Consequences

5. crumbling composure

Streaks of sunlight hit my vision when I open the heavy wooden door of Axl's apartment building, the brightness practically blinding me. Therefore, when I accidentally walk straight into someone and stumble backwards like the human version of Bambi, I'm quick to apologize.

"Shit, I'm sorry."

A male voice beside me curses under his breath before reaching out to help me regain my balance. "Oh, fuck. My bad," he murmurs in a quiet and apologetic tone. When my eyes have finally adjusted to the seemingly wonderful weather, I look up to see a lanky man of approximately 25 with raven black hair and a charismatic face, a cigarette dangling from his thin lips.

It takes all my strength to put on a small smile and give the man a somewhat reasonable reply. "No, no. You're good, it's my fault. The sun kind of... Yeah," I stutter and feel the heat rise to my cheeks. My mind is still jumbled and irrational from having a minor internal breakdown, and in my still sleepy state it doesn't seem appealing to be having a civil conversation right now.

"Are you doing alright?" he asks, his gaze settling on the pair of shoes in my hands before traveling down to my feet. His brows knit together and his voice sounds as genuine as Axl's, not to mention their perceptible accents that they seem to share. I already know it is going to be horribly difficult to forget about that certain redhead with bright green eyes.

"I'm fine," I say, but my voice betrays me when it falters considerably. Before I burst into tears at the thought of another stranger's supposedly genuine concern for my well-being, I walk away with quick footsteps, pushing the massive crowd of busy people out of my way.

My crumbling composure is not to be shared with anyone, it is a private matter. It shouldn't concern anyone how broken and emotionally exhausted I am. Even though spending the night at an unfamiliar person's place in great company helped me keep my mind off of things, reality is still lurking in the back of my head, constantly poking imaginary spears into my scalp to remind me of the circumstances and consequences of my decisions.

The look I received from the bartender last night when he inevitably overheard the conversation between my father and I was one of pure pity. Strangers give me sympathetic stares, while so-called friends and family members seem look right through me as if I am merely an unwanted breeze in the otherwise pleasantly silent night. I couldn't blame them, though. Sometimes I want to pick a fist fight with myself exclusively because I exist. However, I highly doubt people would let such a scenario go unnoticed.

My older brother, Nick, cares about me. So does his father, Charlie. Marvin cared about me, too. I bite my inner cheek and shake my head to get rid of thoughts of Marvin and our childhood memories before the incident.

My red and black striped sweater has dried blood on it from last night, and according to the glares from bypassing people on these overcrowded streets my face must resemble a zombie's. As much as I crave a drink or ten right now, a shower is more than necessary in order for me to stay adequately sane. I should've taken one at Axl's place when he offered it, but I had to leave. He had already done enough for me.

When I turn another corner without falling or walking into anyone, I spot the exact place I am in desperate need of. 24 Hour Fitness. Although I do not own a membership card for this exact place, or any other fitness industry for that matter, I refuse to let the chance of taking a shower pass me by. Therefore, I walk straight into the building and past the receptionist, pretending to be deaf when she begins to call after me in a demanding tone. I mastered the art of faking deafness in emergency situations, which I would most certainly call this, when I was very young. It always seemed to keep me out of horrendous situations and arguments. A lot of times it was beneficial to pretend not to exist at all.

The locker rooms in this place are neat and nearly empty. I only receive a few suspicious glares as I make my way towards the individual shower stalls. I suppose it's quite obvious I'm not here to work out. My ragged attire, disheveled hair and makeup smudged face are dead giveaways that I am here for other reasons.

The blue doors have no locks, which causes a lump to form in my throat and my stomach to twist in horror. I don't know if I even expected there to be locks, but the thought of someone walking in while I'm naked and vulnerable as ever makes me nauseous. I contemplate for a few minutes whether it's worth the risk, and I end up deciding to shower as quickly and discreetly as possible.

Ten minutes later I am dressed in clean clothes from my backpack; a plain black shirt and grey sweatpants. Axl's advice from last night appears in my mind when I carefully unwrap my injured hand, washing the slowly healing cuts before putting the extra supply of bandages on and wrapping it in gauze once again. The bleeding hasn't started again, and the pain has subsided drastically since last night.

The amount of energy it takes to put on makeup isn't present in my system today, so I pray that people in this city can stand the sight of an all natural me. My blonde hair is a tangled mess, so I run my hand through it until it looks like less of a bird's nest. I brush my teeth thoroughly, because feeling clean is utterly vital to me. If possible I would spend hours cleaning my entire body over and over, letting the water rinse every inch before eventually turning ice cold.

The dirty clothes from before are put in a plastic bag and stuffed into my backpack. To say I am an organized person with my life under control is an exaggeration, but I never go anywhere without extra clothes. Especially on a trip to Los Angeles, which has now turned into a permanent move.

I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I'm so determined to stay here. Going back to New Orleans with my father has never seemed as repulsive as it does right now, compared to the millions of other options there are. No one gets to decide where I go, I'm a free bird and this is my time to spread my wings and let the wind carry me to the destination I am destined for.

That is of course a lot easier said than done, but it doesn't hurt to keep it in the back of your head as a reminder when things get rough.

I grab a pair of clean socks and put them on along with my shoes, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. The receptionist is absent when I walk out of the building, which means I managed to shower at this gym without getting in trouble or paying for it. An internal victory dance never harmed anyone.

The last sun streaks of the day have the decency to peek their way through the clouds that litter the clear blue sky. Despite the circumstances it is indeed a beautiful day. The sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore is hardly audible, but perhaps my strong desire to see the Pacific for myself is enough to make the peaceful sounds more realistic than they actually are.

The atmosphere of this industrialized massively growing city is almost too exotic and uplifting to be having a bad day. The everlasting amount of cars passing by is a reminder of how many people I'm surrounded by, a certain sense of safety dawning upon me at this realization. Usually I hate large crowds, my anxiety and claustrophobia preventing me from socializing properly, but this is different. I still avoid eye and physical contact with people on the street, but the thought of finally, after 19 years, being able to breathe without fearing a hand slapping me across the face is more freeing than I thought. I know he's still in Los Angeles, that is if he's still following the original plan of leaving tomorrow. He may or may not be looking for me, but nonetheless he won't find me; the city's too big and I'm too small.

Palm trees stand tall on either side on the road ahead of me, and the sun is now setting in the horizon, making the sky appear purple and tropical. The city definitely lives up to its reputation of having a massive music scenes, since the sound of electric guitars and well-played drumbeats are easily heard from various clubs and bars. I pass several hotels on my way, but with my very limited amount of cash I won't be able to afford a room.

I walk past a pay phone, contemplating whether I should give Nick a call or not. Before I can decide against it I'm walking back and closing the glass door behind me, the small space causing my heart rate to pick up immediately. However, the thought of hearing my brother's voice makes the claustrophobia go away as quickly as it arrives. I need to hear Nick's encouraging voice telling me everything will be alright, the way he always used to when we were younger.