Starving for his art
Grayson didn't mind starving for his art. Sure, he had a couple of his pieces go viral online and a healthy following on his Instagram, but unfortunately clout had yet to pay the rent. In fact, it seemed the only thing keeping this aspiring street artist off the literal streets was his roommate, Jackson.
Every time he came up short, Grayson knew Jackson would have his back. He was a good guy, he didn't mind helping a friend when finances were tight. But Jackson's bank account and his patience were starting to run out. It was the fifth of the month, and thanks to Grayson, they had received a delinquent rent notice on their door. In he walks wearing some brand new, pristine white Nikes, with just a touch of spray paint splatter from a recent "masterpiece" he was working on. He flops on the sofa next to Jackson, his casual and nonchalant demeanor belying the tension that was hanging in the room.
Jackson confronts Grayson - nice shoes, did you spend the rent on 'em? - a month and a half of back rent owed, not counting this month which is already a week late. Grayson feels the weight of Jackson's words, and they're heavy. He can find no comfort in Jackson's hardened expression and sharp tone. He knows he pushed it too far. He knows he fucked up. He swears he'll get him the money, he's had a few sales come in from his prints, and he's talking to a potential sponsor for a big mural downtown. He just needs a bit more time. Time that, unfortunately for him, he did not have.
Jackson zip tied Grayson's ankles, and pushed him over when he stood. He kneeled on his back while he began the process of tying him in ropes from head to toe. He knew Grayson had money he didn't talk about - he wasn't fucking stupid - a wannabe graffiti artist buying clothes, sneakers, paint, concert tickets and weed off 40,000 likes on an Instagram post?
Not likely.
Grayson looked down, up, to the left, anything to avoid making eye-contact with Jackson, whose stare threatened to bore a hole through his forehead. Fine... if he didn't feel like talking, Jackson threatened to tape his mouth shut and leave. Grayson began to cry. Okay, okay... yes, there was money. But not a lot - he swore! - just a small monthly allowance...
...from his...
trust fund.
Jackson flew into a rage at the words. "Trust fund"? All this time he was paying for some freeloader fucking rich kid to cosplay as a broke artist!?
No, no no! Don't get it twisted, Grayson pleaded. His parents were diplomats who were killed in a crossfire when he was young. He receives a small payout once a month from their estate and their pensions. It's nothing, really. It's not what he thinks.
Jackson demands Grayson's debit card - it's in his pocket. Jackson demands his phone - other pocket. He grabs a fistful of Grayson's hair and jolts his head backward, forcing him to look into the screen of his iPhone as Jackson hovers it a foot from his face. Face ID unlocked. As Jackson scrolls through the statement history on Grayson's banking app, he gets angry. And the more he scrolls, the angrier he gets.
+ $ 3,500
+ $ 3,500
+ $ 3,500
month after month, the deposits went on. Ok, it wasn't fuck-you-Jeff-Bezos money, but it was sure as fuck more than Grayson ever contributed to the bills.
Grayson watched Jackson's expression turn increasingly sour as he pored over his phone. His pulse quickened, his mouth became dry. He began to pant. This is bad. This is really bad!
He tried to reason, he tried to bargain. He was basically an orphan from 10 years old. He had to live with his elderly grandparents. He was never taught how to manage his finances! It's not his fault his parents died, it's not like he wanted it to happen!
More excuses. More excuses that Jackson was happy to ignore. He walked over to Grayson with a thick roll of duct tape in his hand, prepared to use however much it took to stop Grayson from giving them to him. it took 2 wraps around his mouth, but Jackson did 8. He was feeling generous.
Here's what's going to happen. Grayson waited with bated breath, hoping his fate would be merciful. Jackson was going to reroute all future transfers from Grayson's bank into his own. He would do it to cover Grayson's debts. He would do it to keep the apartment, and he would do it to buy stuff. For himself. With that, he dragged Grayson's chair to his bedroom, turned out the light and closed the door.
That was three months ago.
And that's not Grayson's bedroom anymore.
It's now occupied by a new tenant - a quiet young accounting student on exchange from Korea. He keeps to himself mostly, and always pays his rent in advance. He doesn't ask too many questions - questions like "why is that walk in closet always locked?" If he did, he might meet his other roommate.
Grayson, in his new indefinite home. Inside the soundproofed closet of his former bedroom, locked inside by keys which Jackson holds on to. Bound hand and foot in chains and padlocks, conducive to his long term captivity,
Oh, Jackson wasn't a monster. He made sure Grayson had a blanket in there to sit on, and he would even let him listen to music on his headphones once in a while so he didn't get too bored. Meal time was tricky, but he tried to make sure it happened at least once a day. Whenever the exchange student was away in class or at his work placement. But anyway, Grayson didn't mind starving for his art.
He sat there most days, trying to stay lost deep in thought. He wondered what would happen in March, when their lease was up
He really hoped Jackson wouldn't sign for another year.