Born Different (17 page)

Really, he
thought, it was like living with a least two different people
inside his own head. It wasn’t even as if there was a devil on one
shoulder and an angel on the other, or even a good cop, bad cop
scenario. It was more like a gang of negative critics each
whispering in his ear. A troupe of multiple personalities,
dominated by the depressive and wind up merchant ones. Was the only
voice of reason his own voice or just the one he had to listen to,
to keep sane? Gabe needed to build his strength up and not just in
his wings and not next week or next year. He needed to do it
now!

Gabe picked up
his jacket that still smelt of Grace and he took out the black
eyeliner that he had been keeping in the inside pocket. He
uncovered the sculpture he was working on and, with just the
feelings that he had experienced that evening that were good, Gabe
got to work; the first piece he stuck onto the sculpture being the
black eye liner pencil. Gabe had realised that it just wasn’t
him.

Gabe
physically, mentally, emotionally gave his all to the creation in
front of him. He sweated and bled and shed tears. He felt his body
hurt in places that he didn’t know existed. But it felt good. He
worked through the pain barrier. He laughed and he wept. He kept
going until he could hardly keep his eyes open anymore and then he
collapsed, sated on to the cushioned floor where he slept and
dreamt the most vivid and spectacular dreams in the hour before
dawn.

An ancient nun
on a mobility scooter passed Gabe one way as a punk with full
spiked rainbow Mohican and studded denim jacket and face, passed
him the other way. Gabe had the address and photo of his dad in his
hand. He knew of this area of the city but had spent little time
here before. This was not the best part of town and it was known
locally as ‘Worlds’ End’. This was where everything got a bit odd
and the really obvious drunks and addicts hung out and lived.
Anyone here, dressed smart was either lost or after drugs or sexual
favours. It was the area where adult shops, cash convertors and all
hours booze newsagent could be found. It looked darker and dirtier
than the rest of the city, like it was perpetually under a dark
cloud expecting a storm.

Gabe had found
the block of flats with the same name as on the bit of paper. The
flats looked dirtier than the street, if that was at all possible.
The grime was thick and the stairwell was dark, dank, damp, dingy
and pissy and Gabe was justifying it all to himself, trying to make
some order and sense of it. This man, his father, was an artist, a
bohemian; he was not going to be middle class was he? He was not
going to live on Millionaire’s Row, even if he had the money. He’d
want to be among the people, the real people on the edge of
society. Gabe was nervous, so nervous that he could have puked.
Every instinct felt like it was telling him
not
to do this,
but his legs just kept going, one foot in front of the other,
despite the protests from the voices in his head.

Up the hard
concrete stairwell to the top, seven floors and Gabe stalled,
almost beat, on the landing for a moment in hesitation and to get
his bearings and his breath back. He looked at the photo and he
checked the address for the umpteenth time.

He had arrived
and there was potentially something on the other side of that door
in front of him. It could be nothing, a stranger could answer with
no idea what he was going on about and chase him right back down
the stairs or it could, well it could be everything.

Gabe rang on
the door bell and waited. He was not quite sure if it worked as he
had heard no accompanying bell noise and, more importantly, no one
was coming to answer the door. So he knocked, politely and gently
at first and he waited again. Still nothing. He banged on the door
a few times, as hard as he could, in one last nothing-to-lose
way.

After all that
stressing out and no one was in anyway. Typical!

As Gabe gave up
and turned to leave, his gut told him to stay. Whether one of his
senses picked up a low vibration of their particular skill or it
was something else, Gabe knew, there was definitely someone in
there. Gabe put his ear closer to the crack in the door. He could
hear shuffling and walking. He thought he could hear talking too,
low constant conversation, a TV or radio perhaps?

“Hello! Hello!
Is there anyone in?” Gabe crouched down and shouted through the
letter box.

There was more
shuffling and noise from behind the closed door, so Gabe peered
through the letter box to see if he could see anything. For a
moment, he panicked as it looked worse than Johnny’s dad’s flat had
done. Had it been trashed too? Was his own dad in there, tied up
and gagged? Is that what he could hear?

Gabe felt that
there was no other option left now but to kick down the door. The
image of his dad trapped and in pain was now imprinted on his brain
so that he could physically see it in detail.

Gabe took a few
steps back on the balcony. He could have done with a longer run up
but this was as far as the railings would allow. After a few deep
breaths, he went for it. He ran, or rather hopped the two steps,
and with all his weight behind him, he leapt into the air and aimed
his shoulder to the lock on the door like he had seen it done in
films.

“And who...the
fuck...are you?”

Gabe found
himself lying face down on the carpeted floor in the hall of the
flat and it stank worse down here than it had in the stairwell.

“Hi! Sorry. I’m
Gabe.” Gabe strained his neck, from his position on the floor, in
the direction of an old man’s voice.

“And why are
you trying to break into my flat?”

“I wasn’t
trying to break in…er…Sir.” Gabe strained his eyes to see the other
man who was now in the door way of the room beyond but Gabe
couldn’t make out his features as there was an intensely bright
lamp glaring from behind him, causing the front of the strangers
body to appear in silhouette. All Gabe could figure out was that he
was small.

“I ain’t got
any money boy, if that’s what you want.” The old man banged a
walking stick on the floor, which sounded far more creepy than
threatening due to the old man not having much strength.

“Oh no, sorry.
No I don’t want any money. I was looking for my dad.” Gabe gave up
and closed his eyes again. This wasn’t his dad and Gabe was more
disappointed than he imagined he would be.

“What would
your dad be doing in my flat?” This old man in the dark said with
mirth and sarcasm.

“I…I...I was
given this address. I never met him. My mum, Gina, she gave me this
envelope yesterday and…” Gabe held out the photograph that he had,
in a vain hope to add weight to his story and convince this man he
wasn’t some kind of thug here to mug him and that there was no need
for alarm or to call the police or anything like that.
Another
fine mess,
he thought and his jacket was going to stink now and
he didn’t want to wash it and lose the scent of Grace.

The old man
poked Gabe in the shoulder with his walking stick. “Gina? And you,
what did you say your name was?”

“Gabe. My name
is Gabe. I live up the road with my mum. I’m just a student, well
for the next week or so.” Gabe stood up and half-heartedly tried to
dust himself down. He couldn’t help himself from instinctively
smelling his hands, from their contact with the carpet, and wincing
in reaction.

“Gabriel!”

The man walked
forward and into the darkness of the hall and Gabe saw, this
was
the man in the picture. He was not small after all he
was just bent over, almost at a right angle, propped up on a
walking stick.

“Yes, I am
Gabriel.” Gabe felt a sudden surge of confidence now.

“Well, well,
well and what do you want from me then?”

The man
gestured Gabe into the living room that was brightly lit by an old
fashion standard lamp (similar to the ones Gabe imaged that they
used in torture and interrogation rooms) and Gabe was amazed to
find hundreds of paintings covering every surface, covering the
walls and the floor. Two easels dominated the room and there was
that so familiar scent to Gabe. The smell of an artist’s studio,
the mix of acrylics and oils and turpentine. And on top of that,
the scent of body odour, of coffees made and never drunk. There was
a hint of Nag Champa even in there too. And, unmistakably, the
unique smell that Gabe was very familiar with, the scent of the
same blended essential oils that he used for healing. It was all so
strange and yet all so eerily familiar.

The man cleared
a space on an ancient battered leather sofa for them both to sit
down on.

“So, you found
me then?”

“Well, as I
say, I only really just started looking. I kind of thought that
perhaps, seeing as...you know, what with you not really ever
getting in touch and everything…” Gabe felt perhaps that he was
intruding, he felt awkward and his tongue seemed to be taking on a
life of its own.

“What do you
want from me boy?”

“Nothing,
nothing at all. I was just curious I guess. I had some
questions.”

“Go on then…”
Gabe’s father was curt, abrupt and really Gabe thought, quite
rude.

“I’m sorry. I
seem to have forgotten now.” Gabe felt like an idiot and this was
so not the impression he dreamed he would give on this
occasion.

“She wrote to
my mother, saying that you had been born. What she had called you.
Let me have a look at you then. Well it’s obvious on you isn’t it?
Still.... My, my, my…” Gabe felt momentarily encouraged as he
thought he saw this man soften ever so slightly.

“What’s
obvious?”

“Well the wings
of course. Yours look like they are strong, big strong wings.”

Gabe was
incredulous.
How did he know? Gina can’t of told him, surely,
had she?

Gabe’s father
patted his son on the shoulder before using him as the leverage he
needed to stand up again. Gabe sat there feeling awkward, not sure
what to say or do. Should he help this man up again? Should he
touch him or not? His father was unsteady on his feet but he
managed it without much help from Gabe. He grabbed his walking
stick and walked over to the occasional table by the window where
he downed whatever it was that was in the glass. He kept his back
to Gabe and stared out of the window into the distance. Gabe didn’t
dare move a muscle, he just watched as he saw the man, still
looking out of the window, start to undo his shirt buttons and
struggle out of the sleeves. The man then unfastened a very wide
and dirty, well used, elastic support bandage that he had wrapped
around his back and chest. The whole time his father kept his back
to Gabe, he didn’t face him, he did not look at him once and when
the elastic bandage had fallen to the floor, the man tried to stand
tall and straighter, and in doing so he showed Gabe the one thing
that Gabe had always thought was completely impossible.

This man, his
father, Cassiel, also had wings. But they were not like Gabe’s.
These wings were old, almost transparent. Parts of the wings looked
like those skeleton leaves you sometimes find. But mostly, these
wings were scarred and broken looking. They had withered and they
looked like they were ready to fall off. They were dead.

“What happened?
What happened to your wings?” Gabe wanted to run over but he stayed
glued to his seat.

“I hid them. I
didn’t look after them!” Gabe’s father looked to the ground, lost
in his own thoughts or shame for a moment. Or maybe he was just
relaxing down after the strain of having to stand that bit taller.
Gabe couldn’t tell for sure.

The man grabbed
a paisley dressing gown that was hanging on one of the easels and
he put it on, covering himself again. Gabe wanted to ask him
exactly what had he done, as these wings showed of more than just a
little bit of neglect; they looked destroyed, crashed, abused and
then some. Gabe’s father swung around and looked at Gabe deep into
his eyes as he approached him with a new force and conviction.

“There was not
the surgery back then but I would have gone and had them cut off.
If you can get yours cut off boy then do. Having them causes
nothing but heartache and trouble. Get yourself down to a
specialist and bin them. Or you will end up like me! Look at me! I
never talk to anyone. I am getting old, feeling more pain, pain
that you would not yet think possible. The wings are a curse
Gabriel. That’s all I can tell you. But you know this already. You
came, you saw and now…now you can leave.” Exhausted with the
exertion he shuffled over to an old cabinet where he leant for
support and he downed another glass full of something that Gabe was
beginning to assume was whisky and he poured himself another one,
straight out the half empty bottle of liquor that was on the
shelf.

Gabe tried to
take it all in. It was nothing like he had imagined it would be. It
hadn’t gone very well and Gabe couldn’t think of anything that he
could say or do now that would turn it all around. Where were the
violin players and the dancing girls? Where were the fireworks and
the tears of joy?

He never
imagined for a start, not in his wildest dreams, that his own
father might have wings. It wasn’t just Gabe. And Gabe was really
trying to like this man, his father, another man with wings, but it
was hard and truthfully, Gabe was just getting more pissed off now.
He wasn’t welcome and he wanted to leave. Now!

“I am sorry for
barging in like I did. Thank you for showing me your wings.” Gabe
got up to leave and one of his father’s paintings caught his eye.
He stopped and looked at it, the painting held him and he was
transfixed. Gabe let the image of the painting wash over him and
touch every one of his senses and he felt overwhelmed. Consumed by
contortion and torture. The painting spoke to him, invoking strong
violent feelings as it reflected on his soul; it was full and
bleeding with pain and misery. It was the saddest painting that
Gabe had ever seen and he couldn’t help himself as he shed one tear
that he hoped that this man didn’t notice.