His Twin Brother (BACK AND READY TO GO!)

Chapter Nineteen

*PLEASE READ!*

It's short but sweet. This Chapter is basically about what Levi's doing. I'm going to be completely honest with you all, i CRIED when i wrote this chapter. It not only has a very significant meaning to me, but it's also inspired by my favortie song, The A Team, by Ed Sheeran. It would mean loads to me if you would like and share this chapter.

P.S. I put the song link to the side >>>>>

Enjoy—Maria <3

Levi’s POV

                Blood trickles down my lip as my body tries to recover from yet another blow. Though, my brain can’t quite register the pain yet; probably because of all the alcohol in my system. Now that I think about it, my brain can’t really convey anything lately. The only emotions I felt were humiliation and heartbreak. That’s why, at this point in time, it seems like a good idea to be wasted. The numbing calms me down—though not as much as a cut would. That I was been yearning to do for a while now. The bulk bouncer grabs me by the arm and forcefully pulls me out the back door. With one swift, effortless movement, he tosses me out into the dark night and I land face first into the dumpster just outside the club. The smell of old food and lord knows what enters my nose and I gag.

He spits on me, “Go home kid.”

I groan from the searing pain that was now protruding from my left shoulder. That’s gonna leave a mark. I pull myself up and look around the dumpster. It’s a bunch of old food, paper, and a pretty good looking guitar. I hesitantly reach forward and pluck down the strings, starting with low E down to high E. Not too shabby, I think to myself. Then again, anything sounds good when you’re highly intoxicated. Using all my strength, I stumble out of the dumpster, again falling, this time to my knees. Another mark in the morning, I judge. I grab the guitar and make my way down the eerie looking alley way.

After I ran out the other day, I walked for hours until I reached, what I believed to be, two towns over from where I lived. I wasn’t even quite sure where I was, but I did know it was a change. It was more like a city; busy streets, nightclubs, and whack-jobs. Yes, this was my kind of place. I could go unnoticed and live my sad and depressing life in solitude.

I submerge into the quiet downtown area. Few people walk down the streets, making sure their identities are unknown and their money secure.

I perch myself carefully on a bench and begin to strum the guitar. Who in the world would throw away such a wonderful guitar? It plays gratifyingly and I believe it to be a Les Paul; but, then again my minds not to clear right now to be sure.  

I start to play the tune to Ed Sheeran’s The A Team. I find it fitting for this situation.

Slowly but surely, I begin to sing.

“White lips, pale face

Breathing in snowflakes

Burnt lungs, sour taste

Light's gone, day's end

Struggling to pay rent

Long nights, strange men.”

People start to gather around and watch attentively. Willow always said I had a great singing voice. I didn’t believe it for once second.

“And they say

She's in the Class A Team

Stuck in her daydream

Been this way since 18

But lately her face seems

Slowly sinking, wasting

Crumbling like pastries

And they scream

The worst things in life come free to us

Cos we're just under the upperhand

Go mad for a couple grams

And she don't want to go outside tonight

And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland

Or sells love to another man

It's too cold outside

For angels to fly

Angels to fly.”

On the last note tears begin to fall down my cheeks as I remember singing this to Willow countless times. It wasn’t only her favorite song, it was her life story.

The small crowd nods approvingly and some people even hand me money for my performance.

I silently thank them and make my way down the street to the cheap motel. I could probably get a room with this money.

I walk in and the smell of smoke and mold overwhelms me. The lady behind the counter smiles at me and gives me the smallest room.

I stare at the water damaged ceiling as I lay back on the old motel bead. I run my hands over my scars and remember what each slice was for. I remember each incident and each emotion. It was my form of art, I reassure myself. My skin was my canvas and the blade was my brush. It was not only that, but a reminder; a reminder that I was still alive.