Deception (Michael Clifford)

Fifteen

***

My boots scrape against the sidewalk lazily, leaving tiny scratches along the sides.
Slowly I lift my head and breath out in the cold air that's stinging my throat, my fringe casting a shadow over my eyes as I pass under a street light. It's not that dark to be honest. Not to me.
Fuck it's got to be close to freezing though.
I growl at the voice in my head. It's not cold, I don't feel cold.
I turn another corner as a black cab whips past, kicking up grit and leaving a gagging stench behind. I rub my nose in disgust.
Why do I do this...
I ask my self this almost every time I come out here. What is the point. All I'm doing is walking around aimlessly and getting cold.
No.
There is a point. Do not ask me what it is. I shove my hands into my pocket angrily.
It's been a while since I've walked these streets. We haven't been to London in ages. It almost feels strange... the double decker buses, the yellow glow from the top of the vintage looking lamps. Other than that the cold grey stone of the buildings is familiar.
It's welcoming in a way... Blocks out the emotion.

A couple of male teenagers walk past me, scoffing over their shoulder and muttering under their breath. I look at them through my fringe. Ordinarily I would confront them, ask them what they think is so funny, but they are dressed in overly large track pants that are half way down their ass and brightly coloured jackets that hang off their shoulders, I laugh inwardly and grimace at them as they walk ahead.
Dumb kids, if only you could see how stupid you look.
I look down instead and decide to pull a cigarette out of the pocket of my jeans, leaning to the side slightly to get it out. Slowly my fingers work on the lighter, and I clasp my hands around it to block the wind.
I didn't tell the guys that I was going out tonight, it's none of they're business to be honest, and they don't care.
I take a drag.
Ashton says that he does, says that I should talk to someone about what ever is going on in my head but no one will understand. No one ever does.
Fuck them.
I don't need anyone sticking their noses into my life. Kind of hard to do though when your in a band like this. I scowl unconsciously and shake my head, smoke filtering into my lungs comfortingly.
A couple of people frown at me as they walk past, two women, obviously higher class with the way they are dressed. They look at me with judging eyes and sniff disapprovingly.
I glare at them under my eyebrows with as much poison as I can muster and they quickly hurry off.
Stupid people.

I look up again, passing by a window of a well lit cafe. I squint uncomfortably in the glare and come to a stop, pulling the cigarette away from my mouth.
I know this place.
It's been a while, but I recognise it, the rough yellow brick and old metal railing that frames the windows.
I can tell without looking at the sign that this is the Old Boat Coffee House. Long time no see...
The sweet aroma coming from inside wets my tongue and I drink it in eagerly, I could kill for a hot drink right now, but I don't take money with me out here.
Money attracts trouble.
Suddenly my eye is caught by a figure getting up from one of the tables inside and making their way towards the door, and I watch almost in a daze. It looks familiar, but I don't recognise who it is until it reaches the door. I take in a sharp breath and quickly spin around to duck behind the corner, just as the tinkling from the bell sounds.
I hold my breath and press up against the wall.
What is she doing out here so late? These streets are dangerous.
I lick my lips nervously and listen for foot steps, cocking my head to the side slightly. I hear her approaching, the soft sound of converse against the pavement, but remain where I am hidden in the shadows, my back closely hugging the brick as I wait for her to pass. The footsteps get louder and suddenly her small figure appears on the sidewalk, her head, covered by a grey beanie, swinging around nervously in the nightly bustle of the London streets.
So she should be nervous. She shouldn't be out here by herself so late.
My limbs itch to approach her, walk with her back to the hotel, make sure she gets back safely. But I can't bring myself to move forward, I can't talk to her, I can't.
Talking is what got you into this mess Michael.
I should wait for her to leave, let her get home by herself, she's not a little kid. But for some reason I cant help but feel this need to know that she gets back safely. The seconds pass as I argue with myself about what to do.
Fuck this.
Throwing my cigarette on the ground, I wait for her to walk on for a few more moments before peeling myself off the wall and cautiously following her down the street.
This is wrong.
I shouldn't be following her like this.
I know that, but what do you expect me to do?
Besides, it's not the first time. But I was drunk then.
I can't just leave her to wander around by herself, I decide in my head, she could get hurt.