface of Tegan's eyes. But for the first time in a while, these were tears of relief. Tegan knew these late night walks weren't a mistake. She had stumbled across the exact words she needed to hear.

***

"I can't believe I saw The Nocturnal Artist's latest art piece," Tegan said for maybe the third time to Leslie the next day, as they sat waiting for their History class to start.

"I know, so cool," Leslie replied.

Tegan sensed slight boredom in her friend's voice, indicating that she didn't quite share Tegan's excitement.

"I mean, I never thought too much about him myself," Tegan explained. "But now that I've seen his work in person, I really get it. It's deeper than you would think. He must be so intelligent."

"Who are you on about now?" Came Brently's dreary voice from the other side of her. "Did you miss the lesson about false idols?"

"There's nothing wrong with being a fan of an artist," Tegan snapped back.

Brently gave her a scrutinising look before turning back to his desk. No snippy retort? Maybe things were looking up after all.

It should be around here, Tegan mused to herself after both school and her evening library session were over. She had left the library a bit earlier than usual. For once she had done an adequate amount of studying. Plus, tonight she had an exciting mission.

Tegan searched the brick walls that barricaded Waterloo station from the River Thames.

She then let in a sharp intake of air as she spotted it. 

Situated tall above a bicycle rail was another one of The Nocturnal Artist's murals. 

Tegan had done some research and found the locations of some of his existing pieces. This one was a bright mesh of yellow and orange paint, shining like a hidden cove of sunshine in the dreary urban wasteland between the station and the river. Tegan searched through the shapes for the hidden words she knew would be there. 

And then she saw them.

Life may soon get brighter.

She felt a comforting warmth within. How was The Nocturnal Artist able to resonate with her so deeply?

Tegan stayed out until nearly midnight, discovering more of The Nocturnal Artist's murals. She excitedly followed the snaky route of the river, chasing the colourful and profound glimmers of hope in the dusky city, never failing to feel rejuvenated each time she stood before his work. 

Tegan couldn't help but wonder who this mysterious man was. Person, even. Why had the article she read assumed it was a man? Whoever they were, Tegan knew they would have a lot in common, and that she could learn so much from them.

She also couldn't help but find it ironic that a vigilante street artist was more of a mentor to her than her teachers and her parents combined. She got so much more from the artist's wisdom than she did in a classroom or at home.

And Brently had said not to worship idols. Pfft.

***

During her first break the next day, Tegan searched the internet for any information she could find about The Nocturnal Artist. But nothing came up other than social media posts of people who had stumbled across their work, and a couple of articles about them, one which she had read already. She couldn't find anything that came from The Nocturnal Artist themselves, not even anonymously. 

Perhaps they preferred to speak through their art. Or maybe they were a person of few words. That idea was strange to Tegan, since she knew firsthand how powerful their words were.

Since discovering The Nocturnal Artist and taking aboard their advice and affirmations, Tegan found that she was doing better at school. Her spinning thoughts weren't getting in the way of her lessons, and she was covering more ground in her study sessions, without feeling the need to lose herself in distractions. Instead of fear, she now felt tinged with hope. 

***

By the following week, Tegan had visited all of The Nocturnal Artist's murals. But she wasn't disappointed that she had now seen all of the artwork.

No. Because she had a new plan. 

Tegan stayed on at the library until 11pm. She was up to date on her revision for all her subjects, but she bided the time by going over her notes. She had to leave late if she were to see what she was hoping to see. 

Or rather, who.

At nearly midnight, Tegan was standing beneath an elevated railway track in Canary Wharf, the glass buildings of the city towering above her like sleeping giants. She knew she was in the right place.

Tegan had noticed a pattern when circling the locations of The Nocturnal Artist's murals on a map of London. There was always half a mile distant between murals, and the artist seemed to be working their way west. 

This area was next. Tegan was sure of it. And a Monday seemed like the perfect day to create a new art piece.

A strong breeze tore its way through Tegan's hair and through the gaps in her jacket, raising bumps on the back of her neck. It was the end of spring, but the nights were still chilly. And standing still in the same place wasn't helping.

But she was in a good spot. Where she stood provided a great vantage point of the nooks and crannies that sprawled between Canary Wharf station and the river. 

Oh! Was that a dark figure Tegan saw moving on the steep dead-end road adjacent to the station? She edged forward. Until she could make out an outstretched hand casting colours against a brick wall. 

Tegan stood entranced, watching the artist at work. Soon she realised they were nearly done. Should she go up to them? Thank them for their work? Or would they not like that? After all, they had remained anonymous all this time.

No. They'd probably love to hear how much they've helped someone. That their work wasn't in vain. That's how Tegan would feel anyway, if it were her.

Tegan raced forward excitedly, closing the distance between the two of them as the artist began to put away their equipment. She was now close enough to make out some of the person's features. 

It was a man. A boy even. He didn't look any older than her eighteen years. He was dressed in black, but his face was pale and bare. He turned to face her. The confusion in his face likely mirrored the same in hers.

For her heart had never dropped faster. 

"Brently!" The anger in her voice surprised her. "You're The Nocturnal Artist. But that makes no sense! You're not deep and thoughtful. You're spiteful and annoying!" 

"Of course, that's what you think of me, Tegan," Brently replied. "Funny, because I heard you talking to Leslie about how much you love my work. I thought maybe this was the start of you respecting me as an equal. But it turns out you can't respect anyone unless they're a figment of your imagination."

"An equal?" Tegan questioned. "It's not like you ever respected me."

The venom left his face.

"I wish I didn't," he replied, looking down at his feet now. "But it's hard not to respect the girl who always knows the right answer in English. Who doesn't struggle to put things into words. Onto paper. You could even say I was . . inspired."

"Inspired? What are you talking about?" Tegan questioned. 

He snapped his head back up, his eyes piercing hers.

"You don't get it, do you?"

Tegan took a moment to ponder his words. Brently sighed at her silence and used the opportunity to push past her, disappearing into the darkness.

She let him leave, still confused. Then she turned to look at the mural. And when she did, her whole world crashed down around her.

The words he had written among the colors of dark blue and purple resonated as they always did. But this time she noticed that they resonated a little too much. Tegan grabbed at her bag and pulled out her journal and turned to the last page she had written on.

Who knew life could show you little pieces of hope if you just looked between the lines?

Those words sat in the midst of a paragraph of text she had scribbled down last week. If she hadn't written them just a few days ago, she may have never recognised them. But sure enough, as she gazed back up at the mural, the same words she had written in her journal were painted in front of her. 

She should have been angry. This was plagiarism after all. No wonder Brently didn't mind sitting next to her in class. He must have been peeking over her shoulder whenever her journal was out. But no, her feelings were more complex.

Tegan began to leaf through her journal, taking in everything she had written in there over the past year. An hour went by when nothing could be heard except the occasional distant rumbling of a train above and the delicate turning of pages. Sure enough, the messages from each one of the murals could be found in her own writing. Who knew that among the mess of her thoughts lay messages of hope. Yet she only truly believed them when she felt they were coming from an outside source more impressive than her. When in fact, everything she needed to get her through was within her all along. 

***

"So you're telling me you spend so much time writing in that thing but you've never thought to look back at what you've written?" Leslie asked with a raised eyebrow the next day in the cafeteria. 

Tegan shrugged.

"You give yourself way too little credit," Leslie continued. "Like you were so worried about catching up with studying, and now you're way ahead."

Tegan pondered before speaking. "I guess the doubt was the only thing making me fall behind."

It was true. Tegan had been so scared of an ominous future that felt so out of her control of that she ended up relinquishing control herself. The fear wouldn't let her believe that she had the ability to take things into her own hands. But she did.

And even if things really did go wrong, she'd figure those things out too.

"As much as I hate Brently," Leslie said. "He got one thing right. You are inspiring. Your English marks alone will have you flying into that university you want to go to."

Tegan smiled. "I'm going to miss you Leslie," she said. "You know, seeing as you didn't apply to any London universities and will be living halfway across the country."

"I'll only be an hour away at most," Leslie responded. "Rest assured, us going to different unis will not stop me from constantly bothering you."

What ended up being more surprising than Tegan's new mindset was the change in her relationship with Brently. After a few of weeks of silent glares, the two of them came to a truce. He agreed to stop plagiarising if Tegan agreed to collaborate with him. Together they created a piece of artwork (on a canvas - Tegan didn't fancy herself a street artist) which ended up being featured in the school magazine. Both their names were credited.

The only thing left to be seen was the fate of Tegan's exams. But even if she didn't do as well as she hoped and her top university didn't accept her, Tegan knew her backup university probably would based on her existing English grades. And she also knew that her recent magazine feature wouldn't hurt things either. 

But out of all the things she knew, there was one thing she knew above all.

It was going to be okay.