Saving Angelo

Thirteen - The Unknown.

Chapter Thirteen – Unknown POV.

I know I've gone too far the moment I take one step out of the door.

Correction; not a step, more like a fall, the result of a forceful shove from behind me. This particular shove, at this particular hour, on this particular day, (believe me, I've had quite a few shoves) sends me flying out of the door and down the steps, and consequently, my face ends up snogging the concrete on the pavement outside the pub.

Not my most graceful moment, I must say.

But then again, that probably wasn't the worst thing I'd done all night. I can't say exactly what I did, (mostly because I seem to be extremely intoxicated) but it must have been worse than usual. I haven't ever been kicked out of a pub before. (I mean, I don't remember ever getting thrown out.)

Anyway, back to snogging the pavement. After an indiscreet proclamation of their hatred towards me, the despicable human being who threw me out of the building slams the door with a hard thud, and I am left, shivering in the chilly November night, lying pitifully on the ground.

With a groggy groan, I lift myself up and latch onto the nearest lamp post as soon as I stand, the dark street suddenly swimming before my eyes, black spots obscuring my vision. Dear lord, how much did I drink?

After a couple of seconds, my eyesight clears, and try to make out my surroundings. It must be after midnight, I think. The lights in the streets of Willow Falls are always switched off after midnight, which seems conveniently inconvenient for someone like myself, an alcohol addict with no social life except for the unrequited relationship with my bottomless tequila glass. Well, it was bottomless, until today. I suppose from now on I'll have to find a new bar to pass out at.

Rubbing my eyes and failing dismally to regain my full eyesight, I curse myself for being so utterly useless.

What did I think I would achieve; running away from my old life, leaving everything behind in order to survive, only to pass away the years throwing the opportunity away, risking it all and drowning in my guilt?

Fuck that. It's not in my nature to forget the past. I try not to dwell on it too much for appearance's sake, like those few moments when someone finds the time out of their day to ask if I'm okay, if the bags under my eyes and my stiff, limping posture is something to worry about. I smile, that rugged, half-grin, half-laugh that always wins them over. I'd say, "It's just one of those days," (if that was true, then I suppose every day would be one of those days.)

Other times, I catch myself in a mirror, a window, even the reflection of my grotty, sad face in the pint glass at the bar, and I can't help but wonder.

How is he?

Does he miss me? Does he cry at night like he used to, which was my cue to crawl across the room, tiptoe along the landing, careful not to tread on floorboard three, seven and thirteen, just so I could sing him her song?

Did he visit her last Sunday, like we always did? We'd hold each a bouquet of lilies on the way there, bumping shoulders every now and then, to reassure each other that we were there. Together.

Does he still draw those pictures? I suppose they aren't really pictures. I always thought of them as proper art, the kind that's framed in gold and hung upon the grandest wall in the gallery. Of course, that'd never happened, but he had his wishes. We both did.

My stomach dropped, guts and intestines and all. That was the worst part of dwelling on the past. The moment when you have to face reality, the truth, the facts.

Come on, boy. I didn't think you could get any more stupid. His voice snarls in my ear, and in a blind, harrowing panic, I whip my head around, stumbling to the ground once more. But I'm met with nothing but the brisk, winter's night, its fog clouding my already impaired vision.

He's just a figment of my imagination, like always.

It's been five years, boy. Don't be an idiot. Face the facts, you coward! You can't even shake off the memory of me, residing in your head, terrorising you when you least expect, when you least want! What makes you think he'll survive my full wrath?

I swallow a cry. I hate it. I hate him.

Of course, each time I think like this, it always goes too far. Sometimes I'm not even thinking of the bad times, just the few good, and it always leads to one thought. One huge, terrifying thought.

Is he still alive?

Author's Note:

Alright guys, this is going to be short and snappy, I feel like I haven't updated in a couple millennia and I think I owe it to you guys. The past couple of chapters have just been a colossal pile of cliff-hangers. Sorry.

Also, if anyone's confused about this chapter, remember that it's in an Unknown person's point of view. He is a pretty essential character to this story, however the reason I made his name unknown is for plot purposes. It's all about the suspense!

Nevertheless, you're welcome to make any assumptions as to who you think he could be. I'm not sure if I've given too much away already, but fuck it, it's the thirteenth chapter. We need some more action, am I right?

Anyway, as always, thank you for reading! Stay tuned for the next chapter! It should probably be up in the next week. Two at the latest.

Procrastination calls!

Signing off,

Meliodas.

© 2016 Saving Angelo, (rebelsymphony). All rights reserved.