Bound by Shadows

Eliana’s pov

The chime above the door jingled like it was mocking me as I flipped the sign to Closed.

6:03 PM.The fluorescent lights in Sally’s always buzzed louder after hour eight. Or maybe that was just the noise in my skull after smiling for customers who didn’t bother reading the damn shampoo labels before asking. My cheeks ached from forced friendliness. My feet were mutinying. And my soul was somewhere between the dry shampoo aisle and a mental breakdown.

I grabbed my canvas tote, slid on my oversized hoodie, and stepped out into the gold-tinged dusk like I was escaping a cage.

The walk home took twelve minutes. I counted every crack in the sidewalk like I always did, avoiding the crooked ones out of habit, not superstition. By the time I reached our place—two-bedroom, one-story, chipped-paint kind of place—I was already peeling the day off my shoulders.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The smell of his cologne hit me first.

That cologne. Sharp. Smoky. Way too expensive for someone who still owed last month’s electric bill. It wasn’t the scent itself that stopped me mid-step—it was the memory it dragged behind it.

Dad only wore that stuff when he was trying.

And Samuel Adler hadn’t tried in a long fucking time.

I hovered in the doorway, keys still clenched between my fingers like brass knuckles. The air feltoff—not heavy, but staged. Like the house was pretending everything was fine. Living room cleaned. No beer cans. Ashtray emptied. What the hell?

Then I saw him.

He was coming down the hall like he had somewhere to be. Not stumbling. Not disheveled.

Dressed.

A white button-down. Crisp. Black slacks. Dress shoes polished like a man with dignity and nowhere to put it. His hair was slicked back neatly, no flyaways, no grease. His face was clean-shaven.

For a second, I thought someone else was wearing my father’s skin.

He saw me and paused near the door, adjusting his cuff like he was late for a dinner party.

“El,” he said, and there was a weird softness to it, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say my name. “Left some Wendy’s in the microwave for you. Baconator and fries. Extra honey mustard like you like it.”

My brows lifted on instinct. “What’s the occasion?”

He gave me a look I couldn’t read. Eyes too clear. Smile too even. “Just... trying a new casino tonight. Some place my friends told me about.”

“New?” I echoed. “Didn’t think you had any left.”

“It’s not new-new,” he said. “Just new to me.”

Before I could say anything else—ask if he was okay, what the fuck this performance was about, why the hell the house didn’t smell like cheap vodka for once—he opened the door.

“Don’t wait up, kid.”

And then he was gone.

Door closed. Lock clicked. And the silence that followed was so familiar it felt like a blanket. A wet one.

I stood there in the entryway for a moment longer, just... holding it.

The Wendy’s bag was still warm when I took it out of the microwave. Baconator. Fries. Honey mustard.

Just like he said.

And for a second—I hated how much that meant to me.

I pushed the thought aside, and sat on the dining table, if you could call it that because we never sit here to “dine” together. I opened the bag and took it’s contents out of it, setting them on the table.

I didn’t take long eating, but I did stay there for a while, mindlessly scrolling through my Instagram account, just killing time. I looked at the time and saw that it was already 7:43, and decided to head up to my room.

My room was quiet, dimly lit by the last gray smear of daylight filtering through the blinds. I grabbed a fresh set of pajamas from the drawer—simple gray shorts and a worn-in tee from a college I never went to—and laid them on the bed like I was staging a life I barely had time to live.

The hallway bathroom was just a few steps away. I grabbed a towel and slipped inside, twisting the shower knob until the water steamed up the mirror. The second the spray hit my skin, it felt like I could finally exhale.

I braced my hands on the tile wall and closed my eyes.

Dad had been weird. Not drunk. Not high. Not loud. Just...present. In a way that made my skin crawl, not because it was bad, but because it was different. And when you’re used to chaos,calmfeels like the red flag.

I hadn’t seen him dressed like that since... I don’t know. Maybe never.

Maybe before Mom died. But I don’t remember that.

I was six when it happened.

The official story was that she slipped in the bathroom, hit her head on the edge of the tub, and drowned before anyone could get to her.

But even at six, I remember things.

The yelling.

The slammed doors.

The sound of glass breaking.

I remember the silence that followed.

I remember her smile too—kind and a little crooked, like she knew a joke you weren’t in on yet. She used to hum while brushing my hair. Made up songs about dragons and jellybeans and magic. Her name was Celia, and she smelled like vanilla lotion and lavender fabric softener.

After she died, Dad fell through himself like a collapsing tent. He started sleeping during the day, drinking at night. And the gambling... that was his favorite escape hatch. Women came and went. Some wore perfume too strong, some forgot my name. Most just left before sunrise.

But he never hit me. Never yelled. Never threw things at me like I know some people’s dads did.

He just wasn’t there.

And I think a part of me decided early on that it was better that way. Safer. Quieter.

The water started to turn lukewarm. I shut it off, wrapped myself in the towel, and padded back to my room. Pajamas on. Hair towel-dried and left to its own stubborn devices. I plugged in my phone and set it on the nightstand, screen glowing like a lighthouse in the dark.

I turned on the TV and pulled upThe Officeon Netflix.

Background noise. Something familiar. Something that never changed.

It was still early, but I didn’t care.

The second my head hit the pillow, I was out.

ALARM. BUZZING. INCESSANT. LOUD.

I groaned, swatted at the nightstand, missed, and knocked over my phone before finally grabbing it.

8:15 AM.

"Fuck!"

I launched out of bed like I’d been tased, hair sticking to my neck from sweat, shirt twisted, legs tangled in sheets. I nearly slammed into the doorframe running to the bathroom.

Cold water to the face. Toothbrush in one hand, mouthwash in the other. Mascara? Optional. Eyebrows? Pray for them.

Back in my room, I threw on the first pair of jeans I touched and a plain black tee. No time for fashion statements. Just survival. I brushed my long brown hair quickly—thank God it was straight, thank God it didn’t fight back today—and slapped on the bare minimum: concealer, mascara, lip balm. Good enough.

Shoes. Coat. Keys.

In the kitchen, I grabbed a piece of bread—not even toasted—a banana, and a juice box like a fucking child. Shoved them into my tote and hit the door.

I locked up behind me and paused on the porch.

Dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway.

Had he come home last night? Had he even made it back from the casino?

I squinted at the street like it could give me answers, but the silence just sat there, smug and indifferent. I didn’t have time to dwell. It was 8:45, and Sally’s didn’t pay enough to excuse lateness.

I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets and walked fast.

Half-jogged. Cursed under my breath at every slow stroller-pusher blocking the sidewalk, every SUV that didn’t yield at the crosswalk. My breath came out in little clouds, my ears stung from the wind, and my banana fell out of the tote and hit the sidewalk. I didn’t stop for it.

9:00 AM.

I pushed through the glass doors at Sally’s, breathless, heart thudding, cold fingers fumbling with the time clock.

The scanner beeped.

Clocked in. Right on the dot.

I exhaled.

Survived another morning.