Gabriel: Prequel

seventeen

[ harp's pov]

Hazy darkness floods the room as a shadowy figure sits still by the bed, his head hung low by the only source of light. The lamp casts a slight glow around him, creating the illusion of a halo above his head. But, if anything, he's as far as from the light as he can be.

I stride boldly towards him, slumping against the bed in the same lowly manner. He doesn't even look at me for minutes, hanging his head low as his knuckles tighten in each fist. His black hair cascades on either shoulder and his piercings glint in the light, just barely. An angry silence bellows between us, threatening me to leave. But, I won't. I've had enough of his shit and I'm done running.

Finally, Nicholas looks at me, his face twisted into fury. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Despite his anger, I guess he's surprised how I found him. Being part of a gang has connections, and I already knew he wouldn't be in the house - too many memories of her hang there.

"I'm here to cut the bullshit," I reply curtly.

"Shut up. Stop talking in riddles and leave," he growls, not bothering to look at me anymore.

"Isn't it tiring?" I ask, staring ahead at the blank canvas of a wall. No frames, no nothing. Unsurprising. I take his silence as an indication to continue. "You must be tired of being so angry. You were angry when she was alive, and now that she's dead, you're still angry. And, for what?"

Aware of the boldness of my words, I decide to stare at him evenly, forcing him to look at me.

"Why do you think I'm so angry, Harper? She was murdered in front of me and none of you fucking helped her."

"Shut the fuck up, Nicholas," I snap, fury running in my own veins. "Stop blaming everyone else, because, really, you're not even mad at any of us, are you? You're mad at yourself. So, do us all a favour and stop taking it out on us when you can't even admit your part in this."

"If you're just going to talk shit, then leave, I'm not interested."

"It'll be easier if you just accept it's no one's fault. You being angry and cutting everyone off is annoying and not helping anything."

By now, he glares at me, but the ferocity glowing in his eyes dulls at my words. "Why should it be easier? She died and I couldn't help her."

"Yeah, she did die," I repeat, not letting our stare waver, "you can't change anything, either. If you ever cared about her, you'd know that she would resent you for being like this."

And then, it happens. His face softens into stillness as his lips slightly tremble and he breaks eye contact, hiding his eyes by staring out of the window. "She should resent me."

"If you don't cut this shit out, you'll end up being buried with self-pity. And that's inescapable. No way out. Accept what happened," my tone softens by a fracture, not wanting to push him off the edge when it's taken so long to keep him hooked.

"Do you know what I wished for that day? I wished that she'd always be happy in whatever happens," he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

"I think she was happy, don't you? She got to see you smile and, honestly, that's what made death so easy for her. She knew you were in good hands with us, and that you can be happy. She died blissfully, accepting that you probably can be happy without her. Now, it's your turn. Do her and yourself a favour and open up again."

The slight light illuminates wetness on his cheek as he stays in stoic silence. I tighten my fists and bite my cheek to stop my voice cracking. Neither of us look at the other or speak, both of our hearts and minds preoccupied. The silence is no longer angry or defiant, but dull, edging into comfort.

"What if I can't forgive myself?" Nicholas finally asks, still looking away.

I shrug, sighing. "It won't be easy, but you know that. You're your own worst critic and best ally that you'll have: you need you. Self-pity is annoying as hell, though, so if you can't forgive yourself immediately, then move on and stop wallowing in hatred."

He nods simply, resting his head back against the wooden counter and closes his eyes. "You're being hypocritical: you haven't even spoken to anyone and you're offering me advice like some damn saint?"

This time, it's my turn to avert my gaze, my chest tightening. I know he's right, and that's what maddens me the most. I've been a coward, running from everyone. Especially Gabe. The thought of him shatters my heart slightly, and my eyes threaten to flood. Fucking weak. Initially, I ran away because I truly believed I let Amancia die, and I almost let Gabe die. The thought of being the cause for his death sent me into a spiral of sorrow and pity. But, things change. The gift Amancia had gotten me rang through my head during my spiral, and despite how stupid it felt at the time to even consider socks for babies when she had died, I felt an urge to do something about it. Call it fate, or a growing child, but I received a positive test. I suppose if it turned out negative, I'd stay inside a hole of alcohol, drugs and pity, but I'm not. The only option is for me to stop pitying myself, because being weak is a selfish option now. "You know shit, Nicholas."

He grunts in response, and I take that as a good thing. He's distracted for now, and that is slightly better than making me dwell on things I don't want to.

I stand up and extend an arm out to him, "I think it's time for us to go home."

Without replying, he takes my hand and gets up, turning off the light and letting the darkness unfold behind us as we leave the room.