Chapter 21: The Fall (Leo POV)
Chapter 21: The Fall (Leo POV)
I stumble down the street, my boots heavy on the pavement, the city lights blurring around me. My head’s spinning, full of whiskey and noise, and I can’t walk straight. The bag on my shoulder swings, paint cans rattling loud inside it. I drank too much, way too much, but it’s not enough to make me forget. Daniel’s gone, and it’s all I can think about. His face, his voice, the way he walked out. I grip the strap of my bag tighter, my knuckles white, and keep moving. San Francisco’s alive around me, cars honking, people laughing, but I’m not part of it. I’m just a shadow, slipping through the dark.
The air’s cold, biting at my face, but I don’t feel it much. My jacket’s open, flapping as I walk, and my shirt’s stained with paint and sweat. I don’t know where I’m going, just away from my apartment, away from the mess I left there. The whiskey’s still warm in my stomach, pushing me forward. I turn down an alley, narrow and quiet, the walls high on both sides. It smells like trash and wet concrete. Perfect. I stop, drop my bag to the ground, and kneel next to it. My hands shake as I unzip it, pulling out a can of spray paint. Black, half-full, the nozzle cold under my thumb.
I shake it hard, the metal clinking loud in the alley, and stand up. The wall’s right there, gray and rough, waiting. I press the nozzle, and the hiss fills the air, black paint spraying out in a thick line. I write his name, big and messy. D-A-N-I-E-L. The letters drip, running down the wall, and I step back, staring at them. My chest hurts, tight and sharp, and my eyes burn. “You left me,” I say, my voice breaking. I spray again, under his name, smaller this time. L-E-O. My hand slips, the paint smearing, and I drop the can. It rolls away, clattering on the ground. I fall to my knees, my hands on the wet paint, and sob. The sound’s loud, ugly, bouncing off the walls. Tears mix with the black on my fingers, and I smear it across my face, not caring.
Lights flash at the end of the alley, red and blue cutting through the dark. I hear boots, heavy and fast, and a voice yells, “Hey! Stop right there!” Cops. I scramble up, grabbing my bag, the cans banging together. My heart pounds, loud in my ears, and I run. The alley’s tight, my shoulder scraping the wall, paint sticking to my sleeve. “Get back here!” one shouts, closer now. I don’t look back. I turn sharp, out onto the street, and keep going, my legs shaky from the booze. Cars honk as I weave through them, my breath hot and ragged. The lights fade behind me, the cops giving up, and I slow down, panting hard. My bag’s still on me, heavy, pulling me down.
I don’t know how long I walk after that. The streets blur together, all noise and color, until I see my building. It’s old, the paint peeling, the steps cracked. Home. I climb them slow, my hand on the rail, and push the door open. The hall’s dark, quiet, and I stumble to my apartment. My key sticks in the lock, but I get it open, the door creaking loud. Inside, it’s a wreck. Broken canvases, spilled paint, the mattress sagging in the corner. I drop my bag by the door, the cans rattling one last time, and kick off my boots. They land somewhere in the mess. I don’t care.
The whiskey’s wearing off, leaving me cold and tired. I grab a bottle from the counter, some cheap stuff I forgot about, and twist the cap off. It’s warm, sharp, and I drink fast, letting it burn my throat. I sink onto the mattress, the springs groaning under me, and lean back against the wall. My hands are still black with paint, smudged and sticky. I wipe them on my jeans, but it doesn’t help. My head’s heavy, my eyes stinging, and I close them for a second, trying to breathe. He’s gone. I keep saying it, over and over, but it doesn’t feel real.
My phone buzzes, loud on the table across the room. I open my eyes, slow, and stare at it. It’s still cracked from when I threw it, but it works. I stand, swaying a little, and grab it. The screen lights up, bright in the dark. It’s Jake. My brother. Calling from New York. My stomach twists, and I almost don’t answer, but I do, pressing it to my ear. “Leo?” he says, his voice rough, worried. “You there?” I swallow, my throat dry. “Yeah,” I say, quiet. “Max called me,” he says fast. “Said you’re losing it. Trashing stuff, not picking up. What’s going on?” I lean against the table, my hand tight on the phone. “Nothing’s going on,” I lie, my voice flat.
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “You sound awful. Max said you’re a mess, Leo. Come to New York. Get out of there. I’ll help you, I swear.” His words hit me hard, and I shake my head, even though he can’t see. “No,” I say, louder now. “I’m fine. I’m not leaving.” He sighs, loud and sharp. “You’re not fine. You need to get away from that place, from him. Come here. Please.” Him. Daniel. My chest tightens again, and I grit my teeth. “I said no,” I yell, my voice cracking. “Stop it, Jake. I’m not going.” He starts to say something else, but I don’t listen. I pull the phone away and hang up, cutting him off.
My hand shakes, and I stare at the screen, Jake’s name still there. Then I smash it down, hard, on the table. The crack gets bigger, the glass splintering under my hand. I hit it again, and again, until my knuckles hurt and the phone’s a mess. “Leave me alone,” I mutter, dropping it. It lands in the paint, dead now, and I stumble back to the mattress. My legs give out, and I sit, my head in my hands. The room’s quiet, just my breathing, loud and fast. He’s gone, and now Jake knows I’m breaking. I don’t care. I just want it to stop.