Helena laughed and ran to the wall. She sounded like a little girl when she laughed, braying with snorts at the inhale.
First she sprayed a line. The red was bright against the brick, like fresh blood. She reached out to touch it, covering her palm with red. She slapped her wet palm on the brick, making a hand, though not as bright as the line.
Now she sprayed more things, shapes, squiggles, splashes of red. The wall could have been bleeding. She frowned at that. She did not want the wall to bleed. It had done nothing to her. So she sprayed a happy face on it. The paint ran from one eye, like a blood tear.
She stood back. Her art was not pretty. She frowned. "I do not know how to make this pretty," she said, frustrated.