Not My Angel

Prologue: A Small Thunderclap

The rain outside was getting heavier now. Pete had just gotten out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist as he ruffled a smaller one on top of his head to dry off his hair. He stopped after a short minute, stepping in front of the mirror and wiping the steam from it. He set the towel on top of the sink and swept his slightly damp hair away from his face.

He squinted into the glass, silently judging the dark strands that fell just underneath his ears to frame his face. The hair at the front of his head always hovered just above his eyes, not exactly hiding them the way he wished.

The hair that almost covered his eyes was something he was slightly thankful for because - according to Pete - "Who would want to look at a person with brown eyes? Every pair of brown eyes are either dark or not dark enough; there's no middle ground..."

Pete thought this over and over again while he blankly stared at his reflection for a moment longer. He inhaled slowly and evenly, eventually leading to a sigh as he anxiously tossed his hair between his fingers a couple times and looked away. He sniffed once and cleared his throat to distract himself as he opened up the medicine cabinet, not wanting to look at himself long enough to find every possible flaw that he knew was there.

He stared at the pill bottles on one of the shelves for a good while as he debated whether or not he should take one tonight. He did this every night, arguing silently with the other side of his brain over just one of the few transparent orange bottles he had - "I didn't take one last night and nothing too bad happened. Maybe that means I don't have to take them anymore. Oh, but I didn't sleep at all last night. What if that becomes a permanent side effect if I stop taking it?..." - and he always lost to the opposite side of his brain. He always ended up unscrewing the cap, pouring out two small capsules into his hand, placing the bottle in the same spot to debate over again later, and closing the cabinet so the mirror was facing him again.

Pete took the plastic cup he always kept on the side of the sink and filled it with water from the faucet before putting both pills into his mouth. He held his breath as he brought the cup to his mouth and swallowed them both in a single gulp of water, a disgusted grimace on his face the whole time, just like usual.

Pete's body shuddered with discomfort, feeling the small bump go down his throat and to his stomach as he emptied the cup into the sink and set it back down. "God, that's gross," he groaned in disgust before switching the bathroom light off and walking down the hall to his bedroom.

He let the towel fall off his waist once he got there, paying it no mind when he tossed it to the side after drying the last few drops of water on his arms and neck; after all, it was his apartment.

He fished through one of the drawers in his beaten up dresser, slipping on a clean pair of boxer shorts when he found them, and stepped to the front room where he wrapped his body in the dark robe that hung off the arm of the loveseat. He sat himself down, curled himself up in the corner of the cushions, and rested his head on the opposite arm, facing the open window.

This was the strongest rain the city's had in a very long while. For some reason, it reminded Pete of how many chances he'd had to spend time with friends or family. In fact, he had the chance to make plans with two of his closest friends a while ago, but he decided to cancel at the last minute, claiming he wasn't feeling very well, an excuse which wasn't entirely a lie at the time. Since then, he's made the same excuse for almost every day someone wanted to spend with him. That first excuse was weeks - maybe a month - in the past.

Nowadays - usually when it was raining like it was in that moment - Pete stayed inside his apartment, watched the rain and lightning from the window when they'd drop by, listened to the thunder when it called to him. At night, he would do all of this until he fell asleep on the couch. Even when it wasn't storming, he'd always fall asleep in that same spot on the same couch. His bedroom had remained unused for the past few weeks... or months. He couldn't keep track.

The white noise of rain and thunder weren't the only things that lulled him into a usually peaceful trance; there was the thing he'd repeat to himself until he fell asleep, the one thing he knew off the top of his head, and it was only the number of days it had been.

His three-step process began with closing his eyes, taking deep and careful breaths next, then thinking the number to himself on every slow exhale - "5-8-2...5-8-2...5-8-2..." - until he couldn't think of it anymore, a hopefully silent and dark sleep taking him down for the next few hours.

As of right now, October was almost over. That was the only other thing he knew.

However, tonight was not one of those nights he would sleep through in just a couple blinks. No one in his apartment building knew that in just a short while, someone would come knocking on Pete's door, and completely alter his entire perception of the world - and maybe even himself - forever...