The Cynic In Love

1. Stuck in a Rut

Through the ramshackle trailers that littered the dumpsite on the outskirts of Havenburgh, the bitter wind carried the scent of decay every waking day of my stagnant life. Every time I went outside, the smell of rotten food was piercing through my nostrils. The only thing that motivates me to stay in this ghetto is the fact that no one is there to save me but myself. Even loved ones can hurt and disappoint. Especially loved ones.

My trailer, if you could even call it that, stood between the town's border and the baseline of the hill. The floor squeaked as I stepped around, as with the door. The paint chipped, a wonderful contrast to the wide and colorful world outside these barren grounds that I so desperately wanted to explore. I slid into the exhausted couch, the springs growling in protest. It folded under my weight. My life was always in shadow, reflected by the cobbled dining table, a recycled plank of wood perched precariously on two mismatched boxes, mingling with the faint aroma of cheap instant noodles that had become my staple diet.

I glanced around at the bare furniture, which included an old dresser with stuck drawers. Only to make it a stall for my odd collection. I really don't remember what's in it since all my clothes are hiding in package boxes underneath my bed. On top is a lopsided bookcase filled with travel magazines from previous years that I had been carrying around since I moved away and tattered books that had been checked out from the town library. Only a single window by the sink provides a narrow view of the lonely scene outside.

The small space felt like a hug closing in on me. The tiny living area that also served as a kitchenette opened directly onto the hallway, barely allowing room for two steps.

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair in frustration, muttering to myself, "This place seems to shrink by the day," while reaching out to retrieve my worn-out boots trapped under the couch with the dirt crunched beneath them. My head bumped into the table and startled by the door creaking, I cursed out loud.

"Language!" Becka's raspy voice broke through my thoughts as she emerged from her run-down trailer next door. As if cursed words aren't her first language. "Another day in paradise, eh, Tarver?"

Rebekah Jones, the proclaimed owner of the park, was a middle-aged woman with tattoos that adorned her arms. She had a no-nonsense attitude that matched her fiery red hair, and our conversations were always laced with a hint of mutual understanding tempered with cautious respect.

"Paradise lost, more like it," I muttered, forcing a smirk as I moved up to hand her the collection I had last night.

Becka stepped inside, her boots leaving dusty footprints on the damaged floor. She counted the money I collected from the rent and glanced at the pile of wrinkled bills on my table. "Just noticed you only managed to collect from one of the tenants this month. Quite a feat, considering."

I bristled slightly at the implication behind her words, the reminder that my trailer was the smallest, rent-free only because of our arrangement. "I've been busy, Becka. You know how it is at the train station, dealing with all sorts of... people."

I have the time, honestly. Every day the tenants are much more difficult than the passengers at the station. It's impossible to collect bills from them as they are so entitled. I can't make that an excuse for Becka since she made it clear to me about it in the first place.

Becka's smirk widened, her tone laced with playful sarcasm. "Oh, I know, I know. But you also know the deal, young lady. If you can't collect enough to cover your share, well..."

I finished her sentence in my mind, the unspoken threat hanging between us. If I couldn't pull my weight in rent collection, Becka would expect me to make up for it in other ways. And 'other ways' usually translated to dipping into my nonexistent savings or taking on extra odd jobs I barely had time for.