"Taurus! Get in here and clean this up now!" Mrs. Ragnar's voice, sharp as broken glass, sliced through the morning air.
Taurus flinched, dropping the dustpan he'd been using on the porch. "Yes, Aunt Rose," he mumbled, already moving towards the kitchen. He stepped over Tony's discarded sneakers without thinking – a trained reflex built over twenty years.
Inside, shattered ceramic and spilled coffee spread across the pristine tile floor. Tony stood by the counter, scrolling through his phone, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Took you long enough," Tony drawled, not looking up. "Hurry up, I need breakfast."
"It was your mess, Tony," Taurus said quietly, grabbing the mop and a bucket.
Tony's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Watch your mouth, slave. I dropped it because the handle was sticky. You didn't clean it properly yesterday."
Mrs. Ragnar swept into the room, surveying the damage. "Taurus! Look at this! How could you be so careless? You know Tony needs his space! You probably tripped him!"
"But I didn't—"
"No excuses!" she snapped, cutting him off. "Just clean it. And after this, polish the silver. All of it. Then wash the cars. Tony needs the blue one spotless for tonight." She didn't wait for a response, turning on her heel and heading towards the living room, calling back, "And make sure you're done before dinner. We have guests."
Taurus bit back the protest. He always had work. Endless, thankless work. He knelt, carefully picking up the larger ceramic shards, his mind already calculating the best way to tackle the coffee stain before it set. It wasn't just cleaning; it was problem-solving. How to remove this stain with only the cheap detergent they provided? How to polish the intricate silver patterns without the right tools? His brain, starved for formal education, devoured these small challenges, finding patterns, inventing methods.
Later, hunched over a pile of tarnished silver, his fingers working deftly, Mr. Ragnar walked past the dining room table without acknowledging him. Mr. Ragnar rarely spoke to Taurus, a silent agreement that the boy was furniture, useful but invisible.
"Dad! Can I get the new gaming console?" Tony's loud voice echoed from the next room.
"Anything you want, son," Mr. Ragnar replied warmly. "Just let me know."
Taurus kept polishing, his jaw tight. Anything you want. The contrast was a constant, dull ache.
As the afternoon wore on, tired and aching, Taurus finished the cars. He leaned against the garage wall for a moment, just breathing. A loose wire dangled from an old, broken lawnmower nearby. Idly, Taurus picked up a discarded tool, his eyes scanning the machine's chassis. He saw the faulty connection instantly, the simple fix that would bring the old thing back to life. It would take him five minutes, maybe less. But why bother? It wasn't his. His skills, his mind – they belonged to no one here.
He straightened up as Tony swaggered out, dressed in fresh clothes, car keys jingling.
"Still here?" Tony sneered. "Don't forget my room needs tidying before you sleep. Wouldn't want you messing up my stuff."
Taurus just looked at him, his expression unreadable.
Tony laughed, a short, harsh sound. "That's right. Now hop to it." He unlocked the gleaming blue car and pulled out, the engine roaring.
Taurus watched the taillights disappear down the driveway. My stuff. He had nothing here that was truly his, not even his time.
Weariness settled heavy in his bones. He retreated to the small, airless room connected to the garage that served as his living space. It contained little more than a thin mattress on the floor, a small, dusty desk salvaged from a yard sale, and a rickety chair. He collapsed onto the mattress, staring at the water stains on the ceiling.
The only thing he possessed that was entirely his was a beat-up old flip phone he kept hidden. He rarely used it, mostly just to try and access the patchy, stolen wifi signal to read articles, books, anything he could find online. As he reached under the mattress for it, it suddenly buzzed.
He pulled it out, the screen displaying an unknown number.
He stared at it, heart thumping a little faster than usual. Unknown numbers were rare. Spam? A mistake? A flicker of something he hadn't felt in years – curiosity, perhaps even a tiny spark of hope – ignited in the darkness of his exhaustion.
He hesitated for a long moment, the phone vibrating persistently in his hand. Then, slowly, he swiped to answer.