Saving Angelo

One - Monday Blues.

Chapter One
Step. Limp. Step. Limp. Step. Limp.

I shouldn't have gone yesterday.

Wince. Throb. Wince. Throb. Wince. Throb.

He was angry when I got back. Too angry to be bribed with the cheap ale I bought on the way back.

I reach the gates an hour before school starts. Still, there's people lingering around the car park, teachers conversing politely about whatever there is to talk about on a freezing, Monday morning.

At the time, I thought it may be better to leave earlier than usual in order to miss the morning hangover, especially after last night's occurrences. But now I think twice about it as a couple of teachers look over at me suspiciously.

I subconsciously pull my sleeves down further to cover my wrists, as if the amount of bands and bracelets I've got on isn't enough.

To be honest, this wasn't the first time I'd been mistaken for a stalker around school. On my first day at this school, about week ago, a teacher, Mrs Harrington, thought I was some sort of drug dealer, hiding behind the cleaner's shed on the back field. In reality, I had just escaped a biology lesson choking back tears after the unexpected arrival of an anxiety attack, which was always great.

Limping over to the nearest bench, I yank my hood over my head before cautiously sitting down on the wet wood.

However, as soon as I close my eyes, hoping for some peace, the thought comes to me again.

I shouldn't have gone yesterday.

I told myself during the days leading up to the 4th of November that I wasn't going to do it again this year.

The nightmares get worse.

Seeing the pale greyness of her gravestone, and picturing the look on my mother's face every time I place the flowers in front of it, never does well.

It drags me closer to the end of the pit.

Inflicted by my father or not, the wounds get deeper and more meaningful.

Even as I swore I wouldn't go back, I did.

But, I suppose, it fuelled me up. Filled me with the only emotions I can muster up anymore.

Self-hatred. Pain. Fear. The only emotions I can feel.

Anything to fill the numbness inside your black heart.

Suddenly I feel a tremendous ache in my lower stomach. I groan, applying pressure to the new bruise on my abdomen. It's like someone is constantly pounding me with punches, again and again and again.

A voice in my head suddenly speaks;

"This isn't what your mother would have wanted, Angelo,"

My fists clench, and I duck my head to hide my face from a couple of students now making their way into the building.

"She would have wanted you to be happy," it continues. "She wants you to speak up. You need help. Don't deny it. Under all that loathing you want to get out of this. You want help. You just need to ask,"

No.

My mother is dead. She wouldn't have wanted any of that. She hates me, I hate me, everyone hates me.

I don't deserve any help.

And even if I did, there would be no one to give it.

I push the voice aside, and put it in the box in the back of my mind, along with everything else that needs to be disposed of.