Small things

The coffee mug, that had awaited it's use as a part of my Saturday routine, was still empty on the counter ahead. With every move I took, I still felt like it's presence was staring through me.
It's presence, distracting as it was, was like a constant reminder clawing through the walls of my mind; fire lit from the centre of my chest and spread to every other part of my body. I felt weak. I felt ill. I felt as if this mug was a constant reminder that I was leaving my comfort zone.
I built this theory, for a moment, that concluded the reason why my artwork had took a halt. I figured risks were needed. I figured rebellion sounded cool, it became an obsessive word clear in my mind for a while, repeating itself. Like a bell, it rang, waking me up from this stupid artist's depression.
Could this make it worse? Was this already making it worse? I was ill. I couldn't go, not possible. Not ever.
"Got anymore white paint? "
"Yeah, hold on a sec. " Dammit, what was I doing? Rejecting my own thoughts? Why was I standing up? Weren't my knees still shaking? That split-second agreement was backfiring on myself and my thoughts. I could already feel them muddled, but I continued moving, steadily.
The bookshelf I was approaching wasn't really full of books. Not any I read, anyway. There were black boxes, thick with dried layers of splattered paints; old glass jars or random pots held brushes that, out of the two months I'd had them, were more damaged than former ones.
White paint was a staple colour, it was usually used up the quickest. However with my prior lack of inspiration, not too much had been used. I was happy there was still some for this strange project, I just wished I'd been able to use it earlier instead of staring it down till something flashed to mind. So, when finding more than enough, I made my way back to Frank who smiled when looking up. It wasn't obvious whether he was smiling at the fact it was me or the fact I'd found the paint, but, nonetheless, he smiled and it made that weird, ill feeling vanish to something different.
"Ah! You got some! I figured the white paint bombs would make people look like a bird had shit on them, " he laughed at himself.
"Won't people get mad? "
"They won't know it's us. "
"Well, say we got caught -"
"then I'd get us out of it. We'd do our stuff and run. "
Our art stuff. He said our art stuff, which was weird, because I'd only ever worked alone. "Run where? "
"Here, away, anywhere I guess. We'd just run, like paint criminals. "
Wrong, no. "Criminals? No, no, no. Art is not a crime. " Frank stopped and stood up, coming closer and reaching for the paint in my hands.
"Then I guess we have nothing to worry about, " his hands were wet with some spilled paint that, for some reason, he thought he'd flick in my direction. What an idiot, this was my favourite Saturday shirt and (compared to the others) didn't have any paint existing, till now. "Hey!" There was some wet paint on my wooden flooring. Initially, I did the first thing that came to mind: I ran my finger through it (Frank watching the entire time) and wiped that shit on his nose. He looked like a cartoon Rudolf now. What a great look, I laughed to myself.
His eyes were squinted shut and when he opened them, his face beamed. "Oh it's on." He looked like one of those light bulbs that cartoon characters get over their heads when an idea springs to mind.
He looked more alive than ever, standing up again despite just sitting down, a paint bomb in his hand and some words to say, "Screw the white paint, let's fucking go." Frank began gathering up smaller tubes of paint, as well as carefully placing the paint filled balloons, or 'bombs' as he was calling them, into the backpack I handed him earlier.
I wasn't sure why he was calling them bombs; I didn't want to cause trouble and their name sounded like something that would get me put in jail. I didn't want to be in jail. I felt secluded enough when I had a life out in the open.
There were questions, surfacing. I couldn't help but ponder the events that were about to happen. Was this gonna' make me feel more like an artist, or was my gut feeling from earlier right? I wanted to fast forward an hour, see where we were at with our project, or whether we'd gotten anywhere at all. I think most of all, I was scared. As long as we weren't in trouble. As long as it wasn't something to regret.
I doubt there would be regret. I mean, despite all these ill feelings, having Frank here, prancing around like Rudolf from the paint covering his nose, I don't think I cared. We were gonna' bomb the city.

Notes

This is the second time I've tried to upload a chapter and had to retype it all because my phone died for no reason. Sighs, but I finished it. I kinda like how the story's going tbh??