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𝄞 𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗌

The bar was quiet. Too quiet. Eiden stayed late, claiming the shelves needed wiping. But in reality, he just didn’t want to be alone in the dark. Not tonight. Not when the bar was so quiet and his mind was so loud. Too damn loud. He lay on the couch in the back, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on his chest like he could hold the weight down.

Eiden refused to close his eyes, but it was a battle he had lost even much before it started. Long hours at work and lack of caffeine made sleep come in fits.

Gunshots.
Dreams.
Memories.

He was seven again. Warm fridge. No power. A slice of pizza missing a bite. Screams. Shoots. Silence. He was hiding in the dresser, having slipped behind the false wall, knowing the patterns by now. Knowing that in the state his parents were—they would use him as a punchbag again. Fucking again.

Then the scene in his dream shifted, to the living room. To his parents, twisted and still. Blood everywhere. The metallic scent in the air. More shouting and a bang, the door slammed open. The police. Too late. It was too fucking late.

Eiden woke with a start, heart pounding and shirt soaked. The walls felt too close. Asphyxiating. He sat up, dragging a hand through his damp blond hair. The dream clung to him, not different from the scars he bore. Memories covered by tattoos that would never leave.

His eyes drifted to his guitar. The chords came rough, uneven, but they filled the silence. Holding the past at bay. He played until the boy inside him could rest.

Even if just for a little while.

Once the storm inside him dulled. Eiden changed into a white button-up, still wrinkled from the floor. Rinsed his face with cold water, ran his fingers through his hair, and forced a crocked grin.

Smile on.
Walls up.

Eiden had a shift to start. And no one could know he hadn’t really slept a wink.