An Angel Wears Hightops [A Sequel to The Devil Wears Girl Jeans]

An Angel Wears Hightops (Chapter 6)

 “Wow,” Mickey said, sounding mildly impressed, “This is the worst one yet.”

Poe coughed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a trail of crimson across the light grey fabric as he slumped against the wall, sliding down it until he was sitting. Blood trickled down his face and in to his eyes, causing the hair on his forehead to clump together in damp spikes, and I leaped off the couch, grabbing one of the tea towels off of the stove and stepping towards him. He caught my wrist as I moved to wipe the blood from his temple, and he twisted it back so fast that I gasped, the bones in my wrist popping in protest.

Mickey was there in a flash, pushing Poe on to his back and holding him there by his throat. My wrist stung like crazy, but I was incapable of doing anything but standing there, frozen in shock, as Mickey pinned his badly beaten older brother to the floor, growling at him in what sounded like French.

“Tu es un connard! Stupide, tres stupide.”

I understood enough French to get the gist of their conversation, although it certainly helped when Poe spat at Mickey and yelled, “No, you're an asshole.”. Soon though, it became apparent that Poe was minutes away from passing out, and so Mickey and I each took one of his arms and dragged him to the couch, Poe's blood dripping on to my hoodie the entire time.

Poe was silent as Mickey and I dabbed at the blood covering a majority of his face, and even though I could tell Mickey was trying to be mad at his brother, there was still a hint of a proud smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Remember that time I called you a little bitch on Facebook, and Aunt Carrie emailed mom telling her to control her children?”

Poe let out a series of short exhales, and I almost fell off the couch when I realized that he was laughing. I didn't even think Poe was capable of feeling anything other than extreme indifference to absolutely everything.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because I definitely take that back. You've been upgraded from little bitch, to a respectable older brother.”

“Actually?” Poe asked, perking up a little. He took the cloth from me and held it to the shallow cut running across his temple. It was soaked with red almost instantly.

“Actually.” he confirmed, and I let out a long breath.

“Can you guys please just tell me what's going on here for once? You're awfully calm for someone who's brother just stumbled through the door, pretty much bleeding to death.” I snapped at Mickey, completely annoyed by all the stuff they weren't telling me. “It's almost like you're used to it.”

“To say that he was bleeding to death is a slight exaggeration. He was just bleeding a bit more than is probably healthy. It's not a big deal, he'll be fine.” Mickey explained. I stood up and headed towards the door, grabbing my jacket as I went.

Mickey was beside me in a flash, his eyes filled with guilt.

“I'll explain, I promise. Just don't leave.”

“Fine. You have 30 seconds.” I told Mickey, and he groaned, flopping down into the recliner. Poe was studying both of us silently from the couch, only one eye visible, the other completely obscured by the cloth. He did not look like a happy camper at all.

“Okay. So basically, this all started when I was 12, which I guess would've meant that Poe was like 15. Our dad used to get really drunk, and a lot of the time, he'd hit us. Poe always got the worst of it because he was the oldest, and so he started teaching himself how to fight back.” Mickey started, glancing at me to see if I was keeping up.

“I still remember the exact day it happened. It was October 10th, and our father was wasted, as usual. But it was different this time, because he pulled a knife on me. As bad as he got, he had never used any sort of weapon on us, not even belts. But yeah, so we're standing in the kitchen, he has one of those big knives that you used to cut like meat and whatever pressed up against my neck, right by the jugular, and he's screaming at me, saying how he's sorry I was even born, and all this stuff.”

Mickey paused, staring at the wall with a blank look on his face. It was obvious that he hadn't told this story in a long time, maybe even not at all. His silence though, told me that whatever came next had been bad.

“Then what?” I asked quietly, looking up at Mickey. He was wearing the same ratty Mickey Mouse sweater that he'd been wearing the first day I'd met him, his dark hair curling behind his ears the same way that Dallas's always did. It just about broke my heart.

“I killed him.” Poe said gruffly, removing the cloth from his forehead and throwing it in the general direction of the laundry room. He pushed himself off the couch and staggered out of the living room, presumably to the bathroom to bandage himself up. I couldn't help but notice the tortured look on his face as he retreated though, it sent chills down my spine.

I looked at Mickey in alarm, and he sighed, suddenly very pale. “Poe came tearing into the kitchen, and completely body checked him. He fell, hit his temple on the corner of the counter. There was a sound like someone hitting an orange with a baseball bat, and then he didn't move. Like, ever again. Our mom made up some back story about how he'd tripped or something, and I think she was relieved that he was gone to be honest. Because of him she has a dead leg or something- though I'm not entirely sure about that one as I tend to not really pay attention to other people's problems.”

He blinked, pulling a blanket around him as if it could block out the memories of his father, and let out a long shaky breath, as if he were trying not to cry.

“Dallas was so, so lucky. He never had to experience any of it.” he said in nearly a whisper, before clearing his throat. “Anyways, yeah. So after our dad died, my mom went in to like this crazy kind of conscious coma. She would like crawl in to bed at 3pm, fully clothed, and just stare at the wall for hours. She stopped going to work, and we wouldn't see her for days. She never left her room, just stared at the wall as far as I know. Anyways, one day this fancy guy in a suit comes by, and he was like, “Yo, pay your bills or else get out”. Not those exact words, but pretty close. So Poe, being the oldest, of course had to find a way to do it. He'd gotten so good at fighting from all those years of my dad being a drunken d-bag, that he went to one of his friends who was involved in some shady stuff, and he eventually helped Poe find some people who were pretty much underground street fighters. For the first year or two, he pretty much got his ass handed to him on a platter, nearly died about 20 times. My mom had no idea that any of this was going on. But he practised like crazy, and got good. Really good. Eventually, the money started rolling in. He saved all of our asses, and now he's one of the like, champions I guess, so he keeps doing it. I work the occasional shift at that diner on the corner, but he mostly takes care of the bills.”

“So all that “inheritance money” was really just the result of Poe beating the hell out of some poor kid?”

“Yep, that's pretty spot-on.” he confirmed, stretching out on the couch, obviously glad that the story was over and done with.

“But wait, what ab-” I was cut off by a knock at the door, and Mickey shot up off the couch, the blanket he'd been using falling to the floor soundlessly.

“Poe?” he called, his voice eerily calm, “Were we expecting company?”

Poe emerged from the bathroom, and even though his face was plastered with bandages, he still managed to frown.

“Not that I know of.”

Mickey crept towards the door, and fished a baseball bat out of the umbrella holder, grasping it loosely as he yanked open the door.

Halden was standing in the doorway, looking exactly the same as he had the last time I'd seen him, nearly 7 months ago.