𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰

52 - Dispersals.

His face could have been inscrutable—if it wasn’t for the dim starlight leaking past tinted windows to somberly emphasize his stiff silhouette that changed its angle each passing second, as anybody could be wondering why would a Bentley be cruising around by residential suburban streets an hour after midnight.

Aiden’s surprised he could still see straight and ahead. There were currently at least fifteen different beer bottles clinking against each other back at the trunk, either half-empty or only a few sips away from knocking him out cold; because this is what happens when he forgets about his low tolerance and starts an alcoholic overhaul in 7-Eleven.

Another droning buzz came from his phone, and after glancing at the curt and red ‘twenty missed calls’ displayed below the distinguished caller ID, a pang of guilt brimmed in him since fleeing from your very own engagement party isn’t really the best decision to leave your fiancée at ease.

He doesn’t even need a proper excuse when he already has one anyway—yes, that was ultimately the beer speaking, not him—considering that the scene prior is still searing into his mind.

Though he is majorly tipsy, he was sober enough to admit that it was the BrewDog coaxing his mind to become freely nomadic, as he steered the wheel to some dark new direction, yet the path was vaguely familiar despite the liquor kicking in and threatening to climb out of his system.

A few more turns, a long left, and soon a curvy right—then there it was—the roof that has always been above his head. Personally, what he would call somewhere between utopia and hell. Maybe, Limbo.

Briefly relieved that he left the garage’s bulb switched on since clearly she wasn’t around, Aiden wasted no time to effortlessly park his ride beside the tranquil Kia whose hood is lifted. He gotta admit, he misses driving the gentle old thing, so for the past few days he was actually trying to make sure every gear worked appropriately enough. The Bentley was honestly only secondary treasure to him, the Kia witnessed whatever it could before its transmission retired.

A drunken hiccup escaped his lips whilst he shoved the key to the gap in the knob before he strode inside the living room with slightly wobbling steps. He didn’t bother to jab the lights on, landing on the couch felt more important; according to the wild headache scraping against his skull.

Suddenly it felt blisteringly hot, so he practically tossed his white tux to a wrinkled heap. The warmth gathering in his cheeks and forehead gave him the impression that he was surely flushed, not that he could care right now.

He had always thought that the walls were so clingy to every passerby, the concept of less space in the house out of the subject. It just occurred to him that they always seemed like they were closing in on him slowly to the point of discomfort.

The kitchen was probably the least unlikable sector. It consistently smelled like pie, tea and baked bliss, and whatever else that could be crafted by the oven. The garden is obviously the only area of the house innocent from unpleasant encounters. Entirety of it, nothing he could determine more than bittersweet.

The wealthy had chances to waste. The scraps of those are for the common folk to bite on to because they had nothing to lose.

The idea made him laugh wryly, not knowing he would regret expelling such a sound before in his head it turned feminine, tantalizing and sweet, and the floor became grass with formal leather shoes glitching into a pair of bruised Nike’s. He felt younger, unsinkable, until a ball lightly crashed nearly in front of his toes and he didn’t remember the garden sizing like half a field as the sun kissed his skin.

“Now who told me he’d catch it huh?”

Just when he had picked the ball he dropped it again, heart bursting into the damp striped shirt he donned while he saw him, his mother’s lone chance he knew she threw right in the bin, grinning as he fumbled with the office tie around his neck to shrug it loose.