Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Twenty - Ezra

I plug the razor into the outlet in the wall and, leaning over the counter, use the comb to pull the hair on the top of my head out of the way. Then, I take the razor and shave the sides and back of my hair down to its lowest setting. When I'm done, I dunk my head under the sink faucet and rinse all the trimmed hair off. Drying, I run my fingers through the wild, blond hair on top, water dripping down my face, neck, and bare chest. Then, I move the razor next to my scraggly, blond beard and trim it low until all that's left is scruff.

With my arms propped against the surface of the countertop, I study myself in the mirror for a long time. My Adam's apple bobs as I swallow, taking myself in, satisfied that I've managed to at least appear a little more human.

My eyes move to the small bulge in the pocket of my jeans and I reach in to retrieve the bottle of pills. They're almost gone and a tinge of panic pierces the middle of my chest.

My eyes burn and I glance again at my reflection. Almost immediately, I feel less human than I did just a moment ago, holding that bottle. Regret, shame, fear, anger... they all roil together inside my stomach as I open the bottle and pour a pill into the palm of my hand.

Just a little. Just enough to help the hurt.

I tell myself this is the last time.

I tell myself I won't need them ever again.

I tell myself all the usual lies. Then, I pop the pill in my mouth and swallow it down just like I have a thousand times. It's strange how I don't think about them so much when Elaine is around. Somehow, as if she's made of magic, she reminds me of the person I used to be and it's like I don't need anything else anymore. But then when it's just me, I forget. It's like I don't know how to take care of myself because I don't know who I am anymore.

I run my hands over my face, massaging my pale skin, rubbing my eyes. My hands turn to fists and, with a grunt of frustration, of regret, I pound them against my forehead as if to will whatever demons lurk beneath my waters to flee. As if to break myself open and let the hurt fall away like blood from a wound.

Blood from a wound.

Blood from a wound.

A tremor in my grip, I grab my shirt and slip it on, ignoring the look of disapproval my offers. I pack the razor and comb back in their bag and leave the bathroom behind.

When I find Elaine again, she's sweeping the lunchroom floor.

"Thanks for letting me borrow this," I say, holding it out to her.

She glances up at me, her eyes widen as I smile down at her. She takes the bag. "Wow," she says. "You clean up nicely."

A chuckle, a forced smile. A tremor. "Thanks."

"Okay, so I should probably give you a tour of the place, huh?"

"Yeah, that would probably help." She leads me down the hall, pointing out the supply closet, the women's showers and changing rooms, a lounge area with a billiards table and a big screen TV, a room full of clothes and food for people to take as needed. I'm blown away by this place with every new thing she shows me. What makes it more spectacular – so much better than most soup kitchens – is the fact that it's high-end. It doesn't feel dirty in here. It doesn't feel cheap. Somebody went through a lot of effort to build this place so that people actually felt welcomed and at home.

"So, what's the story behind this place?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's not often you find a soup kitchen that's so... full-service. I mean, showers? That's pretty cool."

She smiles, almost proud. "Well, I don't know the owner, but I've heard a lot of stories. He's supposedly a billionaire, a businessman. Some say he used to be homeless and that's why he started the Sanctuary."

"That name is so fitting."

She laughs. "Isn't it?"

"Who's in charge here, then, if the owner isn't around much?"

"Oh, that's Dolores. She's a really sweet lady from Gateway Assembly of God a few blocks down. I'll introduce you when she comes in."

I shove my hands in my pockets, rocking on my heels.

"So, what's your story?" she asks.

Shrugging, "I'm just a guy who knows what it's like and wants to help."

She nods, studies me slowly as if I were an onion and she were peeling me layer by layer. "A lot of people come to the Sanctuary as a sort of halfway house between hard times and getting their lives back together. Most give up. They get tired of trying, I guess. The world out there is a harsh place. It's why we need places like this. Places for people to come who don't fit anywhere else. Most of the time, even the ones who manage to pull their lives back together never stick around." She cocks her head, eyes narrowed. "You're different."

"Am I?"

She smiles. "You are. You care about more than just yourself. You see what's wrong with the world and have the heart to fix it. Don't let go of that."

I smirk. "I'll try to remember that." Peering down at her, catching her eyes, I search for the secret gold in her gaze. Wishing to claim that light for myself. Remembering the way I used to be when things were good.

After a minute, as we come down the hallway back to the lunchroom, she clears her throat and says, "Well, we should get to work."

"Yeah."

She smiles at me as I push through the door into the kitchen and find a scattered pile of dishes, behind which is the guy I assume must be Gordy.

He looks at me funny, so I explain, "Elaine sent me. I'm here to help."

With a sigh of relief, he says, "Really? Wow. No one ever wants to help with the dishes."

"Well, I do."

He offers a gloved and soapy hand and I shake it. "The name's Gordon, but folks 'round here just call me Gordy."

"Ezra. What can I do?"

As Gordy provides me with an apron and a pair of gloves, my mind wanders. I think of Elaine and The Sanctuary. Of Amy and The Drunken Sailor. Two completely, incomparably different worlds – both of which I feel equally and uniquely a part. I think of the pills in my blood and the empty paintings piled into the trunk of my car. All that I have and all that I've lost, all that I am and all that I used to be. But the more I think about it, the more these things become unclear, blurred, distorted. I wonder if I've been running for so long that the running is all I have left. I don't know how to be without it.

Like a picture out of focus, I'm starting to think that I don't even know who I am anymore. And that feeling – like being sucked out into the vacuum of space without a suit – is the most terrifying of all.