Mistakes Made ✅

Chapter 22: Low

A/N
Attached a lyric video (not mine) because;

1) Been listening to it for more than a hundred times and realised Hey this song is good for this chapter!

2) It's my boi Greyson Chance y'all sleepin on him

The two reasons why Errol held himself from checking his phone included trying to conserve its battery life as well as the growing doubt on what he'd see should he check it. His phone had been put into a silent mode, and he didn't know whether he had received anything since yesterday afternoon.

He silently thanked the world that it was Sunday, otherwise he wouldn't know how else he was going to go through the day. He had a shift after all, on Monday, and his belongings were all in Jordie's apartment.

Jordie.

Even the mere name of the boy sent his guts coiling into a nauseating knot. Ever since yesterday, he'd been too scared to head towards the street that led to the apartment, let alone return there. He doubted he would be welcome. A tiny part of him was holding him back, translating the words "get out" as "I don't want to see you anymore". And of course, the pessimistic side of him – already dominating his entire being – just had to buy it. Close the deal and leave him to pack up everything.

Patrick had been very benign to let Errol spend the night when Errol arrived at the door to his apartment yesterday evening. The man didn't ask questions but had simply let him in as though Errol was another one of his own children coming home after a long day. And it had been an unbearably long – stretched – day.

Initially, Errol had planned to pretend to doze off and not stir until the next day. But somehow, Patrick could see the stress beyond the walls, like ugly cracks and fissures that had managed to finally draw attention. Perhaps the reason Patrick would be able to do so was because there were no walls anymore, that Errol had been stripped bare to the bones. No matter how much he tried to conceal it, he was still transparent. Like trying to hide underwater, with his outline indiscernible, yet anyone with eyes could make out his presence.

"How was your sleep?"

Errol sat up from the couch at the sound of Patrick's voice. The man had a plate full of sandwiches gripped in one hand and a mug of what looked like warm tea in the other. A clock on the wall near the doorway indicated that it was half-past eight in the morning.

"Um – good," Errol answered, not sure whether he was stating a lie or a fact. "Patrick, I'm sorry for—"

But Patrick waved his hand dismissively, placing down the plate and mug on the coffee table. "No, no, I understand," he said, sitting down on the armchair across from Errol.

Errol tilted his head aside, his eyes narrowing. "Understand ...?"

"Was a young lad once too, y'know," Patrick said, a calm smile on his face. "Reckless, might add. Hassled at the same time, d'you follow?"

Numbly, Errol found himself nodding. There was no use pretending he wasn't catching the drift.

"Ran away when I was ... eighteen? Thought I was the strongest man alive," Patrick chuckled. "Then I realised ... I asked myself, 'Blimey, Pat, where are you gonna live now?'. Got not even a penny, see."

"So where did you spend the night?" The question simply tumbled out of Errol's tongue before he could stop himself.

"Sorta like you," said Patrick. "I 'an an uncle downtown. Stayed there for a night or two, before me dad showed up and took me home."

"What happened?"

Patrick leaned back in his armchair, eyes cast upwards as though his adolescent years were flashed on the ceiling. "Personal stuff and the like," he said. "Mistakes ... misunderstandings ... you name it."