I drain the last drops of my coffee. The hot liquid slides down my throat, propping me forward for the rest of the day.

And I mean real coffee this time. Not the sugary garbage I get coming to work sometimes. This is pure, black coffee. Super concentrated and extra caffeinated. The only flavor is a bitterness so refined it superimposes ‘good morning’ upon the taste buds.

Today is a paperwork day. The office is my personal hell for the time being. Some days I get to spend a few hours slaving away at procedural issues and filing deadlines. Do some research. Hold back the immense urge to cry at my desk. Ordinary, everyday things like that.

At least I’m helping the underprivileged classes of Americans. It provides this job meaning, even with the terrible pay, long hours, and burdensome work environment.

Stacks upon stack of papers pile around my desk. A regular lawyer would have a secretary, maybe a paralegal helping them out. Here at the public defender’s office, one of the many in New York City, that obligation goes to the interns. And because they’re not officially bar-appointed lawyers yet, we must still check after every assignment they do. The best interns usually work for federal judges or corporate firms. We get all the students that are barely holding on to passing GPAs. The ones more likely to fail the bar. Another detrimental issue within the public defender’s field.

If it were just my work, I’d be done at a reasonable time tonight. Unfortunately, I’m an accommodating, naive idiot.

“You mind checking this over for me?” A fellow lawyer, Omar, stands on the threshold of my office with a file in his hand.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Court filing paperwork,” he replies. “Gotta get sent in before five today. Was wondering if you could make sure it’s correct.”

“Sure, sure. Not a problem,” I lie. “I’d be happy to.”

Omar smirks. “Great!” He walks over to my desk and slaps the file down on an open surface. “You’re the best, man.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Omar exits my office, giving me a thumbs-up before leaving.

When I’m alone, I openly groan. My forehead crashes into the desk. “Why can’t I say no!?”

I begin reading through Omar’s file, checking it for mistakes.

During that process, halfway through, my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Felix, sweetie, how are you?” my mom answers on the other end of the line.

“Pretty good. In the middle of work. I am going to take a lunch break soon,” I respond. Then I pause. That’s why Omar wanted me to check his file! He wanted to take his lunch early! Bastard.

“You eating well?”

“I always do,” I say. “Gonna pick up some Japanese food for lunch. Chicken. Rice. Vegetables. A well-balanced meal, and it’s tasty.”

“It’s loaded with salt.”

“Guess I’ll get a pizza instead.”

“Why not get something vegetarian?”

“Because I need protein, or I’ll crash in the middle of the afternoon.”

“You can get plenty of protein with be—”

“What do you need?”

“Rude,” Mom complains, but she presses on. “Garret and I are coming in for Christmas.”

“Garret?”

“My boyfriend.”

“I thought his name was Jason.”

“Jason and I broke up a while ago.”

“Oh.”

“Garret is a nice man. I’m sure you’ll like him,” Mom asserts.

“I’m sure I will. It’ll be nice to see you again.”

“You can see us every day for the week if you’d like,” Mom shamelessly expresses into the phone.

“What do you mean?”

“It’d be lovely if you’d let us stay there during the holidays. I looked up hotel prices in the area, and they’re insane!”

“That’s what happens when you book a hotel in New York at Christmas time. Gotta do that about a year in advance. Even then, it is expensive.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I realize that now,” relents my mom. “Can we stay?”

“I have a one-bedroom apartment,” I reply. Annoyance is evident in my voice.

“I know, I know. It’d mean a lot to me.”

“I’ve never met Garret.”

“He’s a nice man.”

“I’m sure he is,” I lament.

No, I don’t want either of them to stay with me. I inhabit a one-bedroom, one-bath with a living room and combined kitchen. It’s a little over three-thousand dollars a month in rent, and most of my pay goes to that. But given the amenities, I’m lucky, even if the location in the city isn’t the safest.

Beyond that, sure, Garret is probably a good guy. Maybe. My mom’s taste in men isn’t the greatest. Even the stories of my dad paint him as kind of a selfish asshole. But let’s say Garret is, in fact, an exceptional guy. If they’re staying for a week, they’ll both be sharing my bed while I sleep on a blow-up mattress. I won’t have time off from work because there will still be paperwork and court filings to send out. My air mattress is garbage. My back will hurt. On top of that, I’ll have to entertain both of them, meaning I’ll have to go to work earlier so I can waste my nights with them.

An irritating air of tiredness will lord itself over me for some time, even after they leave.

But... she’s my mom....

“Felix?”

I sigh. “Sure. It’ll be fine,” I lie. “That’s what family’s for.”

My tongue rubs against the top of my lip. A nervous habit. I’ve always had it. Whenever I’m annoyed, anxious, or frightened, I tend to do that. I suppose I also did it before fights. It’s reflexive. I wish I could stop. I’ve always thought it was weird.

“Thank you, sweetie!”

“You bet. Text me your details later. I’ve got to get back to work. Feel free to call me later tonight,” I say, hoping she’ll forget to do so in a few hours.

“Bye, bye! Love you, sweetie!”

“Love you, too. Okay? Bye, bye.” I hang up. My eyes glaze over. “Shit.”

•

At around seven o’clock, I call it for the day. I’m one of the last people in the office. Scott didn’t ask me out for drinks tonight. He must have had a family obligation. Thank God!

On my way home, I pick up two chicken sandwiches from a chain restaurant. I eat one on the walk to the subway, then the second on the subway itself.

Finally, at around eight-thirty at night, I make it home for the rest of the day.

My key jabs into the deadbolt. I unlock it. My body is thrust inside. “I’m hooooome!” I drone quietly into the empty, dark apartment. I slap my bag on the kitchen counter. It’s full of papers and my tech. I thought about doing some more work at home, but I now have no desire.

Mom’s coming through with her boyfriend during my time off. They’ll be staying in my apartment. My co-workers continually take advantage of my goodwill. I’ve got no girlfriend, and my friend group is lacking.

I want to beat something.

In the living room at the back of the wall sits my punching bag. I drag it away from the surface until it’s in the center of the room. I pull off my jacket, dress pants, and dress shirt, along with my shoes, until I’m only in my underwear. I quickly tape up my hands before facing the bag.

“Wish I could hit a real person,” I admit before striking forth upon the bag.

For an hour, I rain attacks until sweat drips from my body. The toxins of the day pour from my skin as I burn what little calories I consumed today.

Effortlessly, I switch from hand to hand, attacking the bag. Being ambidextrous has its perks. Each hand feels as comfortable as the other striking the device. Endorphins slowly flood my brain as the fighting intensifies.

Sweat pools around a tiny spot on the floor as I finish my workout for the night. I grab a towel from my bathroom, wipe up the floor, clean off the bag, and wipe my face before tossing it into my laundry basket. The bag is moved back to its place against the wall.

The shower calls for me. I soak in the cold waters, a feature of my own desire, as I scrub my body down. I then wash my hair. It’s been a day since I last did so. It’s about time. Once I’m clean, I throw on a pair of shorts then head to my couch. I spend an hour watching television before giving up on that adventure.

Sighing, I roll off the couch and lay on the floor. “I don’t want to go to sleep. Then I have to go to work again.”

My head rolls about as I look around the room. I spot my guitar along the wall. I stand up and cross the room. My fingers grab at the wooden head. The steel strings rub against the callouses on my fingers as I remain on the floor. My back reclines against the wall. I play a few notes, tune as needed, then take a deep breath.

A folky song soon laces the air as its depressing lyrics leave my lips.

My phone rings.

Sighing, I cross the room back into the kitchen. Phone’s still in my bag. I need to charge it after this. How annoying.

Rifling through the bag, I find the device in a side pocket. “Hello?”

“This is the Manhattan County Correctional Facilities. You are receiving a call from ‘Jordan Whitmore.’ Do you accept the call?” A robotic voice says over the phone.

I frown. “Yes,” I confirm.

What the hell? Jordan already settled his case. We went to trial together. He pleaded guilty, and he paid the fine. It’s all done! Why’s he back in jail? What did he do this time?

“Jordan,” I answer as soon as the line comes through to the prison. “What happened?”

“I’m fucked, man! You fucked me!” Jordan screeches into the receiver.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down! Tell me what happened. Blame me after.”

“I’m being charged with fucking murder!”

I flinch. “What?”

“That fucking guy I pushed is dead! Apparently, he checked into the hospital a few days ago cause he kept having migraines. Slipped into a coma and croaked! Cops came by and said I’m being charged with manslaughter because the doctors said he had issues in his head from a prior injury. They said it was when I knocked the bastard onto the ground. He hit his head, but I didn’t think it would do this shit!”

“Ah, damn,” I grumble. I can feel my blood pressure beginning to rise. “We accepted the guilty plea for assault, so they already have a verdict confirming you did the act. Shit. Okay. I’ll be right there. Give me an hour.”

“Am I going to get out of this, man?” Jordan whimpers.

I pause. “I’ll do my best.”