Gabriel: Prequel

four

"You never told me what happened that night, with the whole thing going on when we met," I muse aloud, looking down at Harper, her head resting on my lap.

"Because it's none of your business," she states pointedly, getting up to sit properly. The sun catches on her hair, brightening the loose, blonde strands. Even though I've seen her countless times, she never fails to make my breathing halt, and my heart stammer. The blunt words weaving between her more low pitched voice, combined with her striking beauty affirmed countless times that I really lucked out with her.

"Someone is very touchy today, is it your menstruation month?"

Instead of answering, she lifts her elbow and digs it into me without looking up, "And someone is being a prick - don't make me actually hurt you."

"As if this doesn't hurt," I wince, the pain nowhere near subsiding, still reeling from the bruises from a couple of days ago. Harper sits up with surprise in her eyes, glancing at every point on my body, her face smoothing into coolness.

"Why don't you just tell someone?"

I angle my head, looking at her with confusion.

"Why don't you tell someone about," she nods at my side, "that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She plucks a piece of grass from the ground, her eyebrows furrowing together. "Okay, be proud and don't tell me anything. Just make an effort to lie better."

A tugging inside of me unleashes a deep sigh, and I internally damn my conscience. Harper and I had agreed to make this work between us for a while now, but the thread between us is dainty, faint. The smallest pluck will break it, and one of us on the receiving end of the thread would be burned. Tentatively, I stand up and extend my arm out to her. "Let's take a walk."

"I don't want to walk, I'm tired," she mutters, not bothering to look up at me.

"Harper."

Nothing.

I repeat her name over and over again until she reluctantly gets up, flipping me off. "Why do we even need to walk?"

I make a face, my hand still extended. She doesn't do anything for a few seconds until she places her palm in mine, dragging me along behind her as she walks away from the grassy field. We walk into the city street, life bustling around us, colours streaming around everywhere.

"My mom wouldn't register anything," I say abruptly, slightly surprising myself. Harper tenses beside me, turning to look at me with an eager look in her eye. She says nothing, so I continue. "She has her own issues to deal with, so if I did tell her about my dad, it wouldn't change anything." We continue walking past the crowds of people, stopping near a lone bench on the other side of the road.

"Why does he hit you?"

I think about it, properly, wanting to avoid an answer in which the thread could be pulled, or snap. "Maybe because I'm too good looking," I grin, flexing a muscle.

"Your ego needs a hit of its own," she says under her breath, unable to hide a faint smile on her lips.

"What about your parents?" Her smile vanishes as quick as it came.

"They're not in the picture anymore."

I grab her hand softly, pulling her to look at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"They're not dead," she smiles, although it doesn't quite reach her eyes, "they just really fucked out of the picture as soon as they could."

"Parents, huh," I scoff, still clutching onto her hand.

Harper lets out a groan, shaking her head. "They're dicks, I hate them. I don't even think I could be one."

I raise an eyebrow suggestively, nudging her, "What about our kids?"

She whips around hastily, narrowing her eyes at me. "I'm not bearing your kids, you big man-baby."

I nod mockingly, relaxing into the bench. The soreness of the bruise fades away when she speaks, when she's with me. Perhaps it's naivety, or being young, but I really can see Harper having my children - can see us raising our own family in a better way, not letting them feel the same toxicity we have. I can see the strong woman beside me as someone I'd want to keep in my life. It's the same thought that tightens the grip on her hand, and she doesn't loosen it, either.

_________________________

The sun begins to set, blending into the amber coloured in the sky, and the only source of light left begins to dim. The outdoor lights spread over the field, the astroturf becoming clearer in my vision. Sweat sticks to me as I work around the pitch, my body heating up under the harsh floodlights. Just one more round, I internally promise myself. One more.

One more turns into another, and another after that. I move around the pitch countless times - each time, perfecting the angle of my kick, or the direction of how I score.

By the time every breath has been knocked out of me, I fall onto my knees, the floodlights illuminating the areas around me, but the spot of turf I'm on is dark. The darkness swarms around me, the faint echo of my heartbeat ringing around. Sitting alone in the still quiet, my body tenses, and starts to quiver.  

The football pitch, once a haven, is now desolate. It's true I stay here in the quiet emptiness - even more than my house, but neither really provides an out: an out from the pressures from my dad; from who I am.  Amongst my teammates, I'm an odd one out, never quite fitting the type of teammate they wanted: too outgoing, too expressive, not quite masculine enough. The constant shaming and not so discreet mocking of who I am led me to play at night instead, hoping that I'd practise enough to the point where they can only compliment and praise me. And maybe, the same applied to my dad, too.