The World Below [DNF]

Chapter 3: The City of Angels

George POV

The City of Angels...

Out of all the things that George had theorized to be the outcome of this rather bizarre situation, having to leave the UK with his father, had certainly not been one of the options he'd considered. 

His dad, who'd barely glanced in his direction until that day, was now ordering him to move across the world. With him. He'd tried to object at first, but both his father and the unknown men behind him didn't allow him to talk. George had argumented that he needed to go home and gather all his stuff, but a suitcase with the few things he owned was already at the mysterious building. One of the men led him to a bathroom and ordered him to freshen up.

And fair point, his primary home for the last years had been a garage that reeked of alcohol, sweat and gasoline. So, appearance hadn't really been given much attention. Although sometimes he'd returned home, taken a quick shower and gathered some fresh clothes. But because none of the others had seemed to care, neither had George.

The bathroom was as sterile as the rest of the building. White tiles covered the floor and the walls and bright, white light lit up the room. He'd been given a change of clothes which consisted of black jeans, a simple grey t-shirt, a plain black hoodie, and a bomber jacket that followed the same dark, plain theme. The clothes fitted well, to his surprise; he wouldn't have guessed that his father knew something so mundane as his son's clothing size. 

He examined himself in the mirror for a second. His left cheek had a faint handprint, but other than that he looked the way he always did. Dark, close to black, unkept locks reached just below his jawline and covered his equally dark eyebrows. If you looked close enough you could see a pathetic attempt of facial hair starting to peak through. George always made sure to shave any traces of facial hair during the few visits he made home, but it had been a while since his last trip home. 

He opened the suitcase to see if it contained any hygiene products, and was pleasantly surprised when it actually did. He found a razor, a hairbrush, and toothbrush. Though he hated to admit it, he felt better after he'd cleaned himself up a little. 

When he was done, he just stared at the mirror. The hair looked better now when he'd brushed through it, but it was still a bit too long for his liking. He locked eyes with himself and shrugged. The eyes were always the one thing about his appearance that he didn't like. They remained him about his mother. He'd inherited her eyes and even though she had been a little bit more present in his life, all he could think about when he saw his dark eyes were the way those same eyes had looked at him every time she'd scolded him for various reasons. Yet, he couldn't help the stinging feeling of knowing that she willingly left him without any apparent reason.

Without thinking, he balled his left hand and pushed the reflection. The impulsive decision led to the mirror breaking and cutting his knuckles. They started bleeding and the crashing sound of the mirror must've been quite loud, because one of the men that had dragged him there, stormed in with wide eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing, boy!" He yelled. Eyes darting between George's bloody knuckles and the shards of the mirror that was covering the floor. George just stood there in silence, too surprised by his own action to speak.

"You going to have a tough time if you don't get your fucking impulses under control!" The man spat and took a rough hold of George's wrist and dragged him out of the bathroom.

The man, who George still didn't know the name of, found a first Aid kit and began patching up his injured hand. Fortunately for George, the cuts were merely scratches, still that didn't stop him from winching when the anti-bacterial solution was poured on his hand. His father soon emerged. A bored expression was all the injured hand got him. 

Stuck up, bitch. Even a simple question about how I'm feeling after being kidnapped is apparently too much to ask for. 

He resented his father. How could he demand a teenager to not have some sort of response after he'd been told his mother had disappeared without any trace. For all George knew, she could be dead.

His father started talking and broke George out of his trance of hatred and confusion.

"The plane will be leaving in two hours. So, we better be heading to the airport."

"When will you give me any more information about– well frankly– anything?" George countered.

His father sighed "Trust me, we'll have plenty of time when we board the plane, close to ten hours actually."

Suddenly his skin felt too tight for his body. The mere thought of having to spend ten fucking hours on a plane with his father, left George feeling extremely claustrophobic. Then he remembered the two knives he always kept with him, both strapped to his ankles. He reached down to grab the butterfly knife. He took it in his unharmed hand and pointed it against his father. He realized too late that the man who patched up his hand and the other unknown guy, all carried guns. He had no chance. 

With that realization in mind, George did the only thing he figured he could do, and pointed it against his own throat.

"I see that you've kept my present, and apparently you think stabbing it into your neck would be the best way to put it to use?"

George pressed his lips together into a thin line before pushing the knife slightly harder against his skin. To be honest, he hadn't really thought the decision through, but his so often calm and collected mind was all over the place. Feelings and thoughts were all twisted together in a giant mess.

"What do you want me to do, George?" His father asked, sounding more curious than worried. George couldn't think of an answer, so his father continued

"Cat got your tongue?" George's cheeks heated up from his father's condescending tone.

"I'll answer all your questions on the plane. You can see this as my way of offering you a way to a better life, a more meaningful one. You're seventeen, but won't be forever. I've see the places where you and your "friends" spend the days drinking, wasting your time. Pathetic."

"But you're a bright kid, I might not have been very present in your live–" George rolled his eyes.

"–but I still see potential, you're good with numbers. I've seen your little robberies, how you make money through gambling with drunks and people who think too highly of themselves. And you're my son, whenever you like it or not, and I know that you're the one who's behind the planning. 'Cause your little friends are way too thick to even cook themselves a proper meal. So, if you just put down the knife and stop creating a scene, I'll introduce you to a world where you both can put your knives and brain to better use."

Although it hurt his pride to obey his father, curiosity got the best of him. He lowered the knife and placed it back in its holder.

His father glanced at his watch. "Well then, time to get the hell out of here."