Page 13 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)
Wren
My feet ache as I weave through thick clusters of people clogging the sidewalk, winding through the mess of city traffic in the direction of Good Shepherd Respite.
On the bright side, I haven’t had a migraine in three days, which has made it easier for me to devote all of my time to job hunting.
Despite my best efforts, I haven’t had any luck. My dire circumstances are hanging over me like the storm clouds, looming above in the slate-colored sky. The threat of rain presses down on the city, and the incoming gloom has already settled into my bones.
I had every intention to fill out my Medical Assistance in Dying application, but Dominic’s kindness sort of changed things. With all of my medications refilled, it feels just a little bit easier to try and get back on my feet.
The setting sun cuts through the haze of metropolitan smog, casting fractured rays of orange and pink across the skyline. The warm, vibrant hues bleed through the dark clouds as they roll in, and the sight is so gorgeous I find my eyes lingering in the skies while I walk.
The early September wind bites through my thin jacket, a promise of the cold night to come. I zip it tighter and pick up my pace, hoping to make it to the meal center before the rain starts pouring.
I’ll need to secure a winter jacket sooner rather than later, because donations become more scarce once the snow actually arrives.
People usually go through their wardrobe in the fall months, so they can purchase new jackets before it gets cold.
That means donations come in before winter even arrives.
Someone walking the opposite direction slams their shoulder into mine, so hard that the jolt knocks me a step sideways and sends a sharp flare of pain through my arm.
The guy must be in a foul mood, because he really had to put some effort into hitting me as hard as he did. I don’t think I did anything to deserve that, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone targeted me unfairly because of my status in society.
When I turn to glare at the jerk that slammed into me, I swear I see a familiar face in the dense crowd of people. I caught a glimpse of striking green eyes, but they were gone in an instant.
Disoriented, I spin around in a circle, searching for the eyes that have haunted my dreams for the last three days. My attempt to locate him is fruitless, and I just end up jostled by a group of young boys as they come up behind me.
I stumble sideways, pressing my back against the cold stone wall of the nearest storefront. My eyes sweep the chaotic rush-hour crowd, scanning for the flash of green I thought belonged to Dominic.
If he used that clinic so late at night, he must be local. It wasn’t crazy to think I could run into him again .
I stand there for several minutes, watching and waiting, but I don’t find him. And he doesn’t find me. With a heavy sigh, I push off the wall and keep walking towards Good Shepherd Respite.
I must’ve imagined him. It wouldn’t be the first time a hallucination had me questioning reality. Years of chronic migraines and spending most of my teenage life bedridden gave me a bad case of maladaptive daydreaming—vivid fantasies that sometimes bled too far into reality.
My stomach grumbles as I reach my destination, and I do the mental math to figure out how long I’ll be stuck in line.
Thankfully, the line is moving fast tonight. Despite it being dinner rush, I find myself shuffling forward quickly, the weight of hunger growing sharper with each step. They must have extra volunteers tonight, which helps get meals out quicker than usual.
The familiar scent of chili is heavy in the air as I cross the threshold, and my empty stomach rumbles. I inhale deeply, letting the spiced aroma chase some of the chill from my soul.
What little money I had left after losing my job went to making sure I got breakfast before each long day of job hunting. I printed résumés, bought two new outfits from the thrift store for interviews, and replenished the bottle of over the counter pain medication I always have on hand.
I may not be living with starvation right now, but two meals still isn’t enough when I’ve been walking all day long, all over the massive city, dropping off résumés anywhere that would consider hiring me .
The bright-eyed, smiling volunteer holds out a tray as I approach the table, and my stomach says thank you with another embarrassingly loud rumble before I even get a chance to say a word.
I offer her an awkward smile as I take it from her hands, thank her, and head over to the overcrowded rows of tables. It’s a sea of solemn faces, a few familiar, but mostly strangers with sad stories.
I’m searching for a safe place to sit, when I spot a friendly face.
Ronald, an older gentlemen with a kind heart and a love of epic fantasy novels, lifts his warm brown eyes and offers me a welcoming smile.
He waves me over, and I return his smile with one of my own as I make my way through the crowd to the open seat next to him.
“Hey, Ronald.” I gently bump his shoulder in greeting as I sit next to him. My smile widens when I see the big, weathered fantasy novel next to his tray. It’s his favourite, I remember from our past conversations—an old, dog-eared book with worn, yellowed pages.
“Ah, little bird! So good to see you again, my dear.” His voice is enthusiastic as he greets me, leaning over to bump his shoulder against mine in return. “You made it before the rain, yes?”
I set my tray down and tuck my backpack between my legs. “Yes, but it’s definitely going to start soon. The sky is so dark.”
He nods, launching into a story about his day while I dig in.
The chili is hot, a little spicy, but surprisingly flavorful and aromatic. It masks the stale texture and slightly odd flavour of the bread they paired with it, not that I’d ever complain about free food. I’m so grateful for every meal I get.
I’ve got a small cup of mixed steamed vegetables on the side, a ripe banana, a chocolate pudding cup, and a bottle of water.
I don’t comment on it, but Ronald look like he’s lost a lot of weight since I last saw him, and he didn’t have much to lose to begin with. His cheeks are sunken in, and the circles under his eyes are darker than I remember.
It’s not exactly unusual for those of us that are homeless to look malnourished, but the state of him goes beyond that. I can see it in the grey pallor of his skin.
I hate to admit it, but his sickly appearance triggers my anxiety.
I slide my chocolate pudding cup over to him, but he shakes his head at me. “I don’t like chocolate,” I lie, pushing it a little closer.
A sad smile spreads slowly across his face, but he grabs it and sets it next to his own.
“How have you been feeling?”
Ronald doesn’t answer me for a moment, and my anxiety morphs into dread. I didn’t dwell on the feeling earlier, but I recognize my trigger now. He looks like my mother did when she was dying.
“Oh, little bird, you know,” he begins, glancing up and letting his glassy eyes scan the crowd. I hold my breath, waiting for his next words. “My cancer is back, and it spread. They can’t do anything for me now. ”
I didn’t know he had cancer, but I don’t fault him for keeping that information private. His confession stings, and brings with it the flash flood of grief.
Loss is no stranger to me. It lives in my bones, threaded through the lattice of my DNA. Grief is my devoted traveling companion in life. It has grown so big over the years—a testament to all of the life-altering loss and tragedy I’ve survived. It feeds on every sadness I find, big or small.
Ronald’s reality feeds it now. My grief breathes like a living thing, its ghostly lungs expanding through me. It stretches inside of me, making my whole body ache from the weight of it.
“I’m so sorry, Ron.”
“Don’t be, little bird. I’m a weary traveler, long overdue for a good rest.” I can see the exhaustion all over his face. “I just finished re-reading my favourite book, and now I can pass it along to you.”
My throat tightens with emotion as he reaches over and grasps the big book, lifting it lovingly in the cradle of his thin, pale hands. He offers it to me, and when my gaze lifts to meet his, a single tear falls from the corner of his eye, leaving a glistening trail down his cheek.
Despair washes through me as I reach out with shaking hands, holding the opposite end of his most prized possession. My vision blurs—tears beginning to flow as my sadness overtakes me.
“Don’t cry, little bird. For I have lived a great adventure, and the next one awaits.” He speaks like he belongs in the fantasy books he loves so much. I’ve always adored that about him .
I was never good at hiding my emotions. My pain has always felt so much bigger than me, like I can’t fit it all inside of my body. I don’t wish I could stop myself from grieving with him, though.
I always believed people deserved to see their pain mirrored in the eyes of their friends, their family, and even strangers on the street.
Humans have grown so disconnected from one another, and I try my hardest to make connections with people as often as I can.
Even though those opportunities are limited for someone like me.
Who knows how long we have on this Earth together, we’re all just lonely travelers trying to find a little happiness during our brief, fragile existence here.
For a moment, I regret printing out the application to end my life. I find myself a little relieved that I lost it before I had the chance to submit it.
Despite his bravery, I see it in his eyes, and the burn is bittersweet; Ronald wishes he could stay, so he could live a thousand more lives reading a thousand more books.
He doesn’t hesitate when he relinquishes his book to me, and that only sharpens the hurt. It’s a whisper of his acceptance, of his resignation for what’s to come.