The night was thick with the vibration of the city, its pulse felt in the distant rumble of cars, the occasional high-pitched shriek of a horn. It breathed, but Liam felt like he moved around in this life as if in a dream—or a ghost. The soles of his shoes scraped the worn sidewalk, almost in time, as he trudged towards his apartment.
Neon lights flickered overhead, casting fractured light down the streets. He looked at them unrealistically, their light only recalling a life that was not his. Upscale advertisements for scents, gemstones, and luxury suits loomed above him, plastered on gleaming billboards. A wealthy pair emerged from a bright black car; laughter carried across the night.
Liam let out a dry chuckle of amusement, shaking his head. "Must be nice," he growled. "Bet they've never had to choose between paying rent or eating something besides instant noodles."
He kicked a loose stone down the street, watching it skip into a sewer grate before letting out a sigh and pulling his jacket closer around him. The cold of the night nipped at his skin as he approached his apartment building. The building stood like a shadow among shadows—paint chipped at the edges, a flickering bulb burning above the entrance, hanging on by its fingernails.
"Like the rest of us here," Liam growled, pushing the door with his shoulder.
The air within was thick with the scent of mildew and stale tobacco. As he walked down the hallway, bits of other people's lives leaked through the thin walls.
A child wailed behind one of the doors, the mother's weary voice barely above a whisper as she tried to soothe her child. Liam hesitated, his hand on the strap of his bag.
"Some are worse off," he told himself. "At least I don't have anyone counting on me."
On the second floor, boisterous laughter poured out into the hall, together with the pungent odor of cheap beer. Liam shook his head and hastened his pace, hoping to spare himself any contact.
Fatigue had already caught up with him by the third floor. His apartment door greeted him with its faded, chipped paint and stubborn lock. He rattled it three times before it obeyed with a reluctant click.
"One day, you're just not going to open, huh?" He grumbled to the door as he opened it.
The room was as lifeless as ever. A single flickering light bulb fought to illuminate the room, creating dim shadows on the pale yellow walls. The furniture—a creaky table, a wobbly chair, and a couch that sagged in the middle—did nothing to give the room a sense of home. Against the back wall was his bed, a mere thin mattress on the floor.
Liam dumped his bag against the door, taking off his shoes as he flopped down on the couch. One of the springs poked into his ribcage, and he hissed in irritation.
"Yep. Living the dream," he growled, rubbing at his eyes.
His gut growled in protest. Heaved himself toward the tiny kitchen alcove. The electric kettle rested on the counter beside a cracked mug and a desolate packet of instant noodles. He filled the kettle and switched it on before opening the nearly bare food cupboard.
With his back leaning against the counter, his gaze drifted to the tattered calendar on the wall. A majority of the dates were filled with reminders in his clenched handwriting—bill due dates, work schedules, and deliveries. His gaze drifted, however, to a blank square. No birthdays, no holidays. No… anything.
Liam jeered, racking his head. "This can't be it. This can't be all there is."
The words hung in the air, darker than he'd intended them to be. His thoughts, always dangerous, wandered back to his parents. He never let himself think about them for more than a moment, but tonight loneliness had the power to tear down his defenses.
"Maybe if they'd been rich, I wouldn't be here," he thought bitterly. "Maybe I'd have an actual home. Maybe they'd still be alive. Maybe. Maybe they really cared."
His fingers curled into fists on the counter edge before he took a harsh breath. "Most likely dead," he growled. "Easier to think that than to assume they simply didn't want me."
The kettle clicked off, and he came to. He pushed his fingers through his hair, brushing the thoughts aside, as he poured hot water over the noodles and stirred on automatic before walking with the bowl over to the table. He sat and ate, the food filling his belly but not the gaping wound in his chest.
His gaze fell on the small stack of money from today's deliveries. He counted it—one, two, three times. The amount never changed, but in some way, they always disappointed him.
Rent. Utilities. Groceries. Gas for the delivery van. The weight of it all crashed down on him. He was always teetering on the edge, never more than an inch from disintegrating at the seams.
But amidst it all, he allowed himself one small hope.
"One day, my own store," he breathed, letting the possibility take shape. "No more running around giving out crap for somebody else. No more pinching pennies. Just something I made. My own rules. My own victory."
A wistful, unsmiling smile colored his mouth. But even as he allowed himself to dream, hard reality moved in and turned that dream into a will-o'-the-wisp, a far and unreachable possibility. An illusion.
Later, when Liam was reclining on his mattress, staring up at the broken ceiling, the city noises outside had ceased. The periodic yelp of a dog or the distant howl of a siren were the only sounds to accompany him.
Tomorrow would be the same as today. More deliveries. More bills. More surviving.
He breathed out and grumbled, "One step at a time. That's all I can do."
The words were a promise. Or maybe just a lie to himself so that he could go on.
Either way, he closed his eyes, letting the black wash over him, clinging to whatever tiny shred of hope existed.