Faith is a Secret Not a Promise

Chapter 5 - Memories we Try to Change

Michael

Is being a natural asshole to good people just some unwritten and unchangeable fate of mine? Or am I an asshole that just needs to think for a second before they open their mindless mouths? I beg not of the former and opt for the latter, hoping that it has room for redemption.

For the cause of my problems are those green eyes that have been etched into brain, impossible to lose sight of again, even when I'm no longer looking at him who possesses them. If my father could currently hear my thoughts, he'd quote the 'brilliant' (as he claims) E.E Scott who once said, 'Some days I am a museum of things I want to forget'. He couldn't be any more right.

Clinging onto the memory and predictability of my father's words, I find some comfort. At least, more than I would from other temporary pleasures that I am ashamed to admit to.

I am presently in my hotel room, lying uncomfortably horizontal on the couch, feet overhanging one end as the other digs into the nape of neck. Irritated though not bothered enough to adjust the pillow my head is resting on, I allow my attention to be reconsumed by the TV. An old movie is playing, beautifully dramatic with that nostalgic sound and speed at which old Hollywood actors would talk in. Their eccentric movements and tone, clearly over-executed, though soothing to watch. But I couldn't tell you the title.

After twenty minutes of straining my neck and drifting my focus between the plot of a black and white screen to the vivid green I would catch glimpse of in my mind without warning, I turn off the TV. It was inevitable really. I can never seem to manage sitting through a whole movie, finishing it appeared increasingly more pointless the more impatient I got. Patience was never a trait atrributed to me, my mother likes to recall to me frequently whenever I appear mildly annoyed around her.

Tonight I agree with her. As well as all the other terrible traits that I do possess.

I soon give up on thinking about regret.

My neck thanks me as I stand and move toward the bedroom, retiring for the night. I hope that the memories of today's events dissipate by morning, like what we dream of when we're asleep.

_______

My dreams betrayed me last night. All I saw was a green ocean, a green sky and green birds, all parading my mind in melancholic scenery. I suppose forgetting was a plan that decided not to follow through.

Lying in bed and hugging the comforter closer to my body, I nuzzle my thoughts deep into my throat and exhale them away, though they don't travel far. Insistent on distraction, I result to tearing away from bed and getting ready for the day. I have no lectures, no meetings, no actual place to be, but nonetheless I prep myself as if there were. Routinely and monotonously roaming the hotel room, pulling things together for the day.

Dressed for the casual occassion, I decide on taking a much needed walk until settling into a place that feels both cozy and distracting from my habitual worries. That shouldn't be too hard to find in London, right?

Leaving the hotel without my driver, Terry, for the first time throughout this trip has surprisingly shocked me into what should be a seemingly obvious realisation, that I'm some lonesome tourist in a foreign country. I'm not sure why it hasn't dawned on me before. I find it more startlingly lonely than a content solitude that I usually like to indulge myself with. It's utterly unsettling.

So is this bitter October morning. And the rush of people seems to be more suffocating than New York. The sidewalks are more narrow and built of ancient, uneven bricks that require considerable attention not to trip over. Black cabs whizz past. People jaywalk across roads, unbothered by risk since they're most likely used to the surge everyday, that it has become an artform to meander through the parade with utmost ease. A hum of noise lingers in my ears comfortably. Cigarette smoke fills my senses rather the smell of Weed that I had somehow grown immune to noticing after some time back in New York City.

I press on with the herd, uncertain of when I want to stop. My customary morning coffee had already been attained, so I'm in no need for further refreshments, but the desire for more doesn't subside. I catch sight of many worthy places to relax, cafes with a vintage vibe, coffee shops with a modern sleek, small business establisments of supposedly delicious and authentic foods from around the world. But my feet carry me on, enjoying the pleasant stroll for the meantime.

More black cabs. More jaywalking. More cigarette smoke.

The Green Man.

Interesting.

It's a classic British pub, and by that I mean that despite it being 10:00 in the morning there's somehow a substantial amount of customers. Still, there's enough room to encourage me to settle down into a free corner. It has a rustic interior that creates both a comforting vibe and one of in which tourists would love to take pictures and post them to their incredibly important and interesting instagram profiles. Luckily I aim to not completely expose myself as a tourist to this crowd...just yet at least, my New York mannerisms are bound to slip out at some point before I can catch myself.

Rather than overthinking my Americaness, I pull out my phone and settle on answering important work emails.

_______

Oliver

Everybody knows that the best way to nurse a godawful hangover is with more alcohol. This is what has lead us to our trio's usual retreat: The Green Man.

It's only 11am, but fuck, Connor, Louis and I are in serious need of nursing after last night! I wish I had never of left our flat!