Moonbound hearts

Bruises and beginnings

I’m already late. The clock on my phone flashes 7:15 a.m. I should have been at the office before seven, neatly dressed, mop in hand, pretending that my world is as spotless as the floors I scrub. Instead, I’m sitting on this rattling bus, sweat trickling down my neck, silently praying that the driver will find some hidden gear that doesn’t exist.

“Move faster!” I mutter under my breath, gripping my bag so tightly that the strap leaves marks on my palm. The bus screeches to a stop at last, and before the doors can fully open, I jump out. My feet hit the ground with a smack, and I take off down the street like someone being chased.

It’s already been a hectic morning — the kind that makes you question your entire life’s choices. Johnny had been at it again. That man was born just to test my patience. He’s lucky he only walked away with a bruise on his chin. If there’s a next time, it might not be just a bruise — maybe a broken jaw to remind him that I’m not one to be messed with.

All I wanted was to fetch water in peace. Everyone in that compound knows my rule: I won’t start trouble, but if you bring it to my doorstep, I’ll serve it right back, hot and fresh. But Johnny never learns. He shoved my bucket aside at the tap and replaced it with his, grinning like it was a joke. I’d had enough. One push, one angry word led to another, and before long, I’d swung.

He had it coming.

By the time I reach Kingsway Towers, I’m panting, my hair sticking to my face. I rush inside, hoping no one will notice my tardiness. The other cleaners are already hard at work — brooms swishing, mops gliding, dusters flicking. The smell of disinfectant and furniture polish fills the air. Nobody even looks up when I enter. Maybe they’re used to me running late. Maybe they just don’t care.

I dart to the dressing room, fling open my locker, and pull out my uniform. The gray dress with the company logo is faded at the sleeves, but it’s my armor. I’ve been wearing it for almost two years now — ever since I got this job. It’s not glamorous, but it’s decent, steady, and more honest than most things life has offered me.

As I button up, I spot Jasmine, my only real friend here. She’s leaning against the wall, tucking her short braids under her cap.

“The boss was asking for you,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh no. Not again,” I groan. My stomach twists. Mr. Henessy has warned me too many times about being late. One more strike and I could be out.

“You’d better go see him before he sends for you,” she advises, patting my shoulder.

I nod, take a deep breath, and head upstairs. My shoes squeak slightly on the polished tiles — the sound echoes like a guilty conscience.

When I reach his office, I knock softly.

“Come in,” comes the deep voice from inside.

I push the door open. Mr. Henessy sits behind his desk, adjusting his glasses, a mug of coffee steaming beside him.

“Good morning, Mr. Henessy,” I greet, trying to sound calm.

He looks up sharply. “What’s good about this morning, Tessy? You’re late again.” His tone carries that weary disappointment that stings more than anger.

I stand there, speechless. Excuses feel useless. I’ve used them all before — traffic, broken alarm, emergency. None sound convincing anymore.

“Sit down, Tessy,” he says finally.

I obey, perching on the edge of the chair.

“You’re one of our most hardworking cleaners,” he begins, his voice softening. “That’s the only reason I haven’t reported you to HR. But you’re pushing your luck.”

“I’m grateful, sir,” I murmur.

He leans forward. “What’s really going on with you? You’re smart, diligent — but there’s something… turbulent under the surface. Is there a problem at home?”

I stare at my hands. If only he knew.

If only I could tell him that I’m the child no one wanted. That I grew up being called a mistake, an inconvenience, a burden. That my mother’s hatred burned deeper than words — that her eyes could slice through me like knives. I could tell him about nights spent hiding in unfinished buildings, fighting off hunger and fear in equal measure. About how I learned to defend myself because no one else ever would.

But I don’t tell him any of that. People pity you for five minutes, then they move on.

Instead, I force a smile. “I’ll not be late again, I promise.”

He studies me for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe me. “Seline, if you ever need to talk—”

“I’ll be fine, sir. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He sighs. “Alright. Just make sure it doesn’t interfere with your work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You can go now.”