Faith is a Secret Not a Promise

Chapter 4 - Statues don't Move

Oliver

"What a fucking bellend!"

That was the first thing to come out Connor's mouth once I'd told him about Michael Bardo. In contrast, Louis said something along the lines of "That prick thinks he's so fucking untouchable, honestly! And to think I was actually going to take his fucking advice on how to fucking build my own fucking business! Fuck! And fuck that American cunt too!"

Maybe not so contrasting after all. And Connor is the one known for being over-dramatic. Though I can't help but agree completely, "I know! And when Mrs Briggs called me into her office and I see him there, I was actually fucking nervous."

Both my friends give me inquisitive looks, "You were nervous? I don't think you've ever been nervous in your entire life." Connor's the one to call me out on this, and it's nothing but true.

"Well yeah, because I thought he was some utter genius whose only flaw was that he was too successful, you know, this mystical figure he made himself out to be in the lecture. But you know what? Turns out, his magic's horse shite!". Again, nothing but true.

Louis is still seething in his rageful state of disbelief when he starts to speak again, this time a bit quieter. "Wow! I guess this is what happens when you become this successful."

"What do you mean?" I query.

"You turn into a steaming pile of dog shite-"

"Horse"

"Right horse shite, and then you force everyone who's below you, which is indeed everyone, to start sniffing! I mean it's like a fucking Greek tragedy really." Louis' most probably right on this one, since you always hear about these rich arseholes who are only arseholes because their rich. Well, unfortunately, this particular rich arsehole didn't force me to smell his horse shite, instead he smelt like he'd just bathed in fucking Dior Sauvage! The Johnny Depp one! He should've just threw his fucking money at me and made me eat it!

"So I guess we all know what my destiny is now", Connor breaks the tension, making Louis and I laugh.

"As if mate. If anyone here is going to become a steaming pile of horse shite, it's Oliver!"

"What?!" Rude much.

"Oh, no that's a compliment, I meant that you're most likely to become successful out of us three." I shake this off with an eye-roll and a scoff, since it's bullshit and I know this will definitely set Connor off on one. And as Connor does in fact blow up into an extensive monolgue consisting of how he is the most 'money material' as he puts it, I zone into a monolgue of my own; an internal one, something Connor can never seem to do.

My eyes drift away from our table as I continue to mindlessly fiddle with the pint that's infront of me, taking random swigs when I'm not saying anything or that I've said too much and therefore in need of a little soothing. The three of us are in the pub local to our flat and Uni. Though we could choose any pub since, well it is London so they are on every corner and between, but we always return to this one - The Green Man. I can't remember anymore when it became 'our official pub' or 'our very specific table in said pub', but it did very quickly after we first moved in together. Although, it was most probably the day after the first of us turned eighteen as the hangover recovery from the actual day that the first of us turned eighteen. Not that anyone actually cares what age you are, it's England after all, babies' bottles are probably laced with Cherry Sourz. The Green Man has forever been our place for recovering hangovers, or celebtrating enough to inevitably create one, but right now I'm seeking some rejuvenation from my tragic encounter earlier today with Michael Bardo.

At the sudden thought of him, I swiftly excuse myself from my still ranting friends and head outside to smoke a quick fag. Don't worry, I can say that. I'm British. The October air is more forgiving in the afternoon, though I still hold my coat close as I take long drags from my cigarette, begging for any possible way of warmth. Standing outside distracts me easily from my worrisome thoughts, onlooking the bustling streets of London. Workers straggling between each other to get to their next meeting. Toursists, who think that it's perfectly fine to just stop in the middle of the pavement. Locals who swear at the tourists. I also enjoy eavesdropping on the fellow excessive smokers (who are also certainly drunk) beside me. London is the epitome of entertainment. It's perfect for watching for watching people flow past you, witnessing one single moment from their entire life and then wondering (because you can't help but) if someone is seeing you.

_______

The flat feels a lot bigger when it's quiet. The sound of friends no longer fills it to the corners, the empty space seems to call for me to spread my arms and try to fill it, but it never quite reaches. So I sit in silence, after failed attempts with the TV and music to replace the void; lounging in the living room with a book appears to be the best method of not making it so depressingly obvious how lonely I currently am. It loads my head with readied scenes of adventure or romance rather than tyring to entertain myself with original thoughts, and I am not feeling very imaginative right now since, anytime my mind begins to wander it will inevitably reach the events of what unfolded earlier today. I only cringe deeply and painfully when I remember.

Louis and Connor have gone out for drinks with some of our other friends, to which I respectufully declined the invite out of preference for a restful evening. Of course I'll be leaving in five minutes to join them since the pair told me that I sounded like a twenty-two-year-old that'll be turning fifty-two tomorrow. Those bastards definitely know how to get into my head.

Upon that reminder, I abruptly shut my book after saving the place with a pen and stand up from my horizontal position on the sofa, bones cracking with satisfaction. I start towards my bedroom where I thoughtlessly check upon my appearance and agree with no one that it'll do. I rush with my aftershave and sliding into some shoes and tugging on a coat, instinctively shoving my hands into the pockets to check for essentials, until finally I feel ready to leave the warmth of home.

Walking out the front door always swirls the brain. Stepping out into the cold, evening air as you pull your clothes tighter, search your pockets deeper and sigh a long breath (though, I'm never really sure why I do that last one). You continue to walk briskly whilst waiting for the impending feeling that you've forgotten something, so you double check your memory that all you need is with you (of course it would make much more sense to do this before you leave the house). Then, you look ahead to what you're walking to: a night out with friends. You ask yourself: Who might be there? Am I going to be bored with their stories that they hope to impress me with? What do I fancy to drink? Finally, your thoughts calm down and you're content to enjoy this walk with the pleasant company of yourself and the mild air tonight for a couple more moments until you arrive 'fashionably late' which causes everyone to turn to you to say hello at last.

I love my friends, of course I do or else I wouldn't call most of them 'friends', but...perhaps I'm simply not in want of the buzz that seems to be tonight. I know that I will have fun tonight, I always do. I just cannot shake the feeling that today has been a shitshow and how I just want to wallow in it for a while. I know it won't help. It's a conflicting feeling, really. The desire to just not move for a little while longer in hopes that you'll never have to face your worries. What my worries are right now I don't exactly know, which to be honest is more frustrating than actually knowing.

I'm sure this obscure feeling will seem like it had never even existed by morning. Won't it? Well, maybe a couple of drinks will help to make certain of that.

I just pray that tonight goes by quickly and most importantly, smoothly.