The Grounds Keeper

Chapter 10 La Cucina Povera

Chapter 10: La Cucina Povera

Eathon entered the bathhouse in an understandably awkward manner. He looked like an amateur butcher, his hand still dripping blood, and he smelled like a body pulled out of a river a week ago. The student at the front counter recoiled. He could only imagine what this looked like to her. A green class with thrashed-up fists—no doubt she thought he'd been beating on innocent red classes all night or, worse, extorting money. She looked at the green robe and backed away.

Eathon tried to smile politely and shoved his bloody hand into his robe pocket. "Shower entry for one, please."

It cost him 35 credits to use the bathhouse, largely because he had to buy a towel, soap, wooden bucket, and, with no small shame, new underwear and socks. He couldn't imagine how rank his body smelled beneath his clothing. Most likely, he'd need to burn his current set.

He entered the changing room and began to undress. His robes almost instantly began to unwrinkle and fold themselves. He laughed in amazement as he placed them in the bucket.

Inside the bath, he felt awkward seeing a bunch of openly naked men walking about. He'd never been to a communal bath before. Not wanting to stare, he watched discreetly to learn the protocol. He deduced that you sat on your bucket at the wall showers, cleaned yourself thoroughly, and only then entered the soaking pools.

Showering in front of strangers was uncomfortable, but everyone kept to themselves. It was likely that running water wasn't something people here had easy access to.

When he stepped into the water, he felt like a new man. He breathed a long sigh of relief. At least he didn't smell like an egg sandwich left in a marathon runner's back pocket anymore. The steam stung the open wounds on his knuckles as he lost himself in thought.

Why was he so upset with himself? Was it because he didn't act sooner? No—he did stop a terrible person from doing something horrific. Was it because he'd caught the man off guard? No, that bastard deserved it. Or maybe...

Eathon clenched his damaged hand, examining it. Maybe he just wanted to get angrier. Maybe he wanted to see people suffer to fuel this wretched anger. Maybe he didn't help out of virtue, but because it gave him a reason to hit someone.

He sighed and closed his eyes, breathing in the steam. He hoped the tears didn't show.

After soaking for over forty minutes, he finally felt clean. He returned to the changing room, dressed, and noted the beard growth on his face. He needed a razor. And a haircut. But what he needed most was a place to sleep.

He walked out with his toiletries in hand. The bath helped, but he still felt lost. This place played havoc with the mind—it was always dark and gloomy. He decided to make his way back to the green class domain. A park bench there would be safer than a gutter here.

His hands full, he relied on memory to find the station again. A mistake. He took a wrong turn and ended up deep in one of the favelas.

There was a crowd gathered around a giant pile of rubbish. He paused, confused—until a screech of metal echoed from above. Several metric tons of trash dropped into the slums. People swarmed it, elbowing for half-eaten loaves of bread, cans of beans, overripe fruit. A child bit a woman's hand for a bag of sprouted potatoes. A man kicked another for scraps of chicken.

It was hard to watch. But he couldn't judge them. Hunger drives people to madness. He looked away and kept walking. It must've been getting late—people were clearing the streets. He saw a woman slumped against a burned-out oil drum, mumbling incoherently, drooling, a syringe still in her arm.

A hard thump hit his head. He flinched, dropping his bucket. Kids ran past and stole his towel and supplies. A blur. He couldn't catch even one. He chased after them blindly, only for them to split off in every direction. One vanished into a crevice too small for Eathon to follow.