Chapter Four #2
By the time he reached the apartment, his head ached from clenching his jaw too hard.
The door creaked when he opened it. Inside, the air smelled stale—old alcohol, unwashed dishes, something sour lingering beneath it all.
His mother was passed out on the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor, an empty bottle tipped on its side near her feet.
The television flickered silently, casting harsh blue light across her face.
Ellis stood there for a long moment, chest tight for a different reason.
He wished—briefly, bitterly—that he lived alone, that his space was never dirty, that things stayed where he left them, that no one moved his belongings or left empty bottles where his brain snagged on them like broken glass.
She was pathetic. But she needed him. Even when it exhausted him. Even when it felt unfair.
Ellis took several deep breaths. The walk home had been just enough to take the edge off of his meltdown from earlier, but the tv light was still too bright.
His face felt itchy, like the very skin of it was dirty.
He wanted to scrub his face, scrub anything aggressively until that feeling went away.
When he was little, Ellis would scratch his arms. The feelings would build and build and build, until there was nowhere left for them to go.
He would scratch his arms and it would hurt.
The pain was just enough to make him calm a bit, but then the guilt of the action would take over.
Younger Ellis would cry after that. Sob for as long as his little body could keep up.
Crying was a great release, it made the overwhelming feeling of everything is too much finally subside.
Ellis had no tears for his current situation.
He picked up the bottle, carried it to the kitchen, and set it in the recycling bin. He draped a blanket over her shoulders, careful not to wake her, then retreated to his room, closing the door softly behind him.
He didn’t sleep much that night. He was too busy trying to focus on not harming himself. He often would hit and scratch his arms until they bled. Especially on nights where he was overwhelmed with change and the ever growing threat of his mother’s addiction.
He lay in bed and stared up at the glow in the dark stars that he placed when he was ten. They weren't as bright as they once were, but they were still there, right where he left them. Always.
The next morning, his body felt heavy, like it had been wrung out and left to dry.
He moved through his routine mechanically, dressing, brushing his teeth, packing his bag with the same precision he always used when fragile.
The bus ride to the record store wasn't too bad and when he arrived the bell chimed with its usual tired sound.
Clyde looked up from the counter. He didn’t say anything. He just held out a cup—a pale pink strawberry spritzer, ice glistening from the inside. His favorite. The one Clyde often picked up for him at Good Times Coffee Co. down the street when he knew Ellis was barely holding it together.
Something in Ellis's chest loosened. “Thanks,” he murmured, taking it carefully in both hands. No whip, which he appreciated. Whipped cream always left a film in his mouth he couldn’t get rid of.
He took a sip, unable to stop himself. The sweet tang of berries bloomed across his tongue, grounding and familiar. He smiled—small and involuntary.
Then Issaky stepped around the corner and ruined it.
“Morning,” he said lightly. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
Ellis's smile vanished. Issaky’s gaze flicked to the drink, then back to his face. “Happy to see you like your drink! I asked Clyde what you liked.”
Ellis bristled, suddenly enjoying the drink much less. Issaky didn’t wait for a thank you–which was good, because he wasn’t going to get one–before he smiled and stepped closer. Clyde busied himself with the register, giving them space.
Wuss.
Issaky leaned casually against a shelf, hands in his pockets, looking far too comfortable in his button-down. “So,” he said. “I hear I owe you an explanation.”
Ellis's stomach tightened, but he didn’t respond.
“I’m not trying to blindside you,” Issaky continued. “I know change is hard. Especially when it comes from outside. Especially for people like you.”
Ellis grimaced. People like you. He’d been hearing it his whole life.
“You don’t know anything about me,” Ellis said flatly, setting the drink down.
He nodded. “You’re right, I don’t. That’s why I want to be transparent.”
He dragged on then—about healthcare, PTO, sick days and mental health coverage, flexible scheduling. About stability. About security. Ellis listened and understood every word. Logically, it all made sense. Emotionally, it felt like being cornered.
“You should be happy about this,” Issaky said gently. “This is a good thing.”
The word should be lodged under Ellis's skin.
Gratitude rose in his throat, sour and unwelcome, tangled with resentment and fear.
His assumption—that relief would outweigh loss, that logic would soothe panic—felt invasive.
Like Issaky was reaching into his chest and rearranging things without asking.
“I don’t feel good,” Ellis said quietly. “I feel trapped.”
He didn’t mean for it to sound like a confession. Sometimes he just spoke without thinking.
Issaky’s expression softened. “That’s not my intention.”
“That doesn’t change how it feels,” Ellis replied sharply.
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
“I don’t want your gratitude,” Issaky said finally. “I want your honesty.”
Ellis looked down at the drink. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.
Issaky nodded, slow and steady. “Then we will figure it out.”
We. The word scared him almost as much as it comforted him.