Chapter 5, A small space filled with nothing.
Everett's vehicle came to a screeching halt, bumping lightly against the sidewalk's curb. He got out quickly, this time with all the bags that were tossed in the back seat swung around his body and arms.
It was getting late, but the bright summer day refused to give in to the passing time. The air was dim and cool like a soft lullaby. He wasted no time trudging up to the brick building. Trying his best to not lose his balance and topple over when opening the front door. Inside was the same overwhelming garish mess that he had seen previously, but this time one thing stood out.
Sitting at the cash register was a slender woman. She was older, with long slick gray hair that ran all the way down her back. A pasty complex with blue eyes so pale they appeared colourless. She had slight features, mouse-like in nature, and her weathered face was plastered into a permanent Sneer. She didn't look up when Everett entered. Instead, she focused her attention on her needle, which was strung with a row of delicate, colourful beads. The tiny gray cat sat in her usual spot, watching the older woman's hands keenly as she strung more beads on the thin metal needle.
Everett took a few steps in, the door brushing past him and slamming closed, making the windows shake slightly with the impact, but still, the woman said nothing. Everett took her gesture as a hint, readjusting his grip and huddling forward. He waded his way through the mass clutter that filled the tiny store. Weaving around tall over-decorated pots and outdated furniture and remembering to duck down to dodge the gaudy hanging fabrics and aggressive windchimes. He was about to reach the back door when the woman adjusted her weight on her wooden stool, creating a rather loud creaking sound.
"I don't even get a good evening?"
"Good evening?" Everett said apprehensively while turning back. The woman was still facing forward, away from him. She paused for an uncomfortable amount of time, Everett attempting to hold tight so his stuff didn't fall from his ever-slipping grasp.
"You are the Porter kid, yes?" she hissed; her voice was like a whistle, high and aggressive, but Still breathy.
"Yes, Everett."
The small cat sat tense now, her eyes peering at Everett with such distaste it made the air stale. The woman's wrinkled ring-covered hand lifted up and rested on the little cat's back.
"Karma doesn't seem to like you too much," her voice was much softer and affectionate towards the hesitant feline.
"I'm afraid all cats have a distaste for me," Everett admitted in a joking manner.
"Not a good trait to have for someone who possesses magic." The woman placed her needled down and slowly creaked back to meet Everett. Her brow was down, and her nose slightly crinkled. "Just call me Miss Whitman, and don't waste my time with any formal introductions. I don't care to know anything more about you,"
Everett paused at the comment; fully aware of their eye contact, he broke away. Nodding at her request, and said nothing more. Her gaze was still locked on him as he turned and thudded up the narrow staircase. He fumbled with the key for a moment before finally slipping the door open. The room still had that warm stale atmosphere from before. Thudding his bags down, he slumped his way fully inside, welcoming himself back into his new little home.
There was something calm about the tiny space, a quietness that felt unusual yet not foreign. Perhaps it was that it didn't feel forced. The stillness came from a lack of people. At the end of the day, It was just him. There was no need to talk, and that's what Everett enjoyed the most. He wasn't rambling on to fill the space and entertain blank expressions.
He quickly tossed off his corduroy jacket and kicked off his worn-out sneakers. A thin layer of sweat lay slick, sticking his clothes to his skin. He wasted no time making his way to the small washroom. Just as he imagined, It was crammed, like stepping into a changing room. There was no room to move freely. He was either at the toilet, the sink, or the shower. His eyes trailed along with the stained tile before making their way up. Passing the outdated blue cabinets, then immediately confronted by a rather large streaky mirror that took up most of the wall. He was finally able to get a good look at himself.
"Shit," he winced, "I really went to dinner looking like this?" His face was flushed red, his brows heavy with dark, large bags lining his sunken eyes. His fluffy auburn hair a tangled mop gently curling from the hot salty humid air. Wondering how Ash could even stand being seen with a mess such as himself.
"What an odd guy," He chuckled softly.
Everett quickly stripped, turning on the shower and hopping in. Accepting the icy trickle that made his hairs stand up and his teeth clench. Finally, the water turned warm, racing down and filling the tiny space with hot steam. He knew he shouldn't take too long, but something about the water's rushing repetitive sensation made his mind go numb. His eyes slipped close as he leaned into the water. The world around him went dark. Blotches of light dancing around his mind before fading into a few familiar faces. Like a heartbeat, they thumped into fruition. His dad, mom, Evelyn, and Eva's faces appeared all with the same expression. Eyes wide and glassy, wrinkled foreheads and gapped mouths.
Have you ever seen such a face repeated on the ones you love? All staring at you, your own tears can't even wash away your crimson-stained body. His own tears can't wash away that night, because at the end of the day, it happened, and that face they make is because of what he had done.
His dad, his mom, Evelyn, and Eva… and now a new face this time, took over. Dark raven hair framing a porcelain slender face. Bright green eyes, an endless stare that drew him in. Those eyes mocking him, yet they made him weak. Why were they making him so vulnerable? Everett let out a gasp pulling his face away from the warm stream of water and taking in the hot steam. Watching the clear water that ran over his body rush down the drain. He flipped his sopping hair back and quickly squeaked the water off. Trailing out and leaving soggy footprints.
He got dressed, putting on a long t-shirt and a comfortable pair of joggers. The nights have always been colder around here, but something about being closer to the ocean gave it an extra punch that tingled the spine.
His focus shifted to his bags, few in number but still better than nothing. He folded the few clothes he had and tossed them on the lone chair sitting patiently in the corner. Then he pulled out one worn-out pillow along with his mismatching comforter and threw them on his sad little bed. Next, he pulled out a few odd cans of soup that he had snagged from the pantry before leaving. He stacked them neatly on the narrow counter next to the oven. Rattling at the bottom of the bags were a few odd things, like his toothbrush, a fork, a couple bottles of pills, and an envelope filled with a few pieces of ID, and precisely one hundred and forty-five dollars. The room was still bare and looked even more pathetic than it did when it was completely empty.
He sat down on the tiny cot, questioning if it would be more comfortable to sleep on the floor. The day was coming to an end, the sun leaving him alone with an unpleasant acquaintance. The large moon aggressively glaring inside uninvited. Even if he closed the blinds, it wouldn't make much of a difference. It would still be there, staring at him, mocking him. He turned away, slipping his knees up and tucking his head down. He took a deep breath, feeling his own warmth, remembering himself, his consciousness, his humanity.
It didn't take long till his mind began to trail away. His eyes flickered up to the landline on the wall across from him.
"I could just call them," he thought out loud, "tell them I'm okay?"
But they hadn't reached out to him once, and it had been almost three days. The note he left wasn't some secret code. They knew where he was. What would he do if they knocked on that door? Would he be relieved? Or would he be panicked? They could scoop him up and take him back home so quickly. Maybe if he had waited the two weeks to turn that magic number of 18, he wouldn't have to worry. He'd be free, or a grown-up at the very least. His own person. Has he ever been his own person? Could he ever be? If they knocked on that door, they wouldn't have to scoop him up; he'd go freely. He would return home like a sad pup from the pound. Instantly regretting it, but it wouldn't be just him. They all would regret it. His father would continue fighting his own illness, watching his body cease as he grips onto a cure that doesn't exist. His mother actively avoiding looking him in the eyes, scraping up every last ounce of energy to force that pathetic smile. Two broken parents taking care of a broken son. All three of them pretending that they aren't terrible actors. All three of them knowing damn well it would have been better if he just died that night, then their morning would make sense. What a happy family they have become.
Everett's hand quickly shot out, grabbing the corner of the nightstand, lifting himself up to his feet, and flipping it up. The tiny alarm clock and desk lamp cords tugging taught before they bounced back, tumbling to the ground. The nightstand whipped across the empty room, slamming on the wall, missing the landline only by a fraction.
"ONE LITTLE FUCKING HAPPY FAMILY!"
His brow lifted, feeling his face burning and his lip quivering. His vision began to get blurry as he felt warm beads trail down his cheeks and the distinct taste of salty tears reaching his mouth. His knees were weak. Light blue flames trailed up his shaky arms. The same flame engulfed the small side table that lay limp on the floor. He let out a trembling breath, trying to stay standing as he gave his hands a good shake. The flames disappeared immediately. He rushed over to the table and quickly began patting it to distinguish the flames. The only damage was from the impact. One leg dangling from side to side before falling to the floor.
Inspecting the wall, he noticed a rather large hole where the drywall gave way, revealing the brick behind it. Luckily, he didn't use any magic. If that was the case, the damage would have been more severe. He tried his best to get the room back to its original state, but he wasn't in the state of mind to fiddle with the damaged table, sweeping it to the side along with the broken bits of drywall. The night was still young, but the throbbing in his head only worsened by keeping his eyes open. He flicked the lights off, the bright moon reflecting off the damaged wall. He pulled the cord hard, watching as the blinds whizzed down, leaving him in darkness
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