Page 60 of Broken Pieces
The pack with my money is practically glued to my side, every strap pulled tight, every zipper checked more than once. The other sits at my feet, cords wrapped around my boots so no one can touch it without taking me too.
My body’s stiff, legs numb, but the ache in my chest drowns it all out. I breathe through it, forcing the air to scrape past the knot in my throat. Out here, I’m not trapped in their walls.
Out here, there’s no one watching me, no one pulling at the parts of me I can’t keep locked down.
Morning traffic groans, rolling past without ever slowing down.
Somewhere, people are dragging themselves out of bed, pouring coffee, getting ready to face the day. Their lives keep moving, simple and steady, while mine sits stalled on a busted bench.
I didn’t even make it to the workshop. Just sat here and let the night bleed into morning, watching the world drift past me.
Great start to this new fucking life.
I’d told myself I’d go straight there, find Rainer, ask if I could start my job full time now instead of waiting three weeks. But somewhere between Dolores and the corner past the liquor store, my feet stopped dead.
I dropped onto this bench under the busted glass of the bus shelter and stayed.
I couldn’t drag myself through that door yet.
I needed to sit in the cold, to understand what it means to have nothing over my head.
My eyes burn. Sleep, guilt, her—all of it grinding behind my lids until they’re raw.
Skylar’s face wouldn’t leave my head last night. The way she stared at me, as if I was worth something. How it shattered when I threw the cruel words at her, told her she was nothing but a mouth around my cock.
I swallow hard, bile clawing up my throat until it scorches. The taste sits there, bitter and permanent. There’s no taking that back. No way to touch her without causing her more pain.
I shove myself upright, every muscle stiff from the night. My spine cracks, knees creak, and a low groan slips out before I can choke it back. What I need is a shower, a coffee, maybe a new soul.
Two out of three might be possible.
The workshop’s a twenty-minute walk from here. I drag the backpack strap over one shoulder, fist tight on the laundry bag so it doesn’t slip, and start moving.
The streets buzz around me with early workers, delivery vans, kids in uniforms shoving past each other, all of them with places to be. I keep my head down and keep walking.
The mirror in the corner shop window catches me, and I almost don’t recognize the wreck staring back.
Bloodshot eyes, face hollow, jaw rough with stubble. Hair sticking out in every wrong direction. Shirt creased, stained, clinging to the proof I spent the night on a bench instead of a bed.
I keep walking.
His place sits at the edge of the industrial strip, brick faded, roller door scarred, a peeling sign that still manages to shoutRainer’s Custom Restorations.
The smell hits before I even touch the door. Oil. Steel. Dust. It sinks into your skin, into your lungs, and tells you this is real work, not bullshit.
I stop outside, hand tight on the strap of my bag, every ounce of weight pressing down harder than the canvas on my shoulder.
This is it.
No turning back. No Dolores. No classrooms. No Skylar.
Just this.
I press my palm to the metal door and shove it open.
Light slants in through high windows, cutting across the shop floor in sharp bands. Machines line the walls, hulks of rusted frames waiting to be torn apart and built back again. The air is humming with heat, and the faint sting of burnt metal.
Rainer is at the back, bent over his bench, torch flaring blue, sparks bursting off the steel in showers of fire against the concrete.
