Homesick (a That's Not My Neighbour fic)

Working 9(pm) to 5(am)

//tw: talk about trauma//

He heaved a heavy sigh, parking his worn down old beater car on the corner of the street and exiting the vehicle.
Thankfully the shiny red milk float was already back in its dock at his workplace, so no damage will come to it at the hands of reckless drivers or teenage hooligans. That was a small mercy, at the very least.

Once the door was shut, he locked the vehicle, hearing it chirp twice to confirm its security, before sticking the jangling keys in his pocket for safe-keeping.
Absent-mindedly, the man looked up at the sky; still grey and cloudy, but at least it wasn't raining like last night. Though the sound was soothing to listen to, it made the roads hazardous wherever he went. In all honesty, he wouldn't be surprised if one of the streets became flooded that very morning, but he had yet to know about this news. He was thankful for that.

Looking at his watch, he saw it had just reached 9:30am.

A lot of folk still kept themselves inside thanks to the bad weather that night. Were they dreading another downpour?
The kiddies had all been sent to school so they were at least safe there, and as he glanced from left to right, he could see the occasional dog walker, someone running late to work or heading to neighbour's house.
Above him, a few birds chirped sleepily, keeping the atmosphere bright and happy despite the gloomy sky.

It only just made him realize how tired he was.

Francis Mosses, the ever-so hard working milkman of the neighbourhood, stretched his arms to ease his tired bones, and he let out a soft groan of relief.
To him, lately, all the days had seemed to blur together, whether it was the time of his shifts or the imminent tiredness of it all, he couldn't be sure but something made it all blur together.

It was only when Jamie, the new paper boy, went past and tossed a copy of the daily news in his hands, did Francis notice the date.

February 24th, 1955.

It...it had been a whole year.
Francis had nearly forgotten, or at least made himself try to forget what happened, but seeing the date made all those memories flash before his eyes rapidly.
He stood there, frozen, his usually tired eyes now bearing a thousand yard stare of a man who had seen too much. His pupils shrank, and his brows tilted in a worried frown.
He wasn't even aware that he'd dropped the newspaper onto the ground until he felt the corner of it bat at his leg like an agitated moggy.
Looking down, he pinched the corner and picked up the paper once more.

Oh God, the thing had landed in a puddle.

With a grimace and a sound of disgust, he quickly threw it in the garbage can outside, wiping his hands down on the front of his slacks to get any dirt or water off his skin.

Doing this, however, didn't change the fact that memories bloomed like flowers in his mind, poisoning it with trauma and regret, all whirling together in a personal hell he couldn't escape from.

He had to move.

He had to get inside.

Francis made his way towards the front door of the apartment building, expression sleepy and numb on the outside, but on the inside the terror still raged like Hell's flames.

And it sure burned like them too.