**recommended music for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YxMYhhaEhYA
It's 2:46 in the morning. They left earlier than usual. My back hurts. My head hurts. My legs hurt. I don't think I can lift myself off the ground. I stare at the ceiling of the dimly lit room. Buzzing noises ring in my ears. I can hear my heart drumming in my chest. It's loud; I'm almost pouncing off the ground with each beat. My mouth is dry, and there's blood dripping from its corners. It slowly slides against my cheeks and lands on my neck. I ignore it. I stay on the dirty floor like a dead prey. Tom is on the floor beside me. I wish I could close my eyes and never reopen them.
My eyes shut. But not forever. Why do I keep waking up? It's 4:21 am. I lift myself off the floor; my knees barely holding the weight of my fragile body. I stroll towards the mirror. I hate mirrors. I examine my face--it has no bruises. My lips look clean, aside from the blood coming from the inside of my mouth. If someone looks at me while I'm dressed, they'll never see anything wrong.
I open the windows and stare at the empty streets. It's dark and raining. My throat is sore. I need a hot drink. I put on my jacket and leave the empty apartment. Like a skeleton I drag my body down the stairs. Is it at the second or third floor? I can't remember. Although I go there every dawn.
I try my luck with the third floor. I see an open door at the end of the dark, carpeted, corridor. Why does he keep his door open at this time of the day? The question entered a cloud of nothingness and got lost there. My head is heavy. I'm failing to concentrate. I can't form any thought or think properly.
"You're late today," The bearded man says, sitting on his rocking chair by the window, his kitten nestling on the wide armchair, purring peacefully. He grabs the kitten and puts her down on the floor and places a bowl of food for her.
"Come close," The bearded man says. His beard is black and grey and long. He wears a thick cloak that covers his head with its hood, and he calls himself Farrell. There's a hearth in the wall opposite to him. I feel less cold after Farrell invites me in.
I sit on the couch near the hearth, gazing at the burning woods. The bearded man walks towards the kitchenette and heats some milk. The kitten purrs. It brings me comfort somehow. Farrell comes with a cup of hot chocolate and hands it to me. He sits again on his chair and we both stare at the rain and the empty streets and the stillness of the dawn. It's the only time where my mind rests. It's the only time where I'm at peace.
"How many of them came tonight?" he asks.
"I don't remember." My brain is foggy. If I concentrate a little more, I might remember, but I can't right now.
"I see," he says, soaking some fingers into his thick beard. His eyes are big and grey. When I look at them, I can see stories and wisdom and pain. But he had never spoken about any of that before. "Was your father there?"
"I don't remember. I think he was."
"I see," he says again. He asks me a lot about the men who visit our apartment every night. But I rarely give him the answers he wants. Not because I don't want to.
Moments of silence pass. I listen attentively to the rain as it drops on the sleeping city as if it's going to heal my wounds. It's cathartic. Farrell waits until I finish my cup, before he fetches the band aids and creams from the drawers in the kitchenette.
"Take off your shirt," he says. I take it off and lay on my stomach on the couch. I don't want to look at my back. I don't want to touch it. I don't want to feel it. The bearded man rubs the cream on my back. A minute later, the pain numbs. His cat licks my face and then sits next to me and purrs.
