The Night Shift

19th Dec

The night is young, and Frank carries on from where his coworker left off. He loiters around different aisles, rearranging nothing in particular as he counts the tiles on the wall. Tonight's sky is void, with pinpricks of constellations emerging from clouds sporadically. A mild chill runs through Ormond, cold enough to bite through anyone unadjusted to the climate.

Passing the time feels like manual labour; Frank distracts himself with a wooden broom, and remnants of dirt and grime get swept away. He wonders what Julie's doing tonight—studying, no doubt. Maybe with the others, without him.

Frank sweeps harder, channelling any frustrations into his newfound cleaning skills.

It takes him back to the night they killed that Janitor. They all took the backseat as Frank put in the work; he dealt the first blow, he dug the hole, and he made sure they were safe. Here he is again, putting in the work while the group tries to make something of themselves.

Until eventually, they'll drift so far ahead that he'll be left behind, lonely and lowly. Left with blood on his hands and nothing to show for it except a carnal hunger for more.

Sure, Frank accepts the fact they'll leave Ormond someday, just not without him.

The broom hits an awkward corner, with Frank frowning and breathing unevenly as he muses. His eyes dart up to the door as the store's bell chimes, a familiar face stumbling in. He leans on the broom suavely, hoping nobody saw the embarrassing minutes prior.

"Cold out tonight?" Frank talks to the man, taking in the chattering sight before him.

"I can't feel my fingers." Jed mutters, wiping frost from his glasses. He offers a huff of sympathy, amused at the state of the other. "Get some gloves, man."

Jed sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He stands meekly, staring at Frank.

"You need help or something?" He raises a brow, leaning on the broom, and takes a moment to eye Jed back. The store is quiet aside from the low buzz of dysfunctional lighting.

"Actually- if you don't mind, of course, I'd like to interview you."

The silence was deafening. "What for?" He narrows his eyes. It would be fruitless to interview someone like him, but it did pique his interest.

"Ah, I'm writing a piece on the body that was found up the mountain earlier-". Frank cuts him off: "Yeah, I don't know about that, sorry."

Jed persists, "I can tell you about it. All I need is your opinion; you can be an anonymous voice."

He didn't expect the scrawny mess before him to keep pushing for this, and his hands are clammy with anticipation. So they actually found the body. Granted, it wasn't so deep; there's only so much dirt you can dig when it's frozen to the core in the dead of night. Still, Frank thought it'd take until the summer months to be discovered under the thawing snow.

"I don't care about it, if that's what you're asking." He replies nonchalantly, in spite of the nervousness evident in his trembling hands.

Frank is lying. It would be sacrilegious to say he didn't try and chase that same high he got seeing the man bleed out; it was frenzied and messy, but in the most beautiful way to him.

Before either of them can get another word in, the store's telephone rings. "You should probably answer that." Jed sports a smile and wanders down an aisle to busy himself.

With the broom in one hand, Frank sighs. He holds the phone in the other hand, and Julie's fretting voice meets his ears.

"Frank?"

"Yeah, it's me. Can I call you back later? It's just-" He's soon interrupted, and the phone line crackles.

"No. Babe, they found him." Julie whisper-yells down the phone, clearly distressed at the news.

"Yes, I know. Shit, look- we'll talk tomorrow, okay? I'll pick you all up."

She sighs, muttering an exasperated "Okay" before hanging up. They've already recited and rehearsed their alibis; there isn't anything else left to go over. Yet Julie still sounds so upset.

The broom clenched in his right hand splinters, and the wood splices up his palm.

Frank takes a deep breath, composing himself.

Jed walks over, one brow raised "Hot date?".

"Uh, yeah. Something like that." The other tries to joke, naturally thrown off by his girlfriend's outburst and Jed's conversation.

"So... about that interview?" The man prods, awkwardly placing his items on the counter.

"No, I'm not interested." Frank replies, somewhat irked, his whole customer service façade is now dead and buried.

"Sorry, it's my job to pry..." He trails off and fixes his glasses before continuing. "Give me a call if you have a change of heart." Jed says calmly, sliding a note with scrawled numbers etched on it towards him.

The other pockets the note, letting the words stew.

"Have a good night, Frank."

He freezes for a moment at the use of his name. As he takes the cash from the man's hand, he's reminded that he wears a name tag. To call him paranoid would be an understatement; the whole discovery fiasco has him on edge.

Jed closes the door behind him and dissolves into the night.

Consequently, his shift becomes a lot less interesting. Cars chop through the street at random; even the street lights go dim while his brain shuts off in dismay.

He watches curtains in windows being pulled; inside them are families shutting down for the night, probably after a nice meal together. It drives him insane to know what he could've had.

Instead, he's housed with a wishy-washy abstraction of a father figure. Mellifluous daydreams left Frank years ago; Clive had snuffed out his deep-rooted need to be cared for upon his arrival. Their relationship is almost symbiotic, with Clive relying on checks as a result of Frank's residency and the latter needing a place to stay.

Frank pulls his face from his palms, storming outside to smoke away his angsty thoughts. In the dead of night, the town sleeps, only the crows converse, and the snow crunches in anticipation of his footsteps. Smoke flows from embers, and hot flecks of ash singe the snow, the cigarette between his lips.

Eventually he turns to lock up for the night, and the moon watches alongside a colony of stars. Frank doesn't feel like driving tonight, so he leaves his van in the parking lot.

A bittersweet rock settles inside his stomach as he passes Christmas decor and the richer neighbourhoods on foot, the empty chill of night now cradling his bones. He leaves unwelcome prints in the snow, following old paths that harbour fond memories from years gone by. Frank doesn't count how many cigarettes he works through, each warming and mellowing his insides as he embraces the lonesome atmosphere.

After what seems like a long time—not that Frank could tell—he slumps against the bricks of the apartment. Clive's car isn't in the driveway. He reassures himself, with tomorrow's agenda on his troubled mind. He breathes quietly and opens the door, hanging up his snow-caked coat en route to his bedroom. Bedroom is a loose term for what appears to be a spare closet, but Frank never complained.

He melts into his mattress, beating his thoughts into submission as he attempts to sleep.