Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Sixteen - Ezra

Homeless.

Lost and afraid.

Except I'm not supposed to be lost and afraid. I'm supposed to be strong. I'm supposed to be brave. I'm supposed to know where I'm going and have my life together. Instead, it's all falling apart. And I want so desperately to be home right now, my whole family together again – Mom, Dad, and Liam. But I can't. There's no going back. Not for any of us.

These shadows were supposed to be light.

I grab my cell phone out of the console and tap the screen to wake it up. Navigating to the photos app, I scroll all the way back to the very first one on my camera roll. My jaw tenses as I look at it – the Greysons' last family photo together. Two months before Mom died. This was the last time I remember being happy. And after all these years, I can't remember any time since that I didn't feel somehow broken. Like something was terribly wrong with the world and I'm the only one who seems to notice.

These shadows were supposed to be light.

I try to pray, but struggle for words – mostly I just struggle to hold onto what measure of belief remains. The grip of shame wraps itself around my throat and strangles the life of the prayer before it has a chance to fully form.

Tossing one of the painkillers down my throat, I chase it with a mouthful of beer.

An idea begins to form in my mind as I try to work out a plan for tomorrow. I shift in my seat and turn to look at the pile of my belongings in the backseat. Underneath it all is something I haven't touched in years – my guitar. Memories of hours spent teaching Liam how to play flood my mind, making me both happy and sad. Watching Liam grow to be an even better musician than me – with his own band and everything – was one of the greatest joys of my life. And I never told him that. I never told him how much I love him. And now what am I? What kind of love could I possibly offer him? When Mom died, he drowned himself in his music. And me? I drowned myself in school. And when that didn't work, I drowned myself in whatever I could find.

And I've been drowning ever since.

But I wonder if I still have it in me to play. Maybe I could perform on the streets and make a little money. Better that than panhandling. I grimace at the vision of me sitting on a curb with a cardboard sign and a cup full of pity. No, I refuse to take handouts. I have to earn it. And if music is all I have left, then so be it. What have I got to lose?

As the painkillers and the booze kicks in, I drift to sleep and dream of astronauts sailing a starlit sea.

On the sidewalk by a nearby park, I sit with my guitar in my lap and play. I'm a little rusty, but certainly better than some of the street musicians around here. So far, I've made twenty-two dollars. Not much, but it'll buy me some food.

Maybe I should move to New York. I hear the people there are generous. Not like here. Rather than give me their loose change, one of the passersby decided to use my cup as an ashtray. I nearly broke my guitar trying to dump it out before what little cash was in there caught fire. I issue a string of profanities as he walks away, smirking.

While I play, my mind wanders to Elaine, her smile, the look in her eyes. It's sort of pathetic, but out of all the girls I've been with hers is the only face I really remember. Most of all, her smile. Not because she's beautiful – though, that's certainly the case. But because she's the first person in a long time to look at me like that. Like I'm human. Like I'm worth the effort a smile often takes.

It may be weird, but her smile reminds me of Mom. It doesn't condescend or degrade. In fact, it does the opposite – it makes me feel seen. And that's the best feeling in the world.

Strumming the strings of my guitar gently, I sing and I think of Elaine, the girl I once knew as Party Girl Pearson. Then I think of Mom, Dad, and Liam. I think of all the things that once made me happy. And when I think of those, I think of all the things that I've lost. Because I suppose that love and loss are hopelessly intertwined.

And because I can't seem to escape either one, I sing a song that Liam and I wrote together. A song about falling in love for the first time.

She was made of stars,

I was made of earth.

She was made for new things,

I was made for reaching.

So how could we belong?

We were born on different worlds.

I guess that's just the way true love works.

As the wind carries my voice and the sound of my guitar down the street in both directions, merging with the currents of the city, passersby begin to linger. Some, if they're feeling generous, leave what little change they can find deep in their pockets. Some, practically godsends, leave a few dollars. I'm thankful for every little bit. But most of all, I'm thankful for this song. This song that, for a moment, carries me to another world, a kinder world.

A world where I can reach for new things too.

And I hope that it soothes the souls of those who listen as much as it does mine. Because what good is a song if it doesn't heal? What good is art if it doesn't mend wounds, open eyes, and set you on fire?

By the end of the day, I've made thirty-seven dollars. It's not much, but it'll carry me for one more day at least.

I pop a pill down my throat.

All I can hope for is one more day.

As the days pass, I grow accustomed to the smell of the garbage that litters Chicago's streets and fills every alleyway. In order to conserve gas, I decide to brave the cold today and walk. I come across a deli and, looking around to make sure no one's watching, I duck into the alley behind it just as one of the deli workers heads back inside. On top of the dumpster, as if an offering from God Himself, is a clear plastic bag filled with day-old bread. I almost can't believe what I'm about to do.

Retrieving an empty and warped cardboard box, I place the bag of bread inside, afraid of what someone might think if they saw me with it. But more afraid of what someone else might do if they saw me with it. It's only taken a few days for me to realize how cutthroat the homeless population of Chicago is. Every time I come across someone else like me – desperate, homeless, and in search of food – the look in their eyes terrifies me. The emptiness. It's almost as if they're not even people anymore. The way they talk, the way they move. It's as if...

they died a long time ago.

And I'm scared beyond belief that I'm going to end up like that. That I'm going to lose the last remnant of myself to the waking nightmare I now call my reality.

May God have mercy on my soul...

It didn't take long for what hope remained to wear off. My prayers grow thinner and so does my faith. So does my hope. Everything I once believed in and hoped for has been replaced by an even greater, more immeasurable heaviness. If I close my eyes and hold my breath, I can almost feel my spirit fracture inside of me.

breaking, breaking breaking

the sky is breaking

the world is breaking

the stars are breaking

everything, breaking

I'm an astronaut again.

Except all the stars have died and my glass helmet is shattering. I'm running out of oxygen and the universe is shrinking, collapsing in on me.

As I carry my box of bread back to my car, the tears are frozen on the lids of my eyes before they ever have the chance to fall.