Chương 10: A Bitter Walk

Lloyd trudged down the street, hands shoved into the pockets of what was left of his hoodie. The orange fabric — now with burn holes along the sides and a torn collar — looked more like a prop from a survival film than actual clothing. Every step sent a dull, nagging pain through his ribs, the kind that didn't scream, just quietly reminded him of itself — methodically, like an alarm clock that couldn't be switched off. Lucky for him, there weren't many people around today.

The city lived its usual daytime rhythm — indifferent, businesslike, noticing nothing unnecessary. Some woman dragged grocery bags while staring at her phone. Two men outside a café talked loudly about something, never looking up. A pigeon on the curb glanced at Lloyd and immediately lost interest. The city wasn't watching. The city never watched — and right now that was the best thing it could do. He was still going for the milk.

Just going for the milk — the same as he'd been doing before he turned down the wrong alley. Because the milk wasn't going anywhere, and someone still had to get it. Ahead, a faint white glow began to appear on the horizon. As he got closer it took shape — a building with an almost entirely glass wall. Through it, like looking into an aquarium, he could make out shelves of products, colourful labels, refrigerators with backlighting along the far wall.

All of it glowing from inside with a flat white light — slightly too bright for a grey day. He walked up to the entrance and the glass doors slid apart automatically — quietly, smoothly, with a soft hiss. A wave of cool air came out, carrying the smell of fresh bread. Inside it was quiet. Not empty, but almost. Fluorescent lights hummed steadily overhead, flooding the narrow aisles with pale white light.

Background music — something completely neutral, without melody or meaning — was barely audible beneath the general hum of the refrigerators. Almost no customers. «Makes sense. » Lloyd glanced toward the cash register. Behind the counter stood a creature in a green uniform shirt and a matching green cap with the store's logo. About a hundred and fifty centimetres tall, maybe less. Pink, in a muted shade — like faded coral. A single large eye looked somewhere into the monitor of the terminal.

Instead of hands — thin pink tentacles, flexible, each ending in something resembling soft fingers. Right now one of them was picking through something under the counter — by the sound of it, coins. «Who on earth decided to hire something like this. » Not that it mattered. The important thing was that it wasn't going to ask questions. Lloyd walked to the refrigerators along the far wall. He pulled open the door — cool air drifted out. One carton of milk — white, cold to the touch.

He took it, closed the door carefully, and headed to the register. The creature didn't turn around when he approached. It kept sorting through the coins, methodically and without hurry. Lloyd placed the carton on the belt. One of the tentacles immediately snatched it up and brought it to the scanner — confidently, habitually. The terminal beeped. And then the single eye slowly rose. It looked at Lloyd. Not with alarm, not with sympathy — just looked.

It lingered for exactly one second — on the split lip, on the bruise, on the burnt collar of the hoodie — and just as calmly returned to the monitor. The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Lloyd tapped his card to the terminal. The payment beeped through. He grabbed the carton and turned toward the exit. — Rough day, man. The voice was thin, almost childlike — high-pitched, slightly gurgling, as if someone were speaking through water. Lloyd stopped.

Turned around. The creature was staring at its monitor, poking at it with one of its tentacles. Expression — completely uninterested. Just a statement of fact, in passing. Lloyd looked at it for a few seconds. Then silently turned and walked to the exit. The doors slid apart. Outside, grey daylight and the smell of wet asphalt hit him at once. Lloyd stepped out, stopped for a second, and looked up at the sky.

The clouds hung low and heavy — the same ones he'd looked at that morning and thought the day would be ordinary. He exhaled — quietly, through slightly clenched teeth. — I know, — he said to himself in a hoarse voice. And headed home. Lloyd stood in front of the door to his apartment. Just stood there. A few seconds — without moving, carton of milk in hand. The stairwell smelled of the neighbour's cooking and old paint. Somewhere a floor above, a television was on.

Everything as usual — except he was standing here with a broken nose and a burnt hoodie. He took out his keys and opened the door. The apartment was warm and quiet. From behind Rozi's closed door came music — something low, rhythmic, with bass that barely carried through the wall. So she was home. In her own world. Good. Lloyd quietly walked to the kitchen and put the carton of milk in the fridge. It hummed its usual hum.

He closed the door and stared at it for a few seconds — just like that, thinking nothing in particular. Then turned and went to the bathroom. He turned on the water — hot, almost to the limit — and stepped under the shower. The pain hadn't gone anywhere. His ribs ached, his shoulder pulled, his knee reminded him of itself with every shift of weight. But the water was hot. Almost scalding.

And that was the only thing that was genuinely good right now — the steady hot stream, the sound of the water, the steam slowly filling the cubicle. «God, that's nice. » He stood there for a long time. Longer than necessary. Just stood and let the water do its work — washing the blood from his lip, softening the abrasions, easing the heat from the burns. His head was almost empty.

Somewhere at the edge of his mind something stirred — anger, exhaustion, that same gnawing sense of his own helplessness he'd felt back in the alley — but the water drowned all of it out with its steady noise. When he finally turned off the water, a wave of steam passed through the entire bathroom. The mirror above the sink had completely fogged over. Lloyd took a towel from the hook and began drying his hair — slowly, carefully, steering clear of the graze on his temple.

Then he stood in front of the mirror and waited for the steam to settle a little. The reflection emerged gradually — first the general outline, then the details. Lloyd looked. The bruise under his left eye had fully bloomed — purple, with a yellowish edge. The lip had crusted over. The burn on his cheekbone had reddened and swelled slightly. His nose was puffy, though it didn't seem broken. Lloyd tilted his head slightly to one side. He pressed his fingers to the wound on his cheek — carefully, barely touching.

«Well. Not as bad as I thought. » He dropped his gaze lower. The body was a different story. Along the left side of his ribs ran a long dark red mark. The shoulder. The knee. Several abrasions on his forearms — from the asphalt, when he'd gone down. «Almost. Hope it heals fast. » He continued drying himself — carefully, methodically, working around everything that hurt. Evening had settled outside. The street lamps had come on in yellow-orange light, and their beams lay at an angle across the entire room.

Lloyd lay on top of the covers. Clean t-shirt, sweatpants, hair already dry. The room was quiet — the music from behind Rozi's wall had long gone silent. He stared at his phone screen. Scrolling slowly with his thumb, squinting slightly at the brightness. His face was calm — not relaxed, but calm, like someone who is looking for something and hasn't found it yet, but knows they will. His thumb stopped. Lloyd stared at the screen. Didn't move for a few seconds — just read. Then read it again.

The corner of his split lip pulled up slightly. — Bingo, — he said quietly to himself.