Page 6 of Daddy's Muse
Crying would only make me more dehydrated.
* * *
The bell above the diner door jingled as I stepped inside, the familiar scent of fried eggs and burnt coffee welcoming me in. The sky outside was still streaked with early morning gray, but the inside of Mama Mae’s was already alive with the low hum of conversation, clinking dishes, and the soft buzz of the overhead lights.
The place looked exactly like an old-timey diner, completewith the squishy and cracked red booths, black and white checkered floor, and countless retro photos and memorabilia covering the walls.
It’d opened every day at 6 a.m. for the past forty years. Most of the seats in the mornings were filled with coal miners; then the crowd shifted to elderly folk for most of the day, ending with college students needing food to fill their bellies, either before or after partying the night away.
I clocked in behind the register and tied my apron around my waist.
Mae caught sight of me from the kitchen window, her dark curls pulled into their usual messy bun, face shiny with the heat from the grill. She waved a spatula in my direction with a grin on her face.
“Colby,” she called, voice hoarse from a thousand cigarettes and a thousand early mornings. “You’re early, baby.”
“Didn’t sleep much,” I said, offering a small smile. She gave me the look of a disappointed mother.
“You know, you don’t gotta keep pushing yourself this hard,” she said, disappearing back into the kitchen. “You work harder than half the full-timers, and you’re juggling school on top of it. That’s not nothing. You’re gonna burn yourself out sooner or later.”
I ducked my head, cheeks heating. “I don’t really have a choice,” I murmured.
She poked her head back out, narrowing her eyes at me. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean I can’t worry about ya.” She clicked her tongue at me. “But you’re a good boy, Colby. Hope you know that. There’s a breakfast sandwich with your name on it by the waffle irons. Take a minute to eat up.”
I picked up the sandwich gratefully, the warmth soaking into my fingers. “Thanks, Mae.”
She waved me off like it embarrassed her. “Don’t thank me, just eat. Gotta have you ‘round to deal with Ernie anyway.” Ernie, one of our regulars, spluttered, choking on his coffee, and flipped Mae off.
Mae chuckled and returned her focus to the griddle.
I smiled more genuinely this time, unwrapping the sandwich and leaning against the counter as I took a bite. My body was already aching, and I had barely started the day.
I glanced out the front window as I chewed, getting the prickling feeling of being watched.
But the sidewalk was empty.
Must have just been someone walking by.
I shrugged, swallowing down the rest of the sandwich.That hit the spot.
I tossed the sandwich wrapper in the trash and headed toward the coffee pots. They were already half-empty, so I poured a fresh carafe and swapped it out, wiping my hands on my apron after. My eyes stung, the backs of them heavy with the same throbbing pressure that’d been lingering for weeks. I pressed my fists against my closed eyelids for just a moment to get a tiny bit of relief.
Moving behind the counter to start on dishes from the last shift, I grabbed a hot plate too quickly and hissed, jerking my hand back. “Fu-dge,” I muttered under my breath, shaking out my fingers.
The burn wasn’t bad, but was just enough to sting and remind me I’d skipped dinner last night in favor of finishing a paper, and thatmaybeI shouldn’t be handling boiling-hot ceramic while running on three hours of restless sleep and dollar store granola bars.
I ran my hand quickly under cold water and dabbed it dry with a paper towel. I’d need to restock on bandages. My fair skin was so sensitive that it was practically guaranteed that eachburn I got, no matter how minor, would blister and get all gross. Then, even when the top layer of skin closed up, I’d be sporting a purple-red mark for at least a month. That was, if I was good and didn’t pick at it while it was healing. Which, well… I wasn’t the best at remembering not to scratch…
The bell above the door jingled again, letting in another customer ready for breakfast. It’d become instinct lately for my eyes to jump onto every newcomer.
I wasn’t sure when I’d started feeling… watched.
Not constantly, and not in any way I could prove. It was more like a shadow trailing the edge of my vision, or a prickling across the back of my neck when I walked to class. It was a feeling that made me glance over my shoulder, only to find no one there.
Paranoia, I told myself. That’s what it was. Probably just a side effect of being utterly exhausted and stressed out. When I got like this, which was more often than not these days, my thoughts would spiral—turning every flickering light or creaking floorboard into something sinister, something I needed to run away from.
I’d always had a vivid imagination ever since I was a kid. It didn’t help to grow up hearing all of the Appalachian folk stories of monsters and ghosts and creepy evil things that lived in the mountains.
But now that vivid imagination was going haywire, probably from how terribly I’d been taking care of myself.
