Afternoon sunlight shines through the dirty window of my small bedroom in Apartment 3B. Tiny specks of dust float in the light beams. They land on the ceiling. There's a large, ugly brown water stain up there. It looks like a rotten map. Outside, car horns honk loudly. Bass thumps from a passing car. Kids shout on the sidewalk. Normal city sounds.
But inside my room, the air feels thick. It smells like old fried food and something sour. I lie flat on my lumpy mattress. Springs poke my back. Down the hall, happy laughter rings out. It's Leo. My eight-year-old brother. Mom is probably tickling him. That sound twists my stomach.
Just breathe, I tell myself. My stomach growls, empty and loud. I push myself up. The mattress groans under me. My bare feet touch the rough carpet. It scratches my skin. I shuffle out to the kitchen.
The kitchen is small and messy. Faded linoleum covers the floor. Chipped counters look like old mustard. Dad sits at the tiny table. He jabs angrily at his cracked phone screen. His eyes look mean in the blue light. Mom stands at the stove. She stirs a pot of red sauce. It smells too sweet and sharp. Steam curls around her face. Leo sits on a wobbly stool next to her. He swings his small legs. He sucks on a bright red juice box. One empty glass sits alone on the counter. Just one.
"Hey," I say. I lean against the cool, chipped doorframe. My voice sounds rough.
Mom doesn't turn. She keeps humming. Dad jabs harder at his phone. Leo spins around. His face lights up with a big, gap-toothed grin. "Ace! Look! Mom got me apple juice! It's super sweet!" He shakes the half-empty box.
I force a smile. "Awesome, bud." My eyes go back to that single glass. My throat feels tight and dry. "Um, Mom?" I clear my throat. "Anything for me? To drink?"
Mom stops humming. She turns slowly. Her soft look for Leo vanishes. Her mouth pinches tight. "Water's in the tap, Ace," she says flatly. She nods at the sink without looking. "Juice boxes cost real money. You know that." Her voice is cold. All her warmth is for Leo.
"But Leo–" The words slip out. Stupid.
"Leo is eight." Dad's voice cuts like glass. He lowers his phone. He glares at me with pure dislike. His eyes sweep over my old band tee and jeans. "You're twenty. In university. Act like a grown man. Stop expecting handouts."
Handouts? Like juice? Heat floods my face. My scalp prickles. I want to shout. I want to remind him about the cash I give them every month from my stockroom job. About the cheap groceries I bought last week. But the words die in my throat. Years of this. Talking back makes Dad angrier. It makes me feel smaller. Worthless.
I turn stiffly to the sink. The faucet has white crusty spots. I grab a chipped glass. It feels rough. I fill it under the tap. Lukewarm water splutters out. It smells like chlorine. Behind me, Leo giggles. Mom laughs softly. I grip the glass hard. My knuckles turn white. I sip the water. It tastes flat. Like metal. Like nothing.
Later. After the too-sweet pasta. I stand at the sink. I scrub dried red sauce off a plate. Greasy water stings a cut on my knuckle. Cartoon laughter blares from the living room. I reach for the sponge. My elbow bumps Leo's empty juice box on the counter.
It falls.
It makes a soft thump on the linoleum floor.
Dad fills the doorway instantly. His face is red and angry. "You useless idiot!" he roars. His big hand shoves my shoulder hard. I stagger back. My hip slams into the sharp counter corner. Pain shoots through me. "Can't even wash dishes? Look at this mess!" He jabs his finger at the harmless box. Like it's poison.
I push off the counter. My hip throbs. "It's just a box, Dad. Empty. I'll pick it up," I say, trying to stay calm.
"Just a box?" His voice turns to a nasty hiss. He steps closer. His stale coffee breath hits my face. "Everything's 'just' something with you! Just more money! Just more space! Just respect you don't deserve!" Spit flies from his mouth. It lands on my cheek. "College make you think you're better? Huh? You looking down on us?"
I flinch. "No, Dad, I–"
"Get out." His voice is low. Cold. Final. He stands tall, blocking the door like a wall. Mom appears behind him. Her face is pale and blank. She stares at the floor. Leo peeks around her legs. His small face is white. His eyes are huge and scared.
"Dad?" Leo whispers, trembling.
Dad ignores him. His thick finger points straight at the front door. "Out. Now. I'm done. We're done with a grown man bringing trouble."
The world tilts. I stare. "You're… kicking me out?" My voice rasps. "Right now? Where do I go?"
"Figure it out!" Dad snarls, fury breaking through. "Should've thought before acting spoiled. College teaches responsibility? Learn now. The hard way."
Mom's lips move. Her voice is thin. "Maybe… space is good, Ace. For… everyone." Her hand tightens on Leo's shoulder. She pulls him back slightly. Leo just stares at me. Confused. Scared. Not helping.
It feels like ice water pours into my veins. Freezing me. All the swallowed words. The hidden bruises (my ribs still ache). Feeling like the unwanted mistake. It crashes down now. They're throwing me away. Like trash.
My legs feel like wet cement. Heavy. I walk past them. I don't look at Dad's stone face. I don't look at Mom's blank stare. I don't go to my room. What's there? Old clothes? Useless textbooks? My wallet is in my back pocket. Old brown leather. Maybe thirty-seven dollars inside. Some coins. My scratched phone. My university ID card. That's all. My whole life.
The apartment door clicks shut behind me. A soft snick. It echoes in the grimy hallway. The fluorescent light buzzes like an angry bee. It glows sickly yellow. I stand frozen. Muffled cartoon laughter. Leo's small voice. Life goes on. Without me. I lean my forehead against the cool, dirty wall opposite my door. I feel the grit. I smell dust and old cooking. I close my eyes.
I push off the wall. My eyes are dry. Inside, I feel hollow. Empty. I move like a robot. Down the creaky stairs. They smell like mildew and stale smoke. Past dented mailboxes. Flyers and bills spill out. They smell damp. I push open the heavy outer door. It groans.
The city hits me. Noise – honking taxis, squealing brakes, shouting people, thumping bass. Smells – exhaust, greasy food, garbage. People rush past me. Heads down. Going home. Home? Where's mine? I start walking. No direction. My worn sneakers scuff the gritty sidewalk. Each step feels heavy. A stone of despair sits in my chest. Breathing is hard. My mind races: *Library? Closed. Ben? Busy with exams. Shelter? Where? How? Wallet. Thirty-seven dollars. Fifty cents. Phone battery: 12%.*
I pass under a flickering neon sign: 'Big Al's Cheap Suds'. The red light catches a tiny sticky spot on my grey t-shirt. Apple juice. Leo's juice. From the stupid box. The ridiculousness punches me. A choked sound escapes me. Half-laugh. Half-sob. Kicked out. Over a dropped juice box. Because I'm not Leo. Not wanted. Not loved.
My legs shake. I stumble. I turn into a dark alley. It's squeezed between a closed pawn shop ('We Buy Gold!' peeling off the shutter) and 'Tony's Pizza'. Hot, greasy air blasts from a vent. It smells terrible. Rancid oil. Stale pee. Rotting garbage. Street noises fade. I hear frantic scratching in the shadows. Drip… drip… drip from a pipe. Exhaustion slams into me. My knees buckle. I slide down a rough, cold brick wall. My back scrapes on the bricks. I hit the grimy, damp pavement. I pull my knees to my chest. I wrap my arms around them. I drop my forehead onto my arms. Cold soaks through my jeans. Shame burns my face. This is rock bottom. No home. No money. No one who cares.
Now what? The thought echoes in the empty space inside my head. What do I do?
I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to block the stink. The dripping. The scratching. The crushing weight of being nothing. I see Leo's scared face. Mom pulling him away. The quiet click of the door locking me out.
Then…
[Ping!]
A sound. Not in the alley. Not in my ears. Inside my head. Inside my bones. Clear. Sharp. Like a tiny, perfect bell.
My head snaps up. My neck cracks. My eyes scan the dark alley. Shadows cling to dumpsters. Water drips. Something skitters. Nothing. No one.
[System Initializing…]
Words. Not heard. Seen. Glowing, bright blue letters. Floating in the air. Right over the dirty, spray-painted brick wall in front of me. They pulse. Steady. Real.
I freeze. Every muscle locks. My breath catches. Stuck. The heavy despair lifts. For one dizzy second. Shock floods me. Like ice water down my spine. And under the shock… tiny. Scary. A flicker.
"Perfect," I rasp. My voice is gravel in the quiet. I drop my head back onto my arms. The cold brick scrapes my back. "Just perfect. Now I'm crazy and homeless. Seeing blue words. Fantastic."