Welcome to whatever this is, this modest tale. It may not be to your liking, as it is not to my mental health. There is good in bad and bad in good, light in darkness and darkness in light. This can be a fun read or a tough read depending on what chapters you care about. An interesting fantasy tale or one of self reflection. Most likely not that. You’d have to be as immature as me for that to happen.
My name is Alaric Ashford. My name is an eternal, depressing calm before the storm. In English, my name means ‘Ruler of All,’ something I have no plans of being nor getting close to. For me to be a leader, an ambitious figure when I hardly have ambitions of my own and haven’t led a single thing in my life. Just another high set expectation for my extreme success. I know that the name comes from a German origin despite having no heritage in or near Germany. Another testament to the perceived carelessness and in my opinion idiocy of my parents. It means stupid nicknames, torment aplenty, biting aggressively at my fragile ego, just to heap on to the other bullying received. It means carrying on the legacy of my great-grandfather on my father’s side with the same name. That same great-grandfather who had changed the family name to better fit his own entitled self, showing off the wealth he had amassed, which had disappeared before ever coming close to touching my hands. Ashford. Real sophisticated in his eyes, I’m sure. Alaric meant an imperfection adorning any image I might create of myself. It means weird looks when I tell them my name and questions how to spell it despite it being spelt in English originally. It meant uncertainty in myself. I have no middle name as my parents didn’t care enough to think of one. I never cared much about my name past my younger years. I’ve always had much larger problems, other things to worry about, other things to fix, other things to do, to change. But that shouldn’t fully minimize the issue into a void of nothingness. True, it doesn’t really matter, and Alaric isn’t a bad name by any means compared to some other people I know. Still, wouldn’t something simpler be better? I don’t want to be a diamond glinting against an oppressive darkness of normalcy, I want to be normal, nothing more than that. I’m a random guy, really, not important, in my opinion. Just a childish, dumb guy. A guy who can’t say anything without being laughed at. A guy who sounds like he’s never spoken out loud before. Everything else you want to learn about me will be told, if you have some patience.
A guy who refused to get a real profession or do much of anything out of my own sense of greed for relaxation. A guy who lost the only meaningful connection I ever had, my spouse, now was just a fleeting memory. A guy who just made that up, since I’m a loner, and always have been, as far back as I can remember. A guy who squandered a scholarship to a decent college just to grieve. A guy who also just lied about that since I wanted to seem better than I actually was.
The Ashfords are sophisticated, advanced, and refined. We aren’t supposed to deviate from the social norm except for excellence. We are supposed to attend the finest universities, dine in the finest establishments, and only talk to the highest of the elite. Perhaps I could live like that if I wasn’t what I was.
I’ve always had certain…issues that require medical treatment, and medical bills don’t come cheap, differing throughout the years. That and the fact my parents weren’t rich in the first place. They still put up a facade of wealth by renting extravagant things and keeping up our connections, until-
My dream, stretching across the boundary between a restless Monday night and what I at the time assumed was the early, blurred hours of Tuesday, lingered with an eerie clarity that made it stick, a kind of vividness that was rare enough to feel unsettling. I was striding forward, cloaked in silence, each step slow and deliberate as I clutched the frayed remains of a crimson banner. The fabric was worn, polyester threads rough and ragged between my fingers, catching against my skin like sandpaper but weightless, almost insubstantial, like it was barely there. Every detail of this banner—its tattered, once-bright edges, the dull red color faded with time and weather—pressed itself into my mind with a sharpness that was frightening.
Around me, the landscape unfolded in fragments, half-built images pieced together with memory and imagination. The air was sharp and icy, biting into my skin, but it felt distant, like I was wrapped in a thick haze. I moved in the vague direction of something unknown, driven by a strange instinct, although I felt no pain, no discomfort. None of this was real. My body was heavy with awareness that it was all just neurons firing in my brain, synapses pulling in threads of thoughts and fleeting memories, stitching them together in an attempt to create coherence within this strange space that teetered between the surreal and the mundane. The realization of lucidity crept in, filling me with an odd detachment; even though I knew I was in control of my mind, my movements seemed governed by something else.
Looking down, I examined my body with a sense of distant familiarity and alienation, as though I was observing a version of myself that had somehow splintered off, half-forgotten. My hair, jet-black and unkempt from years of apparent neglect, cascaded down past my waist, wild and tangled, caught up in the vicious, howling wind. It thrashed around me, long, dark strands whipping against my face and neck. The black trench coat I wore clung to my frame, heavy and oppressive, almost suffocatingly tight, as if bound to me by invisible chains. I was thin, unnervingly so by the warped standards this dream seemed to impose on me, though I knew, deep down, that my body wasn’t that thin, a bit chubby in fact. These distorted images of body and self felt like projections pulled from the depths of some primal insecurity, hovering on the edge of my awareness even within this dream.
My vision shifted, focusing with unnatural intensity on a small, dark rock nestled on the crumbling concrete beneath my feet. Acting on a vague impulse, I lifted my leg and drove my boot forward, the polished, gleaming steel tips of my leather boots connected with the gravel, sending it skittering forward in a sharp arc. It collided with a large piece of debris with a resounding crack that echoed into the quiet around me. A thick cloud of dust spiraled up from the impact, thin, web-like cracks spidering out across the massive rock’s surface. The dust clung to the cold air, spreading and hanging there like smoke, partly obscuring the ground and creating an even eerier haze around me. This small act, inconsequential though it seemed, felt intentional, almost strategic—a means to both announce my presence and shroud my movements, though I could barely make sense of my own motives.
The dream wavered, the image thinning and growing hazy around the edges, like smoke curling away from an air current. For a moment, I thought I might wake, only to find the colors and clarity sharpen once more, locking me firmly in this strange, shifting reality. I was trapped, yet free to observe, caught somewhere between detachment and immersion. It was as if the dream had a mind of its own, guiding me, holding me back from understanding.
“I know you’re there. You never could hide well,” I called out, my voice slicing through the dense silence, laced with a quiet confidence that felt unfamiliar and strange in my mouth. The rubble stretched out ahead, a sea of cracked stone and scattered debris, twisted metal rods jutting from the earth like the fingers of some ancient, forgotten beast. A notification flickered into view, a small, digital-looking box in the corner of my vision, reminiscent of a game interface. It held a strange familiarity, a fragment of a memory or impression, tethered to my recent gaming hours. It was in some ways comforting, this merging of lucid thought and such specific memories within a dreamscape. It meant that this wasn’t some paranormal experience, just…a weird dream? Could it be just that?
[The sacrificed story, “Knower of All Futures,” informs you that you will be killed by a flying object in 12.436 seconds!]
“You don’t have to do this, man! We’re best buddies, please!” A shriek echoed out, grating and desperate, laced with fear. The voice drifted through the dust cloud ahead, and I saw a figure pressed tightly against the rubble, nearly sinking into it in an attempt to meld with the shadows. Friend? The notion was almost laughable. This was no friend of mine. I had no friends. You could know that with a single glance at me. Dream me, it seemed, harbored more allies. The man’s tone reeked of deception, a hollow note that rang untrue. I sensed it instinctively, as if an invisible line connected his intention to my mind. The understanding was automatic, built into the dream’s fabric—he was strong enough not to plead for his life, and yet here he was, attempting to manipulate with every word.
He wore a vantablack jacket that seemed to absorb every sliver of light, merging him seamlessly into the shadows that clung to the decayed remains of stone and steel around him. Still, by dream logic, my vision wound around to see him with ease. His jeans, dark, torn, and dirtied, hugged his legs like armor. Their texture looked rough, almost animalistic, as though crafted from worn leather or scavenged hides. In each hand, he brandished a silver dagger, the blades glinting dangerously under the pale moonlight. His face was twisted in a grimace, teeth clenched, though his voice dripped with exaggerated desperation, a shrill tone that grated against the cold air. His hair was matted and bloodstained, wild red strands tangled across his forehead, clinging to the sweat and grime smeared across his skin, yet his eyes burned with a twisted resolve beneath the mess.
His shrieking intensified, a high-pitched, almost primal noise, just as a decapitated head, its features frozen in some grotesque expression, hurtled through the air towards him. It was cleanly severed, somehow preserved in sickeningly pristine condition, the lifeless eyes staring blankly ahead. It struck the ground with a sickening thud, rolling toward him in a slow, gruesome arc before it landed directly at his feet, leaving a faint smear of blood in its wake. Looking down at my hands, I clutched a cloth sack stained red, that by dream logic, I must have retrieved it from. Who would have thought that tossing the head of someone’s former lover might provoke a reaction?
Me. I thought that. Dream self thought that. Not me. I’m not that creepy. Probably. That’s why I did it. That’s why dream me did it. I-I don’t even know at this point. For a fleeting moment, I felt a sense of power, like I had control over this world. A twisted sense, definitely, though I still enjoyed it somewhat. Dreams like this never last, do they? Not that I cared awfully much for this one anyway.
The blaring cacophony of a silver, digital alarm clock, which had been sounding off for hours and no longer served any real purpose, ended abruptly. This sudden change was caused by a pale, bony hand—unmarked by scars or calluses of any kind—weakly sliding it aside, just hard enough to knock it off the nightstand. Still mostly asleep, I murmured lazily, “An-and stay down……kid.”
What once displayed the time in oversized, grainy red letters flickered “11:36” repeatedly until it finally gave out, surrendering to its inevitable fate as if reflecting my own. The resulting crash and shattering of glass was enough to snap me awake. For about a second. My eyelids, momentarily open, shut again, concealing eyes that shone a bright, verdant green.
“Problem-” I yawned.
“…for later me…” I finished, muttering barely loud enough for the walls to catch it. In fact, I almost wished they would answer back, maybe throw out some words of encouragement. So, of course, like any sane person, I heard their response, a wall in front of me deforming to create a smiley face in the center.
“Hey, kiddo! You’re doing just fine!” It told me in a gravelly voice before returning to its standard state. This was…a newer issue of mine. Independance does wonders. It wasn’t as severe as it could get anyway, good enough that I could still function independently, out of a ward. That was the official diagnosis, though it was true I had fibbed on most of the questions I was asked about it to make it seem less severe than it was. I eyed a pill bottle sitting on a fragile nightstand to the right of my bed. Antipsychotics were bitter, a primary cause of them being neglected there. I did still take them on occasion, though not nearly to the once daily recommended amount. With Tuesday barely started, I already knew it was going to be, as they say, a classic. You know, perfect.
After procrastinating on the problem just as I did with everything else in life (priority management, right?), I raised my hand for a limp, almost apologetic slap to my cheek. My hand made contact, and I half-expected some life force to magically spark me awake. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Eyes still tightly shut, I pinched my wrist, harder than was probably necessary, but finally enough to pull me into consciousness.
With a dramatic sigh, a catchphrase of mine, I threw my silky blue sheets aside. They tangled around my legs as if they, too, didn’t want me to get up. A vibe. But I was committed—or at least, I was stubborn. Sitting up a bit too fast, the stars of temporary blood loss decorated my vision, and I found myself muttering, “Nothing like a bit of near-fainting to start the day.” One brush of my head against the low ceiling reminded me just how cozy my kingdom truly was. I rubbed my eyes until they stung, probably grinding in days’ worth of dust and regret, but at this point, what did it matter? Blindness could only improve my view.
Stretching my arms above my head like every other cliché in existence, I forced my joints to crack into action before letting my arms drop like deadweight at my sides. In a last-ditch effort to feel remotely inspired, I tried remembering a dream from last night—anything, really, that could inspire some poetic beginning for my book. But my mind was as blank as the page staring back at me from my notebook. Not a single idea. Nothing. Blank. Nada. Synonyms. Being a writer wasn’t a lifestyle, it was a last choice, a final effort to contribute meaningfully to the world. Or rather, just to feel some purpose and have food on my table, whatever that food may be.
Sliding onto the hardwood floor of my studio apartment, my bare feet were forced to adapt to the cool surface quickly; it felt like an icy betrayal. “Another day in paradise,” I grumbled, letting out a heavy sigh. “The American Dream, my ass.” The walls could hear my complaints. They were my closest confidants, after all. It’d be nice to have an audience, even if it was only some inanimate objects that I made animate. Hadn’t had anyone to talk to in… what, a year? Well, aside from phone calls, but I didn’t count that. Just me and the household objects gang, the truest crew around. I crouched slightly, bending my head low enough to be perceived as bowing, to avoid slamming my head into the ceiling.
I glared angrily at the remains of what had once been a functioning alarm clock, willing it to disappear and stop wasting my time. Too bad. I wish the world worked like that. The piece of simple machinery was a noble soldier in the war against oversleeping that I’d accidentally punted off my nightstand. I glared at it, mentally willing it to vanish. “I could probably fix it,” I thought. “Or… buy another.” A bitter laugh escaped me. Yeah, as if I had the funds for that.
The journey to anywhere else in this excuse for an abode was a difficult one. One had to traverse the great plains of fast food containers and old junk worth nothing, but once someone like me learned the layout of this mess, navigating it wasn’t difficult at all. Venturing down from the loft, down the thin stairs blandly carpeted in material that should have been used nowhere and never, I scratched my chin with one hand and prodded a pimple on my nose with the other. There weren’t many pimples on my face, but this one was certainly noticeable among my otherwise sharp-enough features. It wasn’t truly hidden by my matted brown hair, which hadn’t been cut in about two years—and was yet another reason not to go outside. Not that I needed excuses, though; I had no one to give them to.
The rest of the day disappeared without entirely registering clearly in my memory. Not all of it, I mean. I tended to have a rather strong, but selective memory.
I made my way to the kitchen, or the “setup,” as I called it, since it was more accurately a corner equipped with a mini-fridge, microwave, and countertop with dubious structural integrity. With zero enthusiasm, I poured myself some ancient pre-made coffee from the fridge into a crusty, green mug. I couldn’t remember how long it had been there, but it did the job, meaning I was awake and mildly repulsed in equal measure. As I sat at my desk—a rickety setup squashed in the corner—I stared at my notebook, fingers tapping aimlessly. The page was as empty as my inspiration. I spun a pen between my fingers in an attempt to look like a real writer to the nonexistent audience observing, though the act was less “creative genius at work” and more “guy who has no idea what he’s doing but has some impressive fidgeting skills.” After about an hour of increasingly desperate doodles, I threw in the towel. The novel would write itself someday, right? I’d simply sit down one day, and it’d all pour out. That’s how it worked for people like me, surely.
Surrendering to the inevitable, I pulled my outdated block of a smartphone from my pocket in a crappy pair of jeans I’d thrown on the day prior, checking my bank balance, reminiscent of how I would occasionally check my online gradebook casually.
Triple digits. Triple… for now, anyway. And that was disregarding the mountain of debt I preferred not to think about. But I didn’t fix things unless they were in literal flames, and even then, I’d probably just look at the blaze and think, “Eh, it’ll handle itself.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Once or twice I’d picked up some freelance gigs for a bit of extra cash, and I was not too fond of the experiences in hindsight. I worked a summer job doing customer service at a time, after graduation…
After seeing that I had no notifications in any app, though I don’t know why I would think that there would be any, I shot a call to my bestest friend in the whole wide world, which they picked up after a moment.
“Hello?” He asked, confused.
“Heyyyyy dude, remember me? It’s Alaric! From 1st period calc?” I responded, enthusiastic at some form of connection.
“Oh. The stoner kid?” He replied, sounding disgusted just saying it and annoyed at my call. I paused for a moment.
Yikes. “That was just a phase, dude!” I laughed a bit too loudly. “Want to catch up sometime?”
“Maybe at the reunion…If I go.” He hung up, and I closed the app. I stared at my phone, the dull ache of rejection washing over me. Not the first time. Won’t be the last, judging by how people tend to be.
Noticing their name on my contacts, I called my cousin, Jeffery. It rang for a minute before going to voicemail, so I called again.
“The fuck do you want?” He hissed directly into the microphone.
“Just wanted to say hello…” I answered, pacing back and forth.
“Well, hello? Didn’t I tell you not to call me while I was at work?” He exhaled harshly. “Speaking of, how’s the job search going?”
“Oh…It’s going well. I secured a few interviews.” I lied, abruptly hanging up on him to avoid answering more questions, then instantly regretting it when I realized he would get mad at me if I tried to call again.
I began to doom scroll—any social media I could get my hands on; I was already on my phone, wasn’t I? Just a way to pass the time, all the while hating everyone whose lives seemed so much better. Why? I did well in school and I did the work! Shouldn’t that have been enough to get a job? To succeed? No. I guess not! I punched my leg in frustration.
Damn it, man. At least I could have the appeal of sliding around lithely through the halls with my slippery socks like a majestic beast stalking its prey while I observed these nightmarish assholes on their yachts or in their mansions that they bought with daddy’s money. The little things in life are what get me through a day. Yeah, my big achievement of the day—sliding across the floor as though I’d somehow conquered the laws of physics.
I took brief breaks to stretch some more or to simply stare at the ceiling and wait for the overcoming feeling of blankness that stemmed from my daily routine to disappear. It didn’t disappear, instead only intensifying.
And just like that, another day ended. Finally shutting the device off only when the battery began to dwindle, hours later, the microwave summoned me.
Believe me, I tried to eat healthier, to start dieting right here and now and improve my physique. To grab the spinach nestled in the back right corner of the fridge or the salad mix on the left. Inevitably, I nuked some frozen pizza bagels I had gotten delivered yesterday. They came out of the microwave steaming hot, but their texture was all wrong—spongy and soft with a chewy crust that had no crispness. The cheese had melted unevenly, leaving rubbery patches clinging to the bagels, and the pepperoni was small, curled at the edges, and greasy, with an odd sheen that only made it look more artificial. The taste wasn’t much better. The sauce was bland, with only a faint hint of tomato, and the cheese tasted more like a greasy film than anything rich or flavorful. The pepperoni was overly salty and a bit tough, but I still ate them without really thinking about it. I brought out a bottle of cheap wine I’d found on sale online and poured myself a more-than-generous glass. The wine had a faint bitterness, metallic and acidic, and it burned slightly going down, but I tipped the glass and downed it in one long sip without a second thought.
Staring out the window near the ‘kitchen’ setup—or more accurately, the mini-fridge, microwave, countertop, and cabinets—I saw nothing exciting. Just small buildings and the occasional passing car. The occasional passing family. A child with their hands linked with their parents’. A stroller pushed by a mother.
The wind sluggishly moved in its endless pursuit of nowhere, and the dark clouds ensured a heavy rainstorm was on its way. It surely must be chilly, but I wouldn’t know, now would I? I mindlessly ate the processed meal, each tasteless bite heavier than the last. Somehow, an insurmountable quantity of calories by any amount of exercise I could reasonably do disappeared before I knew it. Wonder how that happened.
I began to reflect on my past, same as every other night. Wallowing in self-pity. Not focused on a single event—never that. Just the accumulated ‘first-world problems’ of a social outcast. There was one memory of me acting publicly like an idiot that commonly resurfaced however.
In this one…It was an oppressive summer day, the kind where the air feels like it’s thick with smog, even when it’s clear. The sun bore down relentlessly, baking the pavement outside and sending heat waves shimmering off the black-and-white tiled floor beneath my feet. I could feel the heat radiating from every surface, like it was trying to burn through my skin. Sweat dripped steadily down my forehead, sliding off my chin, and gathered in damp patches beneath my armpits, soaking through my shirt. Every inch of fabric clung to me, heavy and suffocating, as if trying to fuse itself to my skin. My throat was parched, dry like sandpaper, and my body sluggish from what felt like hours–just a few minutes in reality–spent waiting for a customer at a customer service job I’d started at a few days ago in search of cash. It wasn’t much, but a paycheck’s a paycheck, whether that comes from flipping burgers or being at this cash register. The copy and paste ceiling of similar tiles wasn’t very awe inspiring or entertaining to stare at, so I pulled out my phone for a quick read. I’d been enjoying a novel a lot recently and was intrigued to read more. My stomach growled angrily, but that was the least of my worries—I couldn’t even think about eating until I’d earned enough to scrape together for a meal.
The heat weighed down on me, each degree draining my already depleted reserves, especially after a sleepless night that left me running on fumes. My head pounded in a constant, throbbing rhythm behind my eyes, and my eyelids felt heavy, each blink like pushing through mud. I kept my gaze fixed on my phone screen, not really absorbing anything—just letting the seconds drag by, one long, aching blur of heat and exhaustion. At one point, I struck up a conversation with someone about to head out at the end of their shift. It went a little bit like:
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
The end. Very philosophical. I continued what I was doing, which was not much, for a bit longer. My job was to ring up customers but the shop hardly got any, a primary reason I’d chosen it, other than its quaint charm.
Then, out of nowhere, the screen vanished from my hand, yanked away with a quick, practiced tug. My stomach sank as I looked up to see Jordan grinning down at me, holding the phone just out of reach, his grip firm and taunting. I didn’t even bother to protest; experience had taught me it was practically pointless when dealing with him. Usually he’d flick it back when he got bored, but he seemed a bit more miffed today than most others.
“Come on, Alie, come and get it!” His voice sliced through the simmering haze, each word laced with his usual blend of amusement and disdain. He kept my phone just far enough to taunt me, his posture relaxed, shoulders back as he gave that stupid grin, feeding off every moment. He looked ridiculous, too—like he was trying to model himself after a cartoon villain, in my eyes at least. He was not especially tall, but his wiry frame made him look larger than life. His cheap white T-shirt clung to his chest, darkened by sweat stains, and was mostly covered by an unzipped, black sweatshirt, and his jeans were cut off at a harsh angle, showing raw-red, sunburned ankles. His blonde hair, gelled up in uneven clumps, was streaked with dirt and grime.
I kept my face neutral, though I could feel the anger and heat churning in me, pressing under my skin. Every nerve in my hands itched to punch him, but I forced myself to stay calm; I couldn’t afford to lose control, not with him. My fists clenched at my sides, my nails digging into my palms as I took a slow breath and managed, “Just… hand it back, man. What’s your problem?” My hand extended, voice steadier than I felt, hoping he’d give it up and move on.
But he only smirked wider, stepping back just out of reach, already scrolling through my messages. His eyes lit up with that gleeful malice, a type that shouldn’t appear on someone even close to his age, and he laughed—this high-pitched, wheezing sound that felt like sandpaper against my nerves. “Oh, there’s way too much good stuff on here to hand it back now. I think Greg needs to see this.” He laughed harder, bending over as he cackled, every bit of it obnoxiously loud. It wasn’t real laughter, from what I could tell, he was purposefully trying to infuriate me. Just hearing Greg’s name was enough to twist my stomach. Greg would take whatever Jordan found and escalate it until it was impossible to handle alone.
I swallowed hard, keeping my voice as neutral as I could manage. “Right, so this is adulthood for you, huh? Thought we’d moved on from this shit.” My fists tightened further, though I kept my expression blank, willing my muscles to stay in check.
Jordan just snorted, giving me a disgusted look. “I can’t believe you’re reading a kid’s story like this at your age,” he sneered, dragging out the words like he was telling me some kind of life lesson. His thumb flicked through the screen with ease, his smirk only growing.
Heat crept up my neck, my face burning as I felt a lump rising in my throat. I tried to mutter some weak comeback, but it caught, and all I managed was a barely audible sound.
It was infuriating, the way he spoke so casually about dragging me into another round of torment with Greg, his so-called "friend." Jordan didn’t have any real power of his own; Greg was the real muscle behind his antics. If Jordan was a fly, Greg was the looming spider.
An apt metaphor; he was looming right outside, I mean. Through the smudged and fogged up windows I could clearly see the outline of him standing outside; muscular with an excellent physique, what I strived for whenever I made a once a month visit to the gym. After all, it was probably his car that brought Jordan here in the first place. Greg lazily vaped while leaning against the glass, creating an eerie creaking, as if it were about to shatter at any moment.
I swallowed the knot of frustration rising in my throat, trying to rein in the growing urge to just knock him out and take back what was mine. But I knew better. I was outmatched here, not by Jordan’s strength but by the threat of Greg. It was always Greg. Even though I could take Jordan in a fight—if we were one-on-one, I’d have him on the ground, no question—the looming possibility of Greg’s intervention kept my fists clenched at my sides. Well, that and going to prison for assault, but what can I say, I have priorities.
“I swear, we’re all adults here. Let’s talk this out.”
"Of course you’d think like that…" Jordan sneered, his voice dripping with fake pity, pouting. He stared at the screen, scrolling through whatever he’d found, his lips twisting into a nasty grin.
“What did you—” I started to retort, but I trailed off, the words escaping me. A hot rush of embarrassment flooded my cheeks. What did I say next? I couldn’t even remember. I’d probably blanked it out purposefully to not remember what idiotic statement I’d made.
“-thinking?!” I finished, watching as Jordan laughed harder now, as if the very idea of me talking like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. His laughter pierced through me, and the anger simmering beneath my skin flared, like fire meeting gasoline. My face flushed hotter than it already was from the sun, and my fists clenched tighter. I could feel the muscles in my jaw straining as I ground my teeth together, the sound of it like sandpaper on stone.
“Fatherless fucking asshole…” I muttered, with Jordan managing to hear.
Jordan’s grin widened in response, his head cocking slightly. “Wow, that’s rich coming from you,” he shot back with a raised eyebrow. His gaze lingered, taunting, watching for any reaction.
I held my ground, forcing my fists to relax, locking my gaze with his, unblinking. But with every second, I could feel the exhaustion, the heat, and the simmering frustration…a migraine building up. His words hit me like a sucker punch, the reminder of my own situation cutting deeper than it should have. He knew exactly how to hit where it hurt, and he wasn’t going to stop until he’d wrung out every drop of misery he could get from me.
I resisted the urge to snap back again, my throat tightening with the effort. I knew I couldn’t escalate this—not if I wanted my phone back in one piece. Not if I wanted to avoid another black eye, another mark that would take weeks to fade. I forced myself to swallow my pride, keeping my eyes locked on Jordan, hoping that he’d get bored soon enough and move on. Still…I couldn’t just let him be.
…Just a few months ago, I could still feel their warmth—my parents, flawed but mine. It wasn’t really his fault, but…
“You fucking murderers! Heartless, sadistic, twisted motherfuckers!” I screamed into his face, leaning closer. They weren’t exactly model parents; in fact, some would call them abusive. They always pushed harder, demanded more—better grades, better behavior, more sports, more clubs, more achievements. Anything less than perfection was punished, often harshly. Yet, I loved them. They were my parents, and their loss tore through me in ways I couldn’t even begin to understand, let alone face. Jordan grabbed my cheek and squeezed.
“You’re the only killer I see. What about Chris? You’ve probably forgotten him already too. You lie, you slander, you divert blame. We did nothing to you in comparison. You are twisted. You are sadistic. You are fucked up, inside and out.” He screamed back, in just as much of a fury as I was.
He’d killed them as a game, a twisted joke, and I was sure of it. That’s just who he was—a walking blight, a scourge. He’d hired hitmen to carry out the job, staging their deaths in a hit-and-run that left those lowlifes taking the fall. But our broken justice system let Greg slip away, untouched. They said he had no connection to the crime. But at school, he bragged about it, told his friends, let it spread like wildfire through every hall and classroom. Rumors swirled; consequences didn’t. Maybe he got a slap on the wrist. If he was questioned, charged, even remotely held accountable, I’d never heard of it.
The officer knocking at my door told me they’d died in a second-degree murder without accomplices, but I knew it was first-degree, premeditated and precise, carried out with help. I appealed, argued, and demanded they see the truth, but every word of mine was dismissed, like my pain was irrelevant.
My rage had festered and I’d eternally sworn not to let this misgrievance remain unpunished, nor what else he had done to me. He was guilty of a thousand crimes to my pride and body. I’d eternally sworn to stop being a hypocrite but here I was, with perfect access to Greg, not going after him. I guess…I’m afraid. I always have been. Maybe, if I just had a better chance…Get a bit braver? Or, start working out at the gym…But who was Chris? What was he talking about?
“Look, kid…I don’t actually wanna do this. Well, not entirely. You know why I have to. You know it’s an act. You know that this will be posted by the guy recording us right now. Just drop the claims, quit the accusations, and I’ll let you be.” He whispered in my ear, drawing close for a second then pulling back and turning away.
“I’d rather die th-than let that…literal calamity be without problems in their life.” I replied, deadpan, although I choked up when starting.
“You can’t even string together a sentence but you think that you have the right to make my life like this? Do you know what those legal fees did to me? To my family?” He bellowed, right back to his previous tone.
My hand instinctively brushed against the switchblade in my pocket—a weapon I carried in case I ever ran into Greg. I couldn’t help but dream of killing him, of avenging my parents, though I knew it was a dangerous dream. I had to leave him suffering. To draw it out. He probably did the same to them, somehow. For every action in nature there comes an opposite and equal reaction. For every act of terror inflicted, there comes an act of vengeance. I just…wish I could. I swallowed and licked my lips.
“Oh, don’t you dare go for that!” Jordan bit out, reaching deep into his sweatshirt to pull something out. I ducked under the counter frantically, but it was hardly enough as I felt a barrel of cold, hard metal pressed into the side of my head.
“How much do you think this would sell for, liar boy?” Jordan asked, his voice dripping with sarcastic curiosity, though he looked genuine from his facial expression alone as I looked up at him. Liar boy was referring to Greg’s adamant denial of involvement. Because I was just a liar, right? Fuck that guy. Jordan pulled his weapon back and walked away from me once more. He twirled my phone between his fingers dexterously, tossing them from hand to hand, coming close to dropping it more than once, but making a show of catching it.
“Could probably get you fired…you shouldn’t treat a valuable customer like this…What do ya’ think?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he bolted out the door, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the floor. In addition, he made sure to knock all the boxes of snacks off of one of the shelves he passed by just to pile onto my work load. I stared after him, frozen. Maybe I’d get my phone back, maybe I wouldn’t. I was most likely just overthinking everything, which I tended to do, because there was no scenario in which I would get it back. Probably that. And now I was too late. I watched as he crushed the phone beneath his feet, forgetting his plans of sale to make my life even harder. It wasn’t the end of the world. But it sucked.
My teeth dug into my lower lip and I blinked a few times more than necessary.
If only the floor would open up and swallow him whole and make me not have to deal with him anymore. No, that wasn’t enough, something worse, like spontaneously catching on fire. I didn’t have a phone anymore to call the police but if he was sent to jail, I hoped it wouldn’t treat him or Greg well. I picked myself up gradually.
A co-worker, dressed in casual clothing, just some khakis and a blue polo shirt making him more inconspicuous than I, working on stocking shelves of products in another lane just glanced at me questioningly before returning to his duty, not so clandestinely hiding that fact he’d been recording the encounter since when it got interesting enough for him to post it. My problems weren’t his. He didn’t care for me. He cared for internet updoots. Why should he care about me? I stood up to clean the mess as he said in a sympathetic tone,
“Damn. So should I be the one to call the cops?”