OBSCURUM | +18

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦Aiko✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

It was late at night; it was pouring in New York City. By the irony of the fate, I stumbled upon that alley. I mean, literally stumbled. A few hours earlier I went to visit my father and of course that he was drowning himself in a bottle of rum until he saw me. Once he saw me he tossed the rum and opened a bottle of whiskey and proceeded to blame me for my mother's death while I cleaned his apartment. It is a daily routine at this point.

Why do I insist on visiting him and worse – helping him – even though he is a top-tier asshole? So, in honour of both him and my mother, I got drunk on some cheap vodka as well and got high as a kite on some pills at the bottom of my pockets. Lord knows I'm a hypocrite for judging my father for his drinking but at last I don't direct my anger to anyone.

The rain pouring on me had seeped beneath my clothes and completely drenched me. My makeup was running down my face but at least it hid my tears - or the lack of them, really. I decide to take cover beneath the awning of that the bar, whose neon lights are the only source of light here. I sat – meaning that I drunkenly fell – on the concrete floor, despite the cigarette buts and broken glass. I just wanted some rest.

I take a long swing of my bottle of vodka. It burns like hell but it hurts so good. I close my eyes for what felt like a second. The noise of cars passing in the nearby street, the muffled chattering of people inside the bar, plus the bass of the music playing inside, all contributed to my slumber to take over me.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦Derek✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

I'm tired of looking at the same documents over and over again and I can't reach a fucking conclusion. The research is killing me and this incessant noise of people talking and music blasting outside my office doesn't help at all.

I get up from by chair and run my fingers through my hair as if I'm wiping off the frustration. I leave my office nodding towards my man guarding the outside my office and continue walking towards the back door. As I step outside in the alley at the back of my club, I bring a cigarette to my lips, contemplating the rain pouring on the concrete floor, forming big puddles. I light up my cigarette with my overpriced Zippo and inhale the smoke deep in my lungs, closing my eyes as I take in the peace of the muffled noises, leaving only the sound of the droplets of water splashing against the awning above me.

Suddenly, I hear the rustle of something, pulling me out of my peaceful trance. Next to me, sitting on the ground, her knees up to her chest and her back pressed to the wall, is the closest thing I had imagined to be an angel. Her presence is so peaceful, I didn't even realize she was there. I sighed in frustration knowing I'd had to wake her up, this is not a place suit for her. I approach her and I nudge her with my foot until her limp body falls sideways. The girl glares up at me, her dark eyes sharp even though she is still half conscious. Her mascara's smudged down her cheeks like war paint, and her lips—pink, slightly chapped—part in irritation.

"Fucking hell! What was that for?" she asks, and oh so sweet is to hear the sound of her voice, even though she just cursed at me. But again, I had just woken her up by literally - and not purposely pushing her, so I guess I deserved that. I should throw her out either way. This isn't a shelter. Her eyes glared at me defiantly like I'm the asshole in this situation and not her who is laying drunk under my awning.

 "You can't sleep here, this is not a charity, I don't take in homeless people." I respond, in a rough and low tone.

She keeps staring at me like I'm the one bothering her and slumps further against the wall, tightening her knees further onto her chest. Her fingers twitch around the half-empty bottle of cheap vodka like it's the only thing grounding her to this world. It's pathetic, really. And yet –

"Got a cigarette?" she asks boldly, her words are slurred and her voice is slightly raspy.

Just my luck... She is drunk and by the way her fingers are twitching, she is high on something that I can't pinpoint. I arch a brow, feeling the forbidden feeling – curiosity. "You're drunk and high, and you want to add lung cancer to the list?"

She rolls her eyes. "Wow, a health lecture from the guy who just kicked a girl in the ribs. Real noble."

I don't correct her — I didn't kick her, just nudged her with my boot. Somehow I find myself feeling pity for her, and the voice of my mother echoes in my mind telling me to do a good deed a day to keep my demons away. Of course I don't do one good deed a day, I'm not Mahatma Ghandi. But by some godforsaken reason, I decide that today I'll do that one good deed. I hope my mother is proud. I flick open my silver case out of habit, pulling out a cigarette. She reaches for it, but I hold it just out of reach.

“What's in it for me?"

She scoffs, lifting the bottle. "You can have a sip of my fine vintage. Aged approximately..." She squints at the label. "Three hours in a bodega freezer."

Disgusting. Cheap vodka tastes like gasoline and regret with a hint of nail polish remover. But she looks at me like she is challenging me, she wants me to walk away and leave her alone, but I am a stubborn prick and I'm not leaving until she does. I snatch the bottle from her and take a swing. It burns like hell, but I don't grimace.

"Tastes like shit," I mutter, tossing the cigarette into her lap. A deal is a deal, even if I was the only one losing in both ends of the bargain. She is still under my awning; she took one of my cigarettes and I'm going to have this awful taste of cheap vodka till kingdom come.

She smiles victoriously, to annoy me, because she saw it all coming. Her fingers struggle for a bit with the lighter, and when she finally manages to get her cigarette lit, she inhales deeply, tilting her head back against the wall. The orange glow paints her throat in fleeting light, and for a second, I'm caught on the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes cast shadows like ink strokes. Then she exhales, smoke curling between us, and the moment shatters.

"You should leave," I say with an apathetic tone. "This isn't a safe place to pass out."

She lets out a mocking chuckle. "Oh, now you care?"

"I don't. But if you get stabbed in my alley, it's bad for business."

"What business?" She tilts her head up looking for the neon sign above us — Obscurum — its glow bleeding into the rain. "You a bouncer or something?"

Or something. I don't answer. Let her think what she wants.

And nonetheless, her eyes linger over me, pausing on the scar through my brow, the tattoos that are visible and the skull ring on my finger. Judging. Assuming. "Let me guess," she slurs. "You own this place and you're real proud of it.'"

I almost laugh. Almost.. "And you're the type who mistakes a back alley for a five-star hotel."

She grins, all teeth. "Ouch. And here I thought we were bonding over shitty vodka."

I should walk away. Toss her out like the stray she is. My question is why haven't I done it yet? I'm getting frustrated but I can't understand who is frustrating me more: if it's the witty stubborn annoying smart mouth girl or me, because not only am I not tossing her out, but I am also amused.

Stupid.

I drop my cigarette and crush it under my boot. "Get off the floor. You look like a hooker."

She doesn't move. Just takes another drag, her smirk fading into something hollow. "Maybe I am."

Such a transparent lie I almost feel pity for her. Again, almost. I do not have time nor space for pity in my life, let alone for someone like her – an alcoholic junkie who thinks they're smarter than everyone else.

I reach down, gripping her arm to yank her up. Her skin is cold, damp from the rain, and she stumbles into me, her free hand braced against my chest. For a second, we're too close—close enough to see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.

Then she shoves me back, her voice and demeanour changing completely from a laid back to highly alert and defensive. "Don't."

I let her go, watching as she steadies herself against the wall, trying her best not to drop neither the bottle of vodka nor the cigarette between her fingers.

"Leave," I say again, turning toward the door. "Before I change my mind."

She doesn't thank me, she just flicks her cigarette into a puddle, the ember dying with a hiss. But when I glance back, she's still there — watching me, rain in her hair, looking like something out of a dream I shouldn't remember.

And for the first time in years, I feel something I shouldn't. I feel a spark of interest in that mysterious woman, standing completely drunk and high beneath my awning.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦Aiko✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Asshole.

How can someone be such a cold, stuck-up arrogant asshole? I mean yes he is hot, and – oh what am I thinking? I am drunk, high and I look like a wet rat, he is probably old and ugly. My delusional state is just picturing what I want to see. I mean, who does he think he is to just literally kick me off the awning? He is the asshole of assholes. He probably is even more of an asshole than my father.

Nah, that is a stretch.

Despite being on my own two feet, the one that is actually keeping me (slightly) straight is the wall. I know that I won't even be able to take two steps before falling face first on the concrete floor and earn myself a nose job. I sigh at the realization that I'll have to stay here until I sober up enough to walk... and hope he won't notice me.

I sit back down where I was, back to the same position, holding my knees close to my chest and back pressed against the wall, the best position to shield myself from the cold. I take a few long swings of the vodka to keep me warm before I lay my head on my knees and close my eyes, waiting for the alcohol slumber to lull me back to sleep.

It didn't take long. And as soon as fall asleep, I dream of him.

Not in a romantic way — no, that would be too easy. It didn't really made sense: he was standing under the awning again, the neon lights casting pink and blue shadows, smoke curling from his lips and his piercing eyes, pale like winter staring at me like daggers piercing my body. He didn't say anything – weird, not even a foul comment. He just stared. Like I was a mystery for him to decipher.

Then something warm touched my shoulders.

Not him.

I flutter my eyes open – disoriented and my head pounding like war drums. I look next to me where I left my bottle and it was gone. The alley is quieter, save for the incessant noise of tires on wet pavement and the buzz of the neon sign that sounds like a mosquito in my skull. However, I'm not cold anymore. Wrapped around me is a rough and old blanket that is probably from inside that place.

"That asshole..." I murmur to myself as I run my hands through my hair.

It makes me want to pity myself. That cold, arrogant bastard gave me a fucking blanket? What's next, soup kitchen coupons? I'm not a charity case. I don't need anyone's pity.

I push myself up slowly, relying heavily on that wall. Every muscle aches like I got run over by a truck made of my own bad decision. I don't know who reeked worse, if this street or me. It reeks of piss, wet concrete, alcohol and cigarette ash. I clutch the blanket tighter around me and start the slow walk of shame back to what some people call home.

After falling a few times and stopping to throw up another few I finally reach Brooklyn. Luckily it is quieter in the morning. I fish my keys out of my sweatshirt pocket and twist open the apartment door. The air inside my apartment almost makes me throw up again. It is a cocktail of weed smoke, old takeout food and something rotten I don't even want to identify.

Kuma meows loudly from the windowsill. My cat. The only thing constant in my godforsaken life.

"Hey, baby," I greet him whispering. He jumps down and winds around my legs, tail flicking, demanding attention I barely have the strength to give. I scratch behind his ears anyway. "Missed me?"

And then, I hear it, a loud snore coming from the bedroom. Keith.

I close my eyes and let out an almost inaudible sigh "Fuck."

I slip off the boots that feel like bricks and make too much noise and toss the blanket over the couch. The living room is a mess – ashtrays overflowing, blunt wrappers scattered, some white powder smeared on the coffee table alongside with a box of old takeout food. Typical. I just cleaned my father's place and now I have to clean my own. I guess that's what I get for not coming home.

I look at the door of the bedroom like it's a landmine. It is half open, revealing a bare leg sticking out from the sheets and a familiar tattoo I try not to look at.

No sign of another girl today. Lucky me.

I head to the bathroom, turning the faucet as low as possible. With this poor plumbing, if I turn it on it almost wakes up the entire building. I splash my face with cold water and stare at my reflection in the broken mirror. I'm as I expected – eyeliner smudged, lips cracked and deep eyebags. I look like a ghost who got lost on the way to hell.

There is a bruise forming on my hip. Probably from the falls on the way home. Or maybe Keith. Or Dad. Oh well, it's there now.

I grab my cell phone from my sweatshirt pocket and I try to turn it on to check the time. It ran out of battery.

Just my luck...

I go briefly to the living room to retrieve my phone charger, walking in tiptoes to not wake Keith. I plug in my phone and watch the screen flicker to life, the battery icon flashing red.

10:37 AM.

Shit. I have just over an hour before my shift starts, and I look—and smell—like I crawled out of a dumpster. Which, technically, isn't far from the truth.

Kuma rubs against my leg again, his purrs vibrating through the silence. "Yeah, yeah, I'll feed you," I sigh before tiptoeing to the kitchen.

The fridge is nearly empty—half a carton of expired milk, a slice of pizza so old it's practically fossilized, and a lone beer. I grab the beer and twist off the cap, taking a swig. Breakfast of champions. Besides, there's no better way to cure an hangover but to get drunk again. The cat food is in the cabinet, and Kuma's bowl is still half-full from last night. He's not starving, but he acts like it. I dump the rest of the bag into his dish just to shut him up.

My head throbs, a relentless drumbeat behind my eyes. I need coffee. Or more vodka. Or both. But first, a shower.

The bathroom is a disaster—towels are scattered on the floor, Keith's razor crusted with something I don't want to think about, and the sink clogged with toothpaste and ash. I turn the water on as hot as it'll go and strip naked, avoiding my reflection in the broken mirror and tossing my clothes to a pile of other laundry. The bruise on my hip is darker now, a mottled purple. I don't remember how I got them. Maybe I don't want to.

Fall. Dad. Keith.

The water scalds my skin, but I don't care. It washes away the grime, the smell of the alley, the lingering scent of him—that asshole with his stupid skull ring and his stupid blanket. I scrub harder, like I can erase the memory of his ice-blue eyes staring at me like I'm some kind of puzzle he can't solve. Truth is, he was the only man in my life who didn't want to punch my ribs, maybe he's not that– oh what are you thinking again?

Stop thinking about him.

I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself. The apartment is still quiet, save for Keith's snores. Good. The less I have to deal with him, the better.

I dig through the pile of clothes on the floor—clean-ish jeans, a black tank top, and my least-stained hoodie. My Doc Martens are by the door, still damp from last night's rain. Perfect.

My phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Lina, my coworker: "You coming in today? Boss is pissed about yesterday."

I groan. Yesterday. Right. I called in sick. Or maybe I just didn't show up. The details are fuzzy.

"Yeah, be there by 12." I reply, then toss the phone onto the couch.

I rake a hand through my tangled hair, wincing as my fingers catch on knots. No time to deal with it now. I twist it into a messy bun and swipe on some concealer to hide the worst of the bags under my eyes. A quick coat of black eyeliner, a swipe of chapstick, and I'm as presentable as I'm going to get. And I've already done more than I would on normal days.

Kuma meows from the windowsill, watching me with judgmental green eyes. "What?" I snap. "You got a better plan?"

He blinks slowly, unimpressed.

I grab my bag from the kitchen table and open it to check for my notebook – it's still there thankfully, tucked between an almost empty cigarette pack and a crumpled receipt. I don't know what I would do to myself if I lost it. It's the only thing keeping me sane. I know it sounds crazy but it really is.

The bedroom door creaks.

I stop breathing.

Keith walks in, shirtless, his hair a greasy mess. His eyes are bloodshot. He probably smoked too much last night again. That is never a good sign. He gets really cranky when he sobers up. "Where the fuck were you last night?"

"Out." I answer in a flat tone, trying to keep it steady.

He takes another step closer to me. He smells like weed and sweat. It makes me nauseous. It makes me almost taste the cheap vodka back in my mouth. "Out where?"

"None of your business."

He reaches out and grips my wrist hard enough to bruise. "Everything about you is my business, Aiko."

I try to yank my arm back but he doesn't let go, instead, his fingers keep digging deeper into my skin until his nails form crescent-shaped marks on my arm. It hurts. I want to cry. I want to cuss him out. I want to fight back. And yet, maybe out of cowardness, I don't. Instead I just bite my tongue to keep me from crying. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

"I have work." I say through gritted teeth.

He lets out a laugh, a mocking laugh. "Work? You mean that shitty café where you flirt with customers for tips?"

I don't answer. Arguing only makes it worse.

His grip tightens. "You're lucky I don't—"

The phone vibrates and the screen lights up with a notification. Keith's grip on my wrist falters slightly as he looks at my phone with a momentary curiosity overriding his anger. I take this opportunity to yank my arm free, rubbing on the tender skin where his nails had dug in. Just one more thing to hide, I guess.

Before I can reach my phone, Keith beats me to it and his gaze darkens even further, as he reads the message aloud.

"Your boyfriend is a piece of shit. And by the way, you left your shitty vodka here."

He looks at me with confusion and anger. I want to run, but I'm frozen in place. My hands are shaking and my breath is becoming laboured as I try to come up with a plausible excuse for that message but even I am confused.

"Who the fuck is this?" he asks, his voice carrying a menacing tone as he steps closer to me making me feel small, weak and vulnerable. Run.

I don't answer his question but I am asking myself that as well until the realization hits me. Him. The asshole from the alley last night. How did he get my number? Did I give it to him? No, I was too drunk to remember my own name last night, let alone hand out digits. Maybe I dropped something—my ID, a receipt—but even then, why would he bother?

"You cheating on me, Aiko?" he asks the feared question. I know that it won't matter what I say, this conversation will only have one comeback and spoiler alert: it won't end well for me.

"Oh yeah, because I'm totally the type to juggle men. Get real."

You stupid, big ass mouth bitch! Why did I say that?

He grabs my chin and pulls me against him, forcing me to look at him. I can feel his breath of stale weed and beer against my face, not helping with my hangover. "Then who the hell is this?"

I try to move my face away from his hold but in vain. "Some random jerk from the bar. I don't even know his name."

Keith's grip tightens as he tries to keep me still, his nails now digging into my jaw. One more mark. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Believe whatever you want. I don't care."

I should really learn to shut the fuck up.

I close my eyes and flinch waiting for the sharp and quick slap or fist to my face and when it doesn't come, I look at him confused. His free hand is closed in a fist, his knuckles turning white. I'm pretty sure he was going to hit me if not for his phone buzzing in his pocket – it's probably either his dealers or clients. It doesn't matter. It's distraction enough. He finally releases me by shoving me back sending me stumbling into the counter.

"Fix your fucking attitude before I do," he threatens, pulling out his phone and walking back towards the bedroom.

I hold my breath, hearing his bare feet stomping on the wooden floor and the bedroom door slamming shut.

At least he didn't hit me today. He must be in a good mood.

As soon as I hear the bedroom door closing, I exhale. My hands are shaking as I pick up my phone. I look at the message and it seems to stare back at me. I can already picture alley-guy mocking me and bragging about how he was right.

Unknown Number: Your boyfriend is a piece of shit. And by the way, you left your shitty vodka here.

I should ignore it. Delete it. Pretend it never happened. But I guess that I'm on a bad decisions rampage.

Me: Wow, stalker much? How'd you get my number?

The response is almost immediate.

Unknown Number: You left your wallet in the alley. Check your pockets.

I pat my sweatshirt pocket. Empty. Shit. My wallet has my ID, my café employee card, the last twenty bucks I had to my name—

Me: Give it back.

Unknown Number: Come get it. And the vodka. Or I'll pour it down the drain.

I grit my teeth. Asshole. How can someone act so entitled?

The bedroom door slams shut – Keith leaving, probably to meet up with his dealer. Good. At least I won't have to deal with any more of his bullshit.

I glance at the time: 11:07 AM. I need to leave for work soon. I just stare at the screen. The last thing I need is another arrogant man thinking he can boss me around. But my wallet—my fucking life—is in his hands.

Me: Fine. But I'm not missing work for your power trip. After my shift.

Unknown Number: Don't be late. I hate waiting.

I sigh and shove my phone into my pocket. I don't have time for this. I grab my bag and bolt out the door. The streets still smell like wet concrete and there's big puddles everywhere. With my luck, I might step on one and yet it will be the best thing that has happened to me today.

To add to the situation, now I'm thinking about him again, with that arrogant smile of his and the posture of an own it all person.

Who does he think he is?