My heart is still broken, but I’ve let the shadows take up the empty space and gave it a name: Rage.
The phone rings, and I groan internally. I fumble with my mandatory work apron until my fingers wrap around the indestructible plastic brick. “Good afternoon, Barfoot’s Hardware Store; how can I help?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
I know this game. No one is going to respond.
“Are you there?”
Nothing.
I shake my head and hang up. I’ve gotten a call like this almost every day for months. I don’t hear any breathing like in the movies, nor weird static. Just silence.
Whenever I consider snapping at whoever is on the other side, I think better of it. With my luck, it could be one of Marcus’s buddies trying to mess around and get me in trouble. So, I smile without my eyes and talk softly even when I want to throw up in my mouth and scream.
My own phone starts buzzing in my pocket. “Jeremy, is everything okay?” I say, answering the phone and checking to make sure no one is in the store.
“Yes.” The speaker crackles with his sigh. “I’m doing my twice-daily check in.”
I heard from him this morning when he wished me happy birthday and promised to make me breakfast once he's back. “Have they been feeding you properly? Are you warm enough? That teacher has stopped giving you a hard time, right?” I ramble on.
“Just like I told you yesterday, yes.” His disinterest in this conversation is clear. “I’m fifteen, not five. I can take care of myself.”
It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard from him. If it weren’t for me giving him my food portions and bedding, he’d be both starved and cold. Nor would he have a life if I didn’t do most of his work in the shop. Or deal with Greg’s belt on his behalf, and help him with his homework, and make sure he has clothes on his back.
He’s fifteen and completely oblivious to everything I do for him. But I wouldn’t change any of it if it means he laughs along with friends as he walks home, and he goes to sleep without bruises, not worrying about what the next day brings.
I refuse to end up like Millie, completely dead inside. But I refuse to let Jeremy grow up thinking he doesn’t know what it feels like to be safe and loved.
I clear my throat. “What did you do today?”
That question seems to change his tone. “They made us do woodwork, so I made you a birdhouse. I painted it white so you can draw something on it. We also went—”
“Yo, Jeremy, pass the drugs,” someone yells in the background.
“Shut up, man, I’m talking to my sister,” Jeremy hisses at one of his friends, who bursts into a fit of laughter. “We went—oi, fuck off.” I pull the phone away from the loud shuffling noises that go on for a solid ten seconds. “I’ll call you later,” he pants like he’s just been wrestling someone.
“Yeah, okay. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”
“I’ll be good, I’ll—dude, I’m gonna beat your—” The line goes dead.
I shake my head and continue stacking the shelves. Nothing else of note happens as the hours roll by. Every day that passes seems to take longer than the last. When closing time finally arrives, I clean up, lock the door behind me, and pull the gate down to prevent any break-ins. Then, autopilot kicks in, and my legs take me home.
I pull my coat around me tighter. My feet are aching, and my back is killing me. The last thing I want to do is make dinner for Millie, Greg, and Marcus, but this is my life. I can hear my bed calling for me all the way from here. But even after everyone’s plates are piled and tomorrow’s lunch is made, I still have a commission waiting for me.
I’m behind on one of my character arts, and I kick myself every time I put it off. It’s the only joy in my day, but sometimes I’m too tired to even breathe, let alone draw. It started as a passion project, and now it seems more like a chore on top of everything else.
The sound of scuffed boots, followed by movement from the corner of my vision, snags my attention. I whip my head around, my heart pounding in my ear. A hooded figure decked in black follows from one hundred yards away, partially illuminated by the flickering streetlamp. His stature looks familiar. A customer, maybe? That doesn’t make this any better.
I walk faster as my pulse ticks up a notch. I know better than to zone out walking home at night. I’m too scared to turn around and alert whoever’s behind me.
What if I’m being dramatic? What if we both happen to be walking in the same direction? But alarm bells are going off in my head, and my gut tells me to sprint. Still, there’s that nagging voice in my head, though, saying, what if you’re imagining it?