𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲

Chapter 1

— Chapter 1 —
A Lighter for Noah Black

=||=||=

E L L I O T

No mail.

How is there still no mail?

Dropped the lid of the old mailbox, I listened to the clang of the cold metal as it shut closed. After dusting its chipping green paint off my hands, I shoved my hands into my pockets and nervously bit into the sides of my cheek.

How long has it been since I sent in an application? I thought bitterly to myself, staring up at a starry night sky. Surely someone from somewhere would have gotten back to me by now?

I'd finally reached the point where I could afford to go to college, though much later than anybody else I'd known growing up in Boston. I was twenty-three, applying to what was probably every college in and out of the state. Everyone that I'd graduated with had probably finished with their degrees already—and here I was, five years after senior year, praying for some kind of luck that I'd even get accepted. At this point, I wasn't picky.

I'll go to the public library tomorrow, I planned, shoving my hands in the pockets of the worn jacket that hugged my shoulders. Nowadays, most acceptances could be seen with the easy click of a button. But between having a busted phone and zero internet connection in the house, waiting for the news felt a lot like watching paint dry.

Biting into my lower lip, I decided, I'll check again tomorrow.

Beaten in spirit, I trudged up the rocky path to the porch of my soulless house. Everything about the place was old. The mailbox. The blistering front door. The dying plants in the garden. The fading, white paint, and the stained windows obstructed by dark curtains. Nothing about this place felt like home—certainly not my own father.

Walking into the cold building, I tried not to be startled  when I spotted him standing in the kitchen.

Thanks to the house's the open floor plan, the only rooms that were kept hidden behind doors were our bedrooms and the shared bathroom. It didn't leave me many with escape routes whenever he decided to take his anger out on me in his drunken hazes.

"Did you pick up any of my mail earlier?" I asked him quietly. "There wasn't anything in there when I checked."

My father's voice was like poison as he answered me. "Why would I do that?"

Must've forgotten who I was talking to.

He was never the same after Mom died. It showed in his eyes—they were empty now, devoid of any joy or hope or compassion. And while I knew that the grieving process was a different for everybody, this didn't feel like grief anymore. It just felt like anger. Maybe with me. Perhaps with himself.

Mom's passing six years ago was something I tried not to think about. Though I continued to insist that it was something I'd already come to terms with, her loss still felt like a tender scar over my chest.

Time hadn't healed it. Time hadn't healed anything at all. Because I didn't only lose her that day—I lost my father, too. And he served as my constant reminder.

Ironically, he'd used to work as a police officer. It was a tough job, though he dealt with the stresses and the constant back pain with alcohol and football on the old TV. Considering that the mortgage was paid off and that he was getting on in years, he'd retired from the job several months ago. And he'd been my problem ever since.

Nowadays, he just... stayed home.

And when he wasn't home, he was out, avoiding the simple miseries of his life through cheap alcohol and younger women. I figured all of it functioned as a means to fill the void Mom left in his chest.