Chapter Twenty

With this foul mood, you return home; the sun has already set; the pedestrian traffic that was once commuters on their way to work or a bit of shopping has transitioned to scantily-clad women and fashionably-suited men out to have a taste of Night City's infamous nightlife.

Unlike many of your co-workers who rushed off in their splintered groups to whatever club or brothel caters to their lowly financial standings, one that you would not be participating in.

They'll show up tomorrow, hung over, without an Eddie to their name, trying to desperately make rent and pay off their accumulated tabs from the night prior, only to repeat the same mistake the next day, you've seen it before, and you've seen it burn out others.

While they are burning away their lives in excess, yours is more of a slow burn, you still have a few more years left in you, and by God, you'll not go quietly until your pension is upgraded a bracket at least.

The apartment complex plays host to a near three dozen similar housing units precisely identical to yours, and living on the third floor, you have the worst of both worlds, being high enough to enjoy the low-hanging clouds of putrid chemicals and pollution while still being low enough to suffer the sounds and lights of vehicular and pedestrian traffic below.

You recall that on Thursdays, your mother also does a late shift, so as tradition, you stopped at a takeaway on your way and picked up some cheap Chinese; the cardboard boxes stained with grease, their contents sloshing about in the plastic carrier bag you carry with a loose grip.

The food isn't bad, per se, but it'd be healthier eating the bag carrying said delectables than the actual product; sometimes ignorance is bliss, but in your job, you've found many a dirty secret about how these cheap takeaways can stay in business while selling food at such a ridiculously affordable price.

Your journey home is impeded at the last step when on the stairway to your floor, you are nearly thrown off-balance (and down the stairs) by racing children, a boy and a girl; the neighbour's kids, you've heard their screaming and tantrums enough to know them by their voices.

"Alright, you little shits! Shut up and go back home before I give you a reason!"

Your angry yells and threats seem to work as the two fighting siblings freeze, looking like deer in headlights; they stare at you and your verbal barrage before running back upstairs, down the corridor and through the perpetually open door of their family's apartment.

They need some discipline in their lives, and if they nearly trip you over again, you'll give it to them with the back of your hand.

You didn't announce your return home; the place was small enough and the walls thin enough that they probably heard you threaten the neighbours' kids anyway.

Your sister was doing some homework at the dinner table, a traditional pen and paper since the local high school is so under-funded they can't afford to equip their students with a cheap laptop; then again, the student body would probably pawn it off for some drugs.

She looks at you for a second as acknowledgement before silently returning to her work, occasionally nodding to whatever music is playing on her oversized headphones.

"Welcome home, is that dinner?"

On the other hand, your mother greets you warmly, pulling away from the kitchen sink and the plastic tub of tap water she had been using to clean yesterday's dishes.

"Mmh"

You make a sound of agreement, dropping the back on the dining table, a corner that isn't covered by the prodigious amount of paper and utensils that Chloe has managed to scatter about.

You are quickly interdicted soon after by your mother, who stops you from making straight for your bed with a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug, your head resting on hers for the scant few seconds of physical connection, a tired sight slipping from your lips.

"Hard day at work, dear?"

She ushers you to take a seat at the small dining table, collecting and shuffling Chloe's schoolwork, eliciting a squawk of outrage from the girl, whose head snaps up from her homework,

"You can do your work after dinner, sweetheart."

The woman speaks softly to the girl, who can't hear shit beneath the loud pop music blaring from the headphones you got her last Christmas, fuck, those were expensive.

The girl, however, seems to understand at least what's going on; grumbling to herself, she stacks her work in a corner before weighing it down with her assortment of gel pens before graciously accepting the cardboard box of greasy slop cooked by a hairy Middle Easterner and sold by a dodgy-looking Frenchman.

Mom does not make to join you; instead, she resumes washing the dishes as you and Chloe eat in uncomfortable silence, the girl soon returning to her music while you stiffly eat your meal of plastic noodles cooked in sewer oil.

"How was work, dear?"

She repeats her question the second time, back turning to you as she continues washing the dishes in the sink full of stagnant soapy water.

You don't immediately respond; instead, your attention turns to the woman, her faded-white blouse that has the tell-tale signs of repair from the slightly off-colour stitches, and her jeans, as more patches of white amongst faded blue, her shapely behind clinging tightly against her pants; jiggling as she begins energetically scrubbing against a harsh stain.

"A pain, as it always is."

You mutter darkly, turning your eyes back to your meal, chowing down on your foul meal as Chloe, acting as she usually does, pipes in with a sarcastic remark of her own.

"Is there anything you don't find a pain?"

"Certainly not your barking."

You shoot back with a disgruntled appearance, your mouth set in a thin line as you give Chloe a reprimanding look; she's pulling apart the already thinning line that is your patience.

The girl sticks her tongue out at you in response, a childish response that only raises your hackles as, with a grimace, you push your meal forward, pushing your chair back and standing up to give the girl a lecture, you haven't made it a habit to beat the girl, but you will if she thinks herself beyond reproach.

There's an instinctive fear in her eyes as she realises that you were already on a hair trigger, your foul mood having found a suitable outlet for aggression in her joking attitude, which is enough for you to waver.

You don't want to be like your old man, a feeling of guilt coming over you, washing out the anger and frustration piling up throughout the day, as you stare at the girl, eyes pinning hers.

Mom seems to have sensed the sudden change in the room's mood, moving quickly to your side, resting a hand across your back and on your far shoulder, gently coaxing you back into the chair she pushes forward.

"Your brother has had a hard day at work, dear; he doesn't mean it."

After combing her fingers through your hair and rubbing your back a bit, she moves to mend bridges and calm your sister, who no longer refuses to meet your gaze.

In an almost mechanical fashion, you continue to go through your dinner, staring through the window the dining table is pressed against, chewing at a measured pace as mom hugs and pampers your younger sibling.

Fuck, this food tastes terrible.