The Word of the Forsaken (BoyXBoy)

Chapter Five

The ancient alarm on my nightstand blares as the clock strikes eight AM, even though it feels like I’ve only just fallen asleep. As soon as I move to turn the annoying clock off, I blanch at the pain that radiates through every muscle in my body, especially my head and back. In all my years of playing sports in high school, I’ve never been this sore. The pain makes me fall back against the pillows as I stare up at the ceiling of my room, trying to decide if the lion masked man was a part of my dream or not. I turn my palms upwards to look at them, still bandaged neatly despite my fitful sleep. Definitely not a dream. 

I pull myself up into a seated position, moaning at my aching muscles as I swing my legs over my bed. Despite Ruslan’s warning about staying off the streets, I couldn’t bring myself to leave my tattered bicycle in the alleyway for someone else to steal. The alleyway was empty when I returned for it though other than the bike, which remained up right where I left it. I walked it home through the rain and didn’t make it back until around four in the morning. Luckily, my grandmother was asleep and had no idea that I was even out so late. I hear her shuffling around in the kitchen a few hours ago, which means she should be at the restaurant already too. I know I can’t avoid her forever, though. 

I wonder what Ruslan did with the bikers but decide it’s better not to dwell on it. They were just a couple of thugs, anyway. I shake my head clear of the two big men’s faces and limp to the kitchen, grateful to hear the silence that settles over the apartment. Grandma is definitely gone, though the scent of eggs and rice lingers in the air, making my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday, but I’d forgotten to feel hungry after everything that happened. With the thought of breakfast in mind, I make my way to the fridge and open the door to reveal a ceramic bowl covered by a paper plate. I pull it out and grab a pair of chipped wooden chopsticks from our cutlery drawer and settle at the small dining table. There is only enough room for two people at the little table, but that’s always been enough for the two of us. The apartment is very old and drafty, but we take good care of it and keep it clean. It’s served us well for the past twelve years.

I shovel the rice and eggs into my mouth, giving in to the hunger that pangs my stomach. Being slightly hungover from the stolen whiskey doesn’t help, but I demolish the bowl within minutes anyway, eating in silence. I lean back and close my eyes, mentally preparing for what needs to be done today. I have to buy a new phone somehow and try and see about getting the wheel of my bike fixed. I should stop by work too before they open to let Christina know why there’s a bottle missing from the inventory. I’ll have to skip deliveries this morning since my phone is broken and I can’t use the app, and I also can’t walk to each delivery in a decent amount of time, even on a good day. 

I push myself from the table with some effort and place my dishes in the sink to do later, making myself get ready for the day. I go to the small bathroom and turn on the shower, wincing at the thought of water stinging my palms again. I manage to wash my hair and body with only a little pain and dry myself off with a towel. I stand in front of the mirror above the sink, holding my breath as I wipe away the steam. I can’t help but laugh at my reflection. My nose is still swollen with old blood crusting the inside of my nostrils and my cheeks are still raw from my scrapes. There’s no way that I can hide that. I sigh and wash my face gingerly and apply some sunscreen, careful to avoid angry skin. I do my best to clean the wounds on my hands and discard the soggy badges from last night. I know that I should let them breathe so they can scab up, but I don’t want to get bacteria in them by touching things all day. I manage to find some big bandaids and put them over my palms. I blow dry my hair, trying to mimic the way the barber styled it yesterday to make it look the same. It doesn’t come out perfect, but it’ll have to do. 

I struggle with a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt before grabbing my life savings from a dresser drawer and stuffing it into my wallet, hoping that I’ll be able to find a phone for low enough to have some money left over to fix the bike. I stuff my keys into my pocket and grab a face mask from one of the drawers, pulling a baseball cap over my head to shield my eyes. Even though the day is still overcast from last night’s storm, the more of my face I can hide, the better.