The echoes of soletude

Chapter 1

I was jolted awake by the sound of a heavy thud from the apartment above, a noise that had become an unwelcome prelude to my mornings, always rousing me mere minutes before my alarm could do its job. Three minutes before, to be exact, as though those relentless thuds had replaced the device altogether. I lay in the muted twilight of my room, the faint light filtering through the cracked window. The walls around me, once navy blue, were now patchy and decaying, streaked with grime and spotted with mould. Debris littered the corners, a testament to the slow degradation of a place I'd never intended to call home, but circumstances had left me without choice.

I rose from the bed, the thin, stained white sheets sticking to my skin, stiffened from the cold I'd endured through the night. My body protested, eyes burning from the chill and lack of rest, but I moved with quiet precision, careful not to disturb the chaotic pile of dirty laundry that blanketed the floor. The laundry room was closed, again, the machines perpetually broken—just another reminder of the rotten luck that seemed to plague me at every turn.

With a deep sigh, I opened the door, stepping into the grimy shared living space. There was Rein, slouched on the worn-out sofa, a bowl of cereal perched in his lap. His mouth was stuffed with Coco Pops, but his expression was one of mild shock as his eyes, wide and hazel, locked onto me.

"Fucking hell you look like shit" he muttered, finally swallowing the cereal in his mouth. His chocolate-brown hair was tied into a haphazard bun, with loose strands framing his unshaven face. The lifeless tone of his voice matched his expressionless stare, as if he'd grown too tired to muster anything more.

I scoffed, brushing past him towards the kitchen. "You're not flattering yourself mate" I replied, my voice thick with sarcasm as I caught sight of the towering stack of dirty dishes in the sink—his handiwork, no doubt. He twisted on the sofa, clearly unimpressed by my remark, his gaze heavy on my back.

"Another day of work, I assume?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of monotony as he set his empty bowl down.

"Yeah," I mumbled, hunched over the sink, glaring at the unwashed dishes. "And you?" I added, though I already knew the answer.

He sighed heavily, the kind of sigh that spoke of deep, soul-crushing fatigue. "Cashier shift today," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. Rein worked three jobs: cashier by day, cleaner at a nursing home by night, and librarian on weekends. We existed more like specters haunting the same dilapidated apartment, our lives barely intersecting save for these brief, mundane moments in the early morning and late at night. In between, the apartment sat in stillness, echoing with the emptiness of our absence, as though even it had given up on trying to hold itself together.

He left the kitchen without another word, retreating to his room to prepare for the long day ahead. With a resigned sigh, I turned my attention to the neglected dishes, fully aware that if I didn't take care of them now, they would still be there waiting when we both returned. Rein never seemed to get around to it, not that I expected him to after working himself to the bone.

Once the dishes were finally done, I headed back to my own room. The morning light filtered faintly through the cracked window, offering little warmth. I dressed methodically, pulling on my clothes with the practiced indifference of routine. I reached for my trench coat, slung haphazardly over the chair, then gathered the essentials: my journal, a handful of pens, my bag, and laptop. With everything in hand, I set off, bracing myself for yet another day of work in a life that seemed to loop endlessly in shades of monotony.