Mistakes Made ✅

Chapter 1: Feeling Nostalgic

Not that he still had those notions now. I'm not that of a moron, he thought, somewhat flustered with himself.

He locked gazes with Abeela's dark brown eyes, almost as if in a challenge, as if daring her to speak. Eventually his shoulders slumped, clearly defeated by the silent exchange. "What did I do now?" he said at last, trying to sound as ingenuous as he could.

"No crime done, as far as I'm concerned," Abeela replied, pushing herself from the doorframe and walking towards the counter. "You should be glad I was the one who saw you."

"Oh, come on, that girl was clearly starving," Errol countered, though he could almost feel himself smile at the prospect of Abeela almost implying that she was on his side on this.

"Starving and yearning for some particular food to eat are two different things, Errol," she pointed out, busying herself with the cash register.

"What would you have done?"

She finally glanced sideways at him, her lips pressed together in a meditative manner. "Honestly, I think I would've done the same thing,"

Errol felt himself smile. He stealthily shook his fist in the air in a triumphant manner (a habit he'd developed for the past few months during summer). When Abeela raised her dark eyebrows at him, he let his hands fall to his side.

"Stop smiling. It's creepy," she noted.

"Most people like it,"

"People like me exist, you know,"

Errol let out a huff. "Come now," he said. "Just smile. This once. Please?"

She rolled her eyes but gave him a wide smile anyway - a forced one at that, he could add. But a smile nonetheless. Errol was somewhat astonished; Abeela rarely ever chanced him even the smallest of smiles. She did them to the customers, and to some of the other workers as well. But when it came to him ...

Perhaps he was cursed.

"See? You should wear that smile more often. You look gorgeous I could kiss you right now," he commented, flashing her his habitual smile that nearly always had the girls - and several boys - keeling over.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing!" he strode past her and into the kitchen, feeling himself going red in the face.

Sure, the five-foot-four, brown-skinned girl might scare him with her unwavering gaze and snide remarks. But he couldn't exactly deny the fact that he had developed a tiny crush on her. It wasn't anything big or serious; just an instant like since the day she showed up on her first day of work.

Apart from that, she might as well be the first employee in that parlour who was his age after months of being the only new adult there; nineteen, to be exact. Unlike him, however, she was a part-time staff member. Besides this, according to her, she was here on a scholarship, and that she was also earning her money by working as an online graphic designer. Once Errol asked why she had to work in the parlour when she had a more convenient post. "So when I'm fired from either one, I'll still have back-up." had been her shrewd reply.

*

It was already dusk when his shift was finally over. Walking out of the parlour through the back door, the autumn breeze brushed past his face and bare arms, sending a mild shiver crawling all over his skin. It was only the beginning of September, yet he felt as though winter was looming around the corner of the week. He supposed climate change really was heaving its upshots.

Shrugging on his hoodie, Errol made his way towards his rented car; a terribly used red Opel Corsa whose engine kept sputtering when turned on. Sometimes it took him five minutes simply to start the damned car - and that was only the minimum. On rare occasions, thirty minutes of his life were wasted for merely sitting there, hunched, as he twisted the car key into the slot.

He slumped into the driver's seat, leaving the door open for no apparent reason. Several metres across from him, a group of four students could be seen walking along the pavement - it was distinct enough by their maroon blazers and backpacks. They were animatedly chatting with one another, pointing and laughing and simply living the life despite being imprisoned eight hours a day in a building called "school".

A sense of nostalgia struck Errol, and suddenly it was as though someone was pressing a weight upon his chest. So heavy the weight was - everything, ranging from upfront joy to downright misery, was in it - that he had to avert his gaze to somewhere else. I used to have this, he thought to himself, zoning out. A life.

But he had long since learned that the life he had when he was still in secondary school wouldn't last. And it never did. The party was over. Reality had dug a hole for him to tumble down through, a relentless drop into a solid black abyss. And it was now up to him on whether he should scale his way back up or remain at the bottom of the pit.

At the same time, however, he would be in his second year of university had it not been for everything that had transpired the previous year. He wouldn't be working in the parlour, driving a decrepit rental-serviced car.

He wouldn't be in this town at all.

No, that's not right, he snapped at himself, finally getting the energy to start the car. I should be here. I damn well should.

Regardless of what the future held for him, he at least thought he deserved this. For once an egocentric individual who lived out of the rules, reckless enough to smash through everything along the course, this was reality glaring down at him.

Like some kind of punishment that he knew he deserved. This solitude. It had been reserved specially for him.

Errol arrived at his flat later that evening, and from where he had parked his car, he could distinctly make out the sight of the landlord sitting on the bench outside; a chubby bald man who had a squeaky voice everytime he spoke. And who also apparently loved dogs. He inevitably reminded Errol of his old English teacher back when he was in primary school, what with the way he spoke Errol's last name: Bow-keh. The mere memory itself sent a pang of pain to his stomach.

"It's cold out here, Patrick," Errol called out, approaching the landlord. "Will probably rain soon."

"Yes, I know," Patrick replied, holding up a cup of what was most certainly tea. "'S why I brought this wimme."

"Right,"

"Was waiting for you, by the way," Patrick said just before Errol could make his way towards the entrance.

He suppressed a sigh that was about to leave his throat. He knew this was coming. "Yeah?"

"Yup," Patrick put the cup back on its chauser with a faint clink. "Say, when're you gonna pay the rent, Errol?"

Errol had been expecting this, but he felt his chest tighten nonetheless. "Soon. I promise,"

"'S been two months, son," he said, though his tone was nonchalant. "You keep sayin' the same thing."

Errol wished - he damn wished - that Patrick was more of a hot-tempered man. He wished Patrick would holler at him, demand for him to pay the rent. But the man was soft and convivial. For this reason, the guilt was constantly trying to eat him up, especially seeing as he felt as though he was taking advantage of Patrick's amiable persona. And he despised himself for ever being the way he was, even if it was something that was beyond his control.

"I promise, Pat, I will when I get my check," Errol assured him, recalling at once how he'd said the same thing over the course of eight weeks.

"Okay, Errol,"

"All right,"

"At the end of this month, yeah?"

"You have my word." Errol promised for what seemed to be the umpteenth time for the past two months.

"You're a good lad."

Patrick smiled at him - as he always did. Errol could feel his heart ache. You're a good lad. The benign words echoed in his head.

You're a good lad.

Turning around, Errol trudged down the cobblestone path that led towards the entrance of the flat. He felt light.

For the time being, at least.

A/N
How was that for a first chapter, eh?