Echo's POV
Daybyday. Day by day. Day. By. Day.
How am I supposed to take it day by day when the seconds feel like minutes and the minutes feel like hours?
I hate inspirational quotes. They always make me feel useless because of how simple they always sound to do. Yet, the easiest things seem to be the hardest task to complete. Someone claiming to have an inspirational quote once said, "I can fall asleep in the shower without drowning."
How is that inspirational? I have shocking news, dude. I, in fact, can't take showers without drowning. It's the intentions that matter, I guess.
Anyway, showering? Forget it.
I don't remember the last time I'd given myself a full shower since the incident with the pills. There's been no energy left in my body for a long while and if I ever manage to get to that point where I can scrub myself from head to toe, then I'll at least feel like things are starting to get better.
For now, I stare at the woman in the mirror who I don't even recognize. There's crust in the corner of her eyes from days of crying herself to sleep, along with eye bags so puffy that it looks like she might've gotten KO'd in both eyes. Her hair, which was once lively with full dark brown curls reaching her mid-back, now sits brushing against her shoulder blades, damaged. It's hard to stare knowing I'm her. Knowing she looks the way she does because of me.
I slash water in my face and grab a towel to dampen it away. I already wiped down important areas with soap and water. The bare minimum of what I could manage to do for my body, but it works. I try not to look at the tub that's been layered with the pills of my attempt, but it's hard. There's a reason I won't clean them. It reminds me of how much of a failure I am every time I enter the bathroom. It reminds me that I couldn't do the one thing I wanted to do and I'm not sure why.
I want to know why.
Somedays I'm so bored with myself, and my body, that I'm not sure if what I feel is an illusion or if I truly feel the way I do. Like a waste of space. Or just an entity that takes up space.
Unable to look at the pill anymore, I'm freed from the dreadful feeling they bring me by a knock on the door. It makes me jump, catching me off guard, but I recover fast, twisting my hair into a tight bun at the top of my head, sealing it with two twists of a hair tie before yelling, "Coming!"
I have no clue who's at the damn door and I have no desire to find out. From the second knock, harder than the first, it seems they probably won't go away without being consulted. In the middle of the third knock, I unlock the door and swing it open.
James, my building's middle-aged landlord, stands on my welcome mat, an envelope in hand. "Oh. Good morning, Echo."
"Good morning, James." I say with a forced smile and continue with, "Can you tell me why you're banging on my door like the fucking cops?"
He curls his lips inward. "You've always been a sweetheart, haven't you." He sighs, "I'm here to see your father who, you should know, sleeps... heavily... some days. He told me to knock harder if I wanted to wake him."
I haven't gone through the whole telling people my dad died phase, yet. Except for that guy I told when I called that number...
Regardless, I can't seem to fathom saying the words out loud again despite how much I disliked the man. So instead, I say, "My dad's out. I can relay the message."
He hands me an envelope. "Great. The rent's due, it's been due for a week now. I've given Mr. Johnson a lot of leeways when it comes to his rent, especially when you were a youngin', but tell him I need it ASAP. Thirty days are all he got."
Rent. I almost forgot about that teeny tiny thing people pay to live in apartments. The thing my dad paid for when he was alive. The thing I would now have to pay for if I were to stay in this apartment.
I clear my throat and take the envelope, "I'll let him know, thanks." Closing the door, not even sure if he was done speaking—and not caring—I lock it and open the envelope to read the amount.
Two racks.
Two thousand dollars.
My eyes fill with water the longer I look at the number. I can't get that in a month. How am I supposed to get that in a month?!
He's done this to me on purpose. He's left me all alone and now he's dropped all his responsibilities on me without care. Selfish. He's always been so selfish, too selfish to cleanse himself of alcohol. Not selfless enough to get better for me. Now homelessness is knocking at my door, and there's nothing I can do about it.
I begin to wonder when I'll reach rock bottom because my life seems to be continuously moving on a downward slope and it has no plans of slowing down any time soon.
There is one solution I can think of now. Though it's the last place I'd want to be. The bar my dad worked at as a bartender for twenty years is always hiring and even if they aren't, my dad was so well known that they'd take me in a heartbeat. It's the only thing I can think of even though the smell of alcohol makes me want to hurl. Even the sight of it reminds me of what it took from me. It changed my life even when I hadn't tasted a drop of it before, but that's what alcohol addictions do to people around you. Destroys them. And you.
I get dressed. And by that I mean a baggy sweatshirt and jeans shorts. I never said that I was one to be fashionable. It's the start of May, so it's that time of the year when the weather is extremely weird. It chooses when it wants to be chilly or hot whenever it wants.
My appearance hasn't been something I cared about for a long time. It's gotten to the point where I already look homeless as I sleep in a two-bedroom downtown New York apartment.
On the sidewalk, chained around a street sign, is my bike. I found it when I was young with no easy way to get to school without money. It sat lying in a pile of filled garbage bags and I took it home and practiced on it until I could ride it. Given, it wasn't easy. In all honesty, the shit's fucking hard when you have no one at your side pushing you off or walking you through it step by step like most kids. But I got it down eventually, and now I use it to go everywhere. Whenever I decide to leave the house that is...
After ten minutes of bike riding, I hop off of my bike and walk into the bar, Happies. I always thought the name was stupid, but it makes sense. Everyone goes there to make themselves happy by drowning themselves in alcohol, but once they leave and it all wears off, they're reminded of how unhappy they truly are. And then they find themselves back here. The cycle continues.
When I walk in, I'm greeted with the stench I despise with all my soul. Half of the place is a diner, the other half a bar. I scrunch my face up and walk towards the bar stools where I see Greg, my dad's boss, shaking up a drink.
He turns around and his dark eyes meet mine. He's the reason my dad had such a hard time quitting alcohol. How can you quit it when it's your job to serve it? How can you quit it when your own boss gives you free drinks to stay?
"Echo!" The vocal fry of his voice scratches an odd stop in my ears that makes me wince. He slides the drink he just made to one of the dozen guys sitting down chatting about how much they hate their wives. Greg steps to the side and sighs, rubbing his slightly graying beard. "I'm sorry to hear about what happened to your old man."
I raise my eyebrows awkwardly, not wanting to talk about my dad. "I'm here because I need a job."
Greg shakes his head. "No."
I squint. "What do you mean no?"
"I mean... no." He finishes, walking away to make another drink. I follow him behind the counter, a place where I'd play hide and seek when I was younger because my dad couldn't leave me alone in the house.
He turns around. "Carter told me to never give you one if you asked years ago."
"That was years ago. I'm twenty-one now. Carter isn't here. I can literally buy alcohol from you right now and you couldn't stop me."
"I could. I could ban you from ever coming in, too, sweet pea." He chuckles deeply and I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest.
A creepy man behind me hums, ", Aye, you twenty-one? What's your name?"
I turn around, giving him the filthiest stare, then glance at the ring on his ring finger wrapped around the glass in his hand. "I hope your wife divorces your sorry ass."
He turns to his friend and only chuckles. "Some fire, she is."
I roll my eyes and turn back to Greg who wears a face as if he's been proven right. "Trust me, Echo, this isn't a place you want to work. Go home."
"No, you don't understand, I need the money—"
"So go work at McDonald's, Starbucks, or anywhere else!" He slides another drink across the bar.
"I've never worked before; I- I'd need a resume and it'll take time to get hired. I need a job like... now." I grip his bicep as he walks away for the second time and prepares myself for the public desperation I'm about to display. "Please," I whisper. "If I don't get this, I'm going to lose the apartment. Do you think my dad would've wanted you to be the reason his daughter's on the streets? What if I become a crackhead? Kidnapped?"
Greg sighs and shakes his head. "Will you leave me alone if I said yes?"
I nod.
"You not gonna give me no hard times, will you?"
I shake my head.
He huffs and rubs his head. "I do need a little help around here now with your dad gone..."
I grin. "So yes?"
He holds up a finger. "One rule—no, two rules. One, don't ever touch me again. Two, don't fight with my customers, please. The minute I start to lose sales because you can't keep that mouth of yours shut, you're done. Got it?"
I jump and wrap my arms around his bicep again, hugging it. He shifts me off and groans. "Rule one!"
I back up and hold the excitement within me. I'm not sure why I'm so excited. I hate this place. I hate Greg and I hate the people that spend their money here. But at least I'm going somewhere.
I have a job and I'm allowed to feel excited for the accomplishment.
"So, when do I start?"
He raises his eyebrows, walks over to the back door, and disappears for a few seconds, then appears with a fabric in his hands; a black apron.
He tosses it at me, and I catch it.
"Now," he answers. "You've seen your father work; you know what to do."
Oh. I hadn't expected it to be so quickly. He's right, though. I've been in a bar more than any kid should've been in a bar while growing up. I watched my dad make thousands of drinks and take hundreds of drinks himself. I know the ins and outs of this place like it was my own home.
I nod. "I know what to do."
"So, get to it," he tells me some of the orders he has already so I can take over. I put my apron on and wash my hands before prepping drinks.
Oddly enough, despite the flirtatious stares from old men, the dreadful smell of alcohol, and the memories that appear the longer I'm here, it's not so bad. For once, I'm not in my own head guessing when my next attempt will be because I have no time to be in my head. This place is constantly crowded with alcoholics, so a break isn't something I'll really get. Tips come in much more for me in only a couple hours than they ever did for my dad and that's of course because these men are thirsty scums. I won't complain, however, give me your money, but no touch.
While working beside Greg as he goes in and out of the bar to check up on me, I found myself smiling the tiniest bit.
Not too big, barely even a smile, but it's something.
*****
[Authors Notes]
Hi guysss, hope you're all excited for this book. It's nearly done, meaning updates will be consistent! I've been trying to find my groove when I comes to writing and I realized writing what I want is the best thing for me and the most motivating. This book means a lot to me and I'm excited to share it with all of you :)
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Muah,
Kayla