Ethereal | Twilight |

007

Maybe it was Paul's constant presence. The way he quietly absorbed Sora's descent without ever asking questions, never looking away—that made him follow him that day without a word. He trailed behind him through the overgrown yard, past the rusted mailbox and beer cans flattened into the dirt, straight to the cracked-open window. Sora didn't even glance at the door. They both knew what was behind it.

His mother, body draped over the couch like it had been stapled there. The exact same position as yesterday. The bottle—vodka, half-empty—hung from her fingers like it belonged there, like it was the last thing anchoring her to the living world. Her lips kissed the filthy floor like it had whispered something gentle to her in return.

Paul crawled in after him, quiet. The air inside felt stale and warm. His breath settled into the house's rhythm, syncing with the slow, erratic draw of his mother's from the other room, like two voices humming in separate chambers, out of tune, yet forced to harmonize.

Sora stood in the center of his room. It wasn't even a room anymore. Just a shell. The walls were yellowed, the corners collecting dust and dead bugs. There was no furniture except the bed, unmade, sheets twisted—and a trash bag slumped near the door, overflowing with weeks of clothes he hadn't touched. Flies moved lazily near the ceiling.

Paul's eyes roamed. They never stuck to one place long. His gaze flicked over the peeling walls, the cracked light switch, the faint boot print on the floor, and then it dropped.

Sora looked down too.

The stash was barely hidden. Tucked under the bed, but the corner of the bag peeked out. The smell was louder than sight. Burnt. Skunky. Heavy in the lungs.

Paul's nose curled like the scent had smacked him. His lips pulled wide. That grin—sharp, toothy, too amused.
"And what is that?"

Sora didn't respond. He didn't need to. Paul's grin didn't hold. It faded, piece by piece. His eyelids lowered in something like pity, or maybe irritation.

Sora turned away. His skin tingled, itchy with something deeper than nerves. An irritation that screamed from the inside, that made him want to scratch until he bled. He could feel it in his jaw, in his spine. Something angry building in waves. He grabbed the towel hanging over the back of the chair, still damp from days ago, and left the room without a word.

Paul stayed behind. He knew not to follow.

The bathroom was a different hell. It smelled like her. Not her perfume or some comforting nostalgia—her. The lavender shampoo, cheap and nearly empty, sat upside down on the corner of the tub. Toothpaste painted streaks over the sink basin. Strands of her dark hair blanketed everything. They clung to the faucet, the tiles, even the mirror. She was everywhere in here.

Where the toilet paper should've been, there was a rag, soaked, gray, used. Hung over the metal bar like an offering. It smelled like her sweat and the alcohol sweating through her skin. The scent hit him too hard. He winced, pulling back.

He set the towel on the sink, heat crawling down his spine. His hands shook. He left and returned a moment later with bleach, gloves, and an old rag. He didn't want to clean. He had to. The stink of the room made his throat tighten. His stomach twisted with each spray. The bleach stung his nose, his eyes watered. His mouth dried. The combination of chemicals and bile and rot made the whole room hum with sickness.

Once everything had been wiped raw, he stripped. His clothes hit the floor like dead weight. He kicked them to the corner and turned the water on cold. It coughed out of the faucet at first, stuttering before pouring. The second it hit his skin, it felt like broken glass.

He didn't flinch. He welcomed it.

He stood beneath the stream, breathing slow, trying to feel something beyond the numbing noise in his skull. His breath fogged up the mirror. Rain whispered against the roof, barely audible.