Page 3 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

Wren

“You’ve missed six shifts in the last two weeks, Wren. I’m sorry, but we have to let you go.”

My heart is thundering as I stand in front of my boss, Allison. I can’t shake the feelings of dread and despair, and the desperation gathering like a lump in my throat.

I can’t catch a break.

“I ran out of my migraine prevention meds, Allison,” I say quickly, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “I’ll be able to refill them with my next paycheck—please, I just need a little more time.”

If I lose this job, I’ll be back at rock bottom. I’ve only been here for a month and a half, and I haven’t had anywhere near enough time or income to restock my medication and start saving for housing.

I’ve been scraping and clawing to make it through the three-month probationary period, desperate to lock in something steady. But without consistent money coming in, I can’t always afford my preventive medication to keep my migraines at bay .

And when I go off it, the migraines hit like a sledgehammer. They cluster up and knock me on my ass for days on end. When I am medicated, they are less frequent, and the symptoms are mild enough that I can push through my shifts, keep up appearances, and survive.

Allison shakes her head, tucking a errant strand of short blonde hair behind her ear. She’s already checked out. “I’m sorry, but I need someone reliable.”

Her words are salt in the wound, something I’ve heard over and over again from a myriad of different employers as I’ve fought to secure a steady job.

A sharp, weary sigh escapes me before I can think better of it, and she narrows her eyes on me. Wordlessly, she holds out my final paycheck with a freshly manicured hand, like it’s a mercy, and not a potential death sentence.

Resigned to my fate, I take the check from her hand, doing everything I can to hide the tremble in my fingers as I look down at the meager amount. It’s not enough to fill my prescription, and not enough to keep me fed until I can find another job.

I don’t speak another word as I turn away from her and head for my locker in the staff room.

Behind me, Allison mutters something to the assistant manager, but it’s too low for me to make out.

I don’t need to hear it. I’ve become so used to people talking down to me like I’m a pest, I imagine it’s something unkind.

I grab my backpack from my locker, the pathetic sum of everything I own, and leave .

I sling it over my shoulder and brush past her on my way out, eyes fixed on the floor to avoid the pity I know is lurking in the attentive eyes of my former coworkers.

This is just one more job lost because of my invisible illness, adding to a pile of countless other failures in my attempt to stay gainfully employed.

I can’t help but wonder why I haven’t put myself out of my misery yet, rather than struggling endlessly through life with nothing to show for it. Every day feels like so much effort, just to find myself back at square one.

I shove those bleak thoughts away, because entertaining them will only make me cry, and I refuse to do that right now.

I have dreams of going to one of the community colleges and taking some classes so I can make a real life for myself, but until I can find a secure job that will accommodate my neurological disorder, that goal is as distant as a cure.

When I step out into the cool night air, I’m enveloped in the familiar chaos of downtown Toronto. The streets buzz with traffic noise and loud voices, while the sea of endless strangers comes and goes like the tide.

Pulling out my phone, I check the time. It’s getting late, and of course Allison decided to wait until the very end of my overtime shift to let me go—giving me very little time to get myself a meal, and get to the shelter to try and secure a bed for the night.

With no time to waste, I tuck my phone away and force my legs forward, heading toward Good Shepherd Respite—a popular center that provides hot meals and basic supplies for the homeless here in Toronto .

Even this late, the streets are crowded. This particular part of the city isn’t the safest either, which means shady individuals are weaving in and out of the shadows as I walk. I keep my head down, my eyes locked on the pavement at my feet.

It takes forty minutes to get there, and when I finally lift my gaze, I take note of the long line as it snakes down the sidewalk and around the corner.

It’s no surprise that there are so many people waiting outside of the doors, since this place tends to have the biggest, most nutritious meals available.

Dinner runs late too, which is helpful for those of us that are fortunate enough to have a job. It stings when I realize I can’t count myself as one of the lucky ones anymore.

I take my spot in the line and wait. By the time I make it inside, I’m trembling from the drop in blood sugar. I haven’t eaten much since coming here yesterday for dinner, and I can feel it now in every unsteady step I take.

Gathering my hair in my hands, I secure it into a ponytail just as I step up to the long counter. I offer the attendant a small, tired smile. She hands me a tray without a word, already reaching for the next one in a logical attempt to keep things moving.

I hold it tightly in my hands as I turn to survey the crowded hall, my gaze sweeping slowly across the mass of people before finding an open spot near the back corner.

I weave through the packed rows, each step dragging, my eyes fixed on the open chair.

I can’t help but wonder, and not for the first time, if this will always be my life. Soup kitchens, overcrowded shelters, and a revolving door of jobs that never last because people tend to lose their patience fast when employees keep missing shifts.

It doesn’t matter if the reason is a valid medical one.

Losing my dad seemed to be the catalyst for my life truly falling apart. I managed to graduate from high school and earn my diploma, but a year spent in a foster home had me falling between the cracks of society in the wake of my newly compounded grief.

It could have been worse. My foster family mostly ignored me, and asked me to do the majority of housework, but other than that they didn’t bother me much.

As soon as I turned eighteen, they handed me an old backpack, a list of resources, and a phone number and address to a fast food joint willing to hire me for part time work.

Unfortunately, the stress of my life and the fear for my future immediately triggered a cluster of migraines. I tried to work through it, but ended up passing out in the kitchen in a pool of my own vomit.

I lost the job after five days, and it’s been nothing but the same endless cycle since. It’s hard to keep a positive attitude when my situation feels so hopeless.

Sitting down, I slide my tray closer, and eat in silence.

The meal consists of a bowl of warm, thick stew, a large slice of stale bread, an overripe banana, a chocolate chip muffin, and a small carton of apple juice.

I finish every bite, even though it makes my stomach cramp after being empty for most of the day. I don’t know when my next full meal will be, so I eat like it might be my last .

With what little cash I have in my bank account, and this pitiful final paycheck—I’m forced to choose between food and medication.

And medication has to win, because I can work through starvation, but I can’t work through an unmedicated migraine.I still don’t have enough money to fill the expensive medication I need most.

Finding another job is the only way to survive, so hunger must be my constant companion.

Inflation is its own kind of cruelty. The healthy food I want to eat is unaffordable, so I’ll be rationing cheap, high-calorie junk until the money runs out. Which won’t take very long.

When I’m done eating, I carry the empty tray to the counter and give the attendant a quiet “thank you.” Then I turn and head for the exit, glancing at the clock high above the double doors, and frown.

It’s really late now. At this hour, there’s no guarantee I’ll get a bed at the women’s shelter. The doors lock in about an hour.

I pick up the pace as I descend the steps, the line outside much shorter than it was when I first arrived. My tired feet carry me toward the same shelter I’ve been frequenting since I became homeless seven years ago.

An uneasy feeling coils in my gut as I hurry down the street, just in time to pass an exchange between a drug dealer and a man who reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Just ahead, the familiar women’s shelter comes into view, and my pace quickens. In the alleyway to my right, a pair of men argue, their voices rising as the conversation devolves into swearing and shoving.

I don’t turn my head to watch as the situation escalates, keeping my sights on the doors up ahead.

I’m awash in relief as I practically jog up the short set of stairs to the front doors, bone-deep exhaustion nipping at my heels.

I instantly recognize the security guard, Kevin, who nods at me as I approach. He uses the keycard attached to a lanyard around his neck to open the doors for me. “It’s busy tonight.”

I nod, and he begins ushering me inside, just as the two angry men from the alley stumble out into the street and begin exchanging blows.

“Thanks,” I murmur, slipping inside before the door closes.

As I make my way towards the front desk, a fresh wave of stomach cramps threaten to make me double over.

Sometimes when I eat after a long stretch of hunger, I get a belly ache.

Racing around the city to get here didn’t exactly help the situation.

“No more beds tonight,” Clarissa states, not even looking up as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

When her eyes finally meet mine over the high counter, they instantly soften.

I stop in front of the desk, taking a moment to steady my breathing. A wave of disappointment crashes over me, sharp and familiar. “I didn’t make it in time tonight, huh?”

She shakes her head, and a shadow of guilt passes through her dark eyes before it disappears behind her usual facade of calm. “Afraid not, darling. ”

I hold her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. “Thanks anyway.”

There’s no point begging. I’ve been down this road before. If they say there is no bed available, no amount of pleading will make a bed suddenly appear.

I offer her a smile, one that I hope helps relieve some of her guilt, before I turn away to leave.

“Wren?”

I pause with my hand on the door, and glance back over my shoulder.

I see pity in Clarissa’s eyes, and it makes my heart hurt a little more. Shame washes over me, but I don’t fault her for it. It’s not like she intended to hurt me with her compassion. “Take care of yourself tonight,” she says gently. “Try and come by earlier tomorrow.”

I nod, but say nothing else, before stepping back out into the chilly night air. Kevin frowns at me, but he doesn’t speak. He is just as powerless as I am—neither of us can make a bed spontaneously become available for me.

I hurry down the steps and stop when I hit the street, taking a moment to get my bearings. I need to find a place to close my eyes for a little while, ideally in a safer area of the city.

I’ll need to start job hunting first thing tomorrow, so my best bet is to make the twenty-minute trek to the main library and tuck myself away somewhere private, just outside of the building. That way, I can get inside to print off some résumés as soon as they open .

It’s not like this is the first time I’ve had to sleep out on the streets. In my seven years of homelessness, I’ve found many quiet areas I can camp at to make it through the night.

I keep my head down as I walk, doing my best to avoid anyone still loitering out this late. The streets grow quieter the closer I get, and eventually, I reach the library.

Exhaustion feels like a one-hundred pound iron ball attached to me by a chain, dragging behind me every step of the way. The weariness from a difficult day has me fighting against waves of sadness that would overwhelm me if I let them.

I don’t waste any time finding a spot in a low traffic, narrow corridor on the library property. It’s dark, but it’s risky, and all I can do is hope that I am lucky enough to survive the night unscathed.

People don’t usually bother mugging the homeless, but desperation makes monsters out of men. And as a woman, I have more to lose than what’s in my backpack.

I’m as silent as a mouse as I pull my blanket from where it is strapped to the bottom of my backpack. I wrap the scratchy wool around myself and over my head, hiding beneath it until I resemble a pile of discarded trash.

Sleep never comes easily for me, but it always comes eventually. I'm too exhausted, and often too sick, for my sadness and anxiety to hold me hostage for long.

The dirty concrete is cold and hard beneath me, but the only one who cares about that is me. I’ve long since been forgotten by the world. I am nothing but a ghost drifting through the city streets; unseen and unwanted, without a single person left alive to care whether I live or die.

As I drift in and out of restless sleep, I'm haunted by nightmares of post-apocalyptic wastelands—with faceless enemies, and hunger so profound it whispers a cruel promise of death to my malnourished soul.