Punisher

Her footfalls were loud in the quiet night. It wasn't very late- late had it been a week night, but not quite so for a weekend. However it had been a big day for the town, and everyone was already retiring.
She didn't quite know where she was going, but she knew she needed to be somewhere else.
As she climbed a hill she watched a boy jump on the shoulders of his friend, spray can in hand, and frantically tag something above a garage. His scrawlings meant nothing, other than, "Look at me- I write on things that aren't my own."
When he was done, he jumped off the shoulders of his friend again, and he and his three sidekicks ran excitedly, fleeing the scene of their 'crime.'

She hadn't run when she'd painted that night.
She just walked away quietly and didn't make any fuss.

It was funny, really. She'd never actually caught anyone else in the act of what was commonly referred to as vandalism. Likewise, she'd never been caught in the act.
Maybe it was a sign of times to come.

She descended into the town again, and passed groups of drunken students. All congregating outside of a twenty-four hour store, eating fries and slurring their words. If they threw drunken comments at her, she didn't notice. Just kept her feet going, one after the other, and rounded a corner towards the reservoir in the hills.

She wasn't one to worry about her safety, but two men fighting ahead of her made her cross the road. She watched them as she passed. They seemed to be fighting not because they were mad, but because they wanted to. Practising their uppercuts and kicks, or something like that. They talked as they hit, commented as they kicked. She briefly wondered if Fight Club had come to her city.

When the street ran out of lights, she headed into the hills once more, heading in the direction of home sooner than she'd planned, but knowing she probably should.

She passed one of the few lively houses that evening. Music carried itself out the windows, voices echoed and light flickered. Someone yelled something at her but she was too focused on walking, too focused on inward hate to take any notice. It didn't matter what anyone said, anyhow.

She walked the long way home- partially so she could avoid seeing anyone she knew, partially so she could see what she painted earlier.

She approached it nonchalantly and scrutinised it in the dark.
It wasn't her neatest work, but considering what it said, it shouldn't be.
Life isn't neat, anyway.

She climbed the stairs to her house and unlocked the door, being careful to close it quietly after her. Her legs ached, and she headed straight for the shower. She needed to wash the day away, needed to do something; she certainly couldn't sleep.

When she walked to her room, her door was still open. Cut paper and cardboard littered her floor, and a spray can sat in the middle of the room.
But it was what had appeared next to the paint that caught her eye.

Four flowers- daffodils- sitting next to the spray can, doing nothing but sitting. No note, but she didn't need a note to know who they were from, know who'd let themself in and left something without saying anything.

To him the four white and orange flowers said, "I care about you."

To her the flowers accused; and their accusations hit home.