Chapter5.
848 Words
Anything to regain his face? He would do.
He ended the call without another word. He stood in silence, then looked down again at the journal, now a loaded weapon in his hands.
He smiled. A cold, elegant smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Oh, Drake,” he whispered. “You just made things so much more fun.”
**
Drake’s shoes scraped against the cracked pavement as he approached the rusty door to his apartment. His muscles ached, the leftover energy in his body spent, during hours at the store, but he forced himself up the creaking stairs and twisted the key into the jammed lock.
The door groaned open.
The small, dimly lit apartment greeted him with its usual damp staleness. The air smelled of old books and rust, and the only sound came from the soft dripping of the leaking pipe under the sink, and the angry fan that hung lazily on the almost fallen ceiling. A rat scurried across the cracked floor as if it, too, knew the routine.
Drake didn’t flinch. He was too tired.
He kicked off his shoes, tossed his ID badge onto the table, and made his way to the kitchen. A cracked ceramic cup and a half-empty packet of expired noodles waited for him like it has always done. He peeled the packet open, dumped the powder into the water, and placed it in the microwave. The machine buzzed to life with a mechanical wheeze. Faulty as it was, it never stopped on its own.
He leaned against the counter, staring at nothing.
“Just two more weeks,” he muttered. “Then the salary comes in. Just keep holding still,”
Rubbing his temples, he pushed off the counter and staggered back into the living room, where his faded school bag leaned against the foot of the couch. The sight of it brought a flicker of comfort. He reached inside, fingers searching blindly for the soft, familiar texture of leather…Nothing.
Nothing?
His stomach dropped.
He blinked. Dug deeper. Turned the bag upside down. Books fell out. Pens. Crumpled receipts. But not his journal.
The journal wasn’t just a diary, it was his soul. His whole life was in that book.
His parents’ murder. His nightmares. His repressed thoughts. The truth about being gay. His secret obsession with Miguel. The heartbreak. The fantasies. The fear.
Gone.
“No… no, no, no.”
Drake scrambled, heart pounding against his chest. He tore open the couch cushions. Checked under the table. Under his bed. He ransacked his room like a madman, drawers flung open, his breaths was beginning to feel rushed.
“Where the hell is it!”
The sharp, burnt stench of noodles hit his nose, thick and bitter. He turned sharply toward the kitchen just as a shadow stumbled into the apartment.
“You tryna burn the house down now?!”
His uncle.
Unshaven, shirtless, and reeking of cheap gin. He staggered into the room, eyes bloodshot, beard unkempt, face sunken with neglect. His gaze flicked toward the smoking microwave.
“I can smell death in here,” he slurred, waving a hand. “You want to kill me too? Huh? Like you killed your parents?”
Drake froze, shoulders tensing.
“I didn’t—”
WHACK.
The slap came fast, jolting Drake’s head sideways. His cheek stung. He stumbled back, clutching the edge of the table to keep himself from falling.
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” the man yelled. “Acting all quiet, all nice… but you’re just waiting. Waiting to send me to your parents, me too?”
“I just left it too long…it's faulty, you know that!” Drake cried out.
Another blow landed on his shoulder, then his ribs. His uncle’s fists weren't strong, but they were full of venom.
“You little liar!” he growled. “Always hiding, always sneaking. Your mama was too soft on you. Look where that got her!”
Drake gritted his teeth. He didn’t fight back. Not because he couldn't, but because this was the routine. The chaos. The price of surviving in silence.
He curled into himself, shielding his face as another hit came down.
His body throbbed with the kind of ache no one at Brian’s Academy would ever understand.
The microwave beeped again, still running.
The smell grew stronger.
“Turn it off before you kill us both!” the man barked.
Drake crawled over, slammed his hand against the stop button. Silence fell again. Thick. Oppressive.
His uncle spat at the floor, then collapsed into the stained armchair.
Drake stood in the kitchen, chest heaving, head spinning.
He was trembling.
But it wasn’t just from the pain.
It was from fear.
The journal was gone. Someone had it. Someone could read every single word he’d ever written.
Every secret.
He slumped against the counter and let himself cry….quietly, like always.
An SMS popped on the front of his
screen while he let his pain out through his quiet sob.
SCHOOL. 6: 00AM. NOT EVEN A MINUTE LATE.
- Writer
