Chapter Revised: March 2nd, 2022

Chapter 1

The room is silent. Save for the calm, never-ending 'tick' of a clock. One that sits, above the window, as oddly placed as it is shaped. Where most are circular and marked with numbers, this one has nothing of that. It's just two hands, arrowed shaped with one longer than the other, pointing at numbers that aren't there, and a thin red stick that 'ticks' with every second that passes.

How the clock can keep time when there's nothing more to it than its hands and the gears that moves them, is anyone's guess. But it does, accurately so. And when the ticking draws my gaze, I know that I can trust the clock when it reads as half-past ten.

But, for all that the room is quiet, silent enough that I can hear every tick of the clock, it isn't still. There's motion everywhere, from the gentle breeze that rustles the curtains as it billows in from the open windows to the synthetic 'clash' of metal meeting metal.

To the sudden, overjoyed yet hushed yell of "oh my god, yes, yes, yes!" as the credits roll across the TV screen, the funky background music intentionally muted so that the room can remain as quiet as possible even now, so close to midnight.

As the only light in the room, the TV drowns the room in an array of colors as the end credits show stills taken from the game. They're all bright. Cheery and Two-D. Animated in both category and style as this game is based on the only anime I've ever held dear to my heart.

Bleach.

And yet, I'm not the one playing.

"I did it, Trixy!"

It's a hushed whisper, the volume carefully kept low even for all the excitement that pours out of her. Turning my eyes away from the clock, I offer up a smile that is more fond than excited as I watch her, short brown hair bouncing along with her excited little jumps, as her eyes all but sparkle under the cheery colors bathing her.

"I unlocked him," she gushes, rushing towards the couch to collapse on it. I have just a few seconds to curl up, splayed across the couch as I was, before she can land on top of my legs. With my legs now drawn close to my chest, I wrap my arms around them, pulling them closer still.

"Good job, Luz," I congratulate her, fighting back the shiver that threatens to overtake me as the wind blows in through the window, harder and colder as the night cools, temperature dipping lower with winter's approach.

I don't even bother to ask who she's just unlocked. I don't need to, because I know well enough just who's she's been trying to unlock with a determination boarding on obsessive since she brought the game home. Not that her determination to beat the game had been surprising at all given that it's none other than Bleach: Shattered Blade.

It's only been a day since we've found the game, battered but no less useable, on the pre-owned shelves of our local GameStop. It's an old game. Released so long ago that finding it had been nothing short of a miracle. Almost as much of a miracle as unearthing Luz's Wii from storage to find it still in working condition had been.

Both the game and Wii have seen better days, the disc so riddled with fine scratches I'm amazed it had even run, but in this moment, as Luz's eyes close in contentment, smile deepening, I can't help but think that they're both utterly fantastic. Amazing. Well worth the effort of hours shuffling through all the dusty boxes packed into an even dustier attic.

"Now you're never allowed to lose," I joke, sticking out a foot to gently nudge her thigh. She chuckles at me, eyes cracking open to flash me another smile as she moves to stand again. "I'm serious, Luz. Grimmjow never loses."

Because all of this had been for him, after all. All the time spent crawling around a hot attic, heaving heavy boxes around in search for her old Wii had been for this moment. Where she can finally play as her favorite character in Bleach.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez.

Sexta Espada of Lord Aizen's army, the personification of destruction, and the love of her life. And to see her now, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet in pure, honest excitement eases something in me. The very same something that's always tense, waiting and watching for the moment all that happiness will be ripped away again.

Because if I've learned anything in my seventeen years of life, it's that happiness never lasts.

Soon enough something will come to steal it all away. It always does. So I can't help but watch it now, savoring every second of it and relaxing deep into the tan cushions because of it.

I lull there, drinking in the relaxed atmosphere even as I know it won't last much longer. Soon enough I will have to face a cold dose of bitter reality. That it will come in the form of a letter is not in the least bit comforting. Especially not when the letter currently sits in front of me, strewn across the coffee table where I tossed it along with all of today's mail.

Fresh home from an admittedly good day of school, I'd been unable to bring myself to open it. Too unwilling to ruin such a good day so soon, I'd ignored it instead. Though choosing to put off reading it had done little to ease my nerves.

If anything it had only made them worse.

The clattering of a plate being placed on the coffee table pulls me from my thoughts. I open my eyes, confused on when I've closed them, to catch Luz's expectant gaze as she slides a plate of freshly baked cookies across the table towards me.

"Here, my new recipe," she says, and I study the cookies a bit apprehensively. Luz is a good baker, one of the best I've had the pleasure of taste testing for but sometimes she gets these ideas that sound good in context but turn out to be utter disasters.

"They're a new recipe I whipped up for the bake sale at Mom's job," she says when I do nothing but poke and prod at them. Already knowing I won't be able to resist the temptation of freshly baked cookies, she turns back to her game without a worry. "They're blueberry and crème flavored."

Never having been able to resist blueberry, it's all the encouragement I need. The first bite of soft, warm cookie is always amazing, but as the flavor of blueberry blossoms across my taste buds, I know I've found a new favorite.

"This is it! Your best recipe yet," I tell Luz as I stuff the rest of the first cookie into my mouth, another cookie already in my other hand and well on its way to being devoured whole. Already, the temptation to lick the plate clean is brewing.

Luz shakes her head at my reaction but says nothing as she loads the next round of the game. Finally unlocked, Grimmjow quickly becomes her main character and I watch, captivated as she struggles to learn his power sets and just how much damage each move does. Not that she struggles for long.

All too soon, she delivers attack after attack with frightening precision. The learning curve is all but non-existent because this is Luz, and she is nothing if not excellent at everything she does. And competitive enough that losing is never an option, neither in real-life situations nor in fictional ones. Luz can never be anything but perfect and the drive of it, in her, never fails to amaze me.

She's just so passionate even now, while playing a simple fighting game, and I can't pull my eyes away as I watch her, face scrunched in determination. There's something about the way she plays, so utterly focused, that makes me wish she'd do so professionally. That she'd become a streamer back in the days when streamers were just up and coming and becoming one was as easy as simply buying a camera and presenting a fun attitude, no real skills required.

Even now, she has the potential to become one, she really does, but the thing with Luz is that she likes to do her own thing. She's independent. Fiercely so. Life has taught her time and again that the best decisions are those made of her own ideas, so streaming was out the window as soon as it left my mouth.

Not that I can fault her for it.

Life is cruel, but despite all its cruelness, she's a good person. One of the best I've ever met, even if she's a little rough around the edges. She's sweet, always eager to lend a helping hand to those in need but cross her once and you'll be wishing she'd just cut you out of her life. For all her sweetness, she holds grudges and keeps them for longer than I've ever seen anyone do, even if she buries them deep for the sake of peace. So deep that I'm sure there may be some hanging even over our friendship.

Best friends or not.

I'm brought out of my thoughts as Luz stumbles, feet getting caught up in the edges of the rug, and she bumps into the coffee table hard enough to overturn it. It crashes against the floor, the sound of all its contents clattering to the floor loud enough in the otherwise silent room to have me flinching.

"Shit," she curses, the word still carefully low as we both rush to clean up the resulting mess. I wave her off before she can do more than pick up a few envelopes off the floor. Not that she sees it as the envelopes in her hand holds her gaze, eyebrows drawing closer together in confusion the longer she stares at it because it's not just any regular piece of mail she's managed to grab. "It's from your dad?"

For all that it has only arrived today, the envelope is dirty, water-stained in some places, and crinkled in others. The writing on it is just as messy, scrawled in such a way that I'm amazed it's even managed to make its way here.

"Yeah," I agree, unable to hide my hesitation to reach for it when she holds it out to me. Not that she seems to pick up on it as her eyes brighten in anticipation. And I don't have the heart to tell her that whatever she's imagining is written in that letter can't be farther from the truth. "I'm too nervous to open it."

It's not a lie, already my stomach is twisting itself into knots from just holding it, but it still feels like a lie because nerves aren't the only thing I'm feeling. The dread the envelope fills me with is so deep, not telling her about it feels like a lie based on omission alone.

"Go ahead, open it," she says, bending to right the table. I can't help but watch her, conflicted in the face of her anticipation right up until the moment that she flashes me another smile. It's one filled with tentative hope because even she knows that the possibility of the letter holding anything good is slim to none. "Maybe he's finally coming home."

With that smile pointed my way, I have no hope of putting it off any longer. Especially not when doing so will only fill Luz with a need to know. Always eager for any information she can get, gossip or otherwise, not knowing will only fill her with the drive to find out by any means possible. So with a, definitely resigned, sigh I carefully ease the envelope open.

It tears apart easily. So much so I'm amazed it made the whole trip intact. Given the condition of it, I'm sure it's come from far away, but I can only guess at its exact starting point as the return address is blank. Either dad didn't want me to be able to track him, or he's simply forgotten to fill it out.

Though the last one is the most likely option, the first thought still smarts in a way that is annoying enough to have me ripping the rest of the envelope open almost violently. Angry that just the thought of how much he hadn't wanted me could still hurt me even now, years since he's been gone, I crush the envelope as soon as it's empty. Though not even that pathetic attempt to ease the anger in my veins, or the soft smile Luz keeps aimed my way, does anything to soften the blow of the words that greet me when I unfold the letter.

I'll send more as soon as I can.

— Daniel

It's a messy scrawl, messier than even the address on the envelope had been and obviously done in a hurry. And it's all that's written. There are no well wishes, no hints of a return, not even a single word on his wellbeing. Just eight words promising something I had never asked for or even wanted from him. Just eight words, one tattered paper, and five equally tattered bills.

All equaling up to one hundred dollars, an unwanted promise, and disappointment I have no way of expressing without sudden, uncalled for violence because:

Fuck.

That.

I have never and will never ask him for anything. Much less money. So the sight of the bills fills me with so much rage I very seriously consider chucking them into the trash along with the stupid letter and envelope. But it's only Luz's worried gaze that stops me.

"What did he say?" She asks, worry growing when I do nothing more than stare at the paper, fingers tightening enough to tear it in places. At the sound of her voice, I release all the anger in a deep, long sigh, because that's all I can do.

As much as I want to scream and cry and just break something, I can't.

"That he'll send more money when he gets the chance," I tell her, carefully folding the letter and bills together and shoving them in my pocket before she can ask to look. I don't need her to see the exact depths of my dad's sheer dis-want of me. "He sent me a hundred this time."

"Oh, well, at least it's more than last time," she offers, voice low and unsure and I can't keep myself from smiling at her. That my smile is small and probably pained is something she doesn't point out as we go back to cleaning up.

One hundred dollars. No more, no less. One hundred dollars is all I have to survive on until he can send more. Last time, more than two months ago, it had only been twenty. The time before that, well over a year ago, it had been fifty.

It comes infrequently, the money he sends. Nothing is ever for certain when it comes to what and when he will send something. Sometimes it had been just letters, other times it had been knick-knacks, cute little things worth less than the money he spent on them. More often than not it's money, crumpled bills I have no hope of knowing just how he's earned it. And one very rare time, it had been a picture.

A tattered, worn slip of paper holding the image of a woman. One unearthly in her beauty, all soft lines, graceful curves, and skin so pale it had all but glistened. Had shone brightly under the sun for all that her hair had been dark, inky black, and making her look paler still in comparison.

The words written then had been simple. Only three of them but holding more weight in them than anything he'd ever sent before.

That's your mom.

— Daniel

That letter had been the quickest one to find its way into the trash, the picture lasting only long enough to be carefully and meticulously ripped to shreds before it had followed in its path, identity of the woman be damn, because:

Fuck.

Her.

And fuck him too.

Four years. It's been four years since he packed his bags and hit the road without so much as a word. Four years since I came home to an empty house, everything already packed away or discarded, my own things already sent ahead to my new 'home'.

Four years and my mom hasn't been in the picture since before I can even remember. Four years of uncertainty and wondering just where the hell he'd disappeared too. Four years of scrimping to pay food and board and anything and everything I need. Four years of working at whatever place would hire a kid.

Four years of utter fucking hell and all my dad can send is one hundred fucking dollars.

"Yeah, at least it's more," I tell Luz, bending to pick up the empty plate of cookies from the floor as I do. She offers that tentative smile again at my word. Unable to return it, I turn away instead, the plate still in my hands. "I'm going to go wash the dishes."

I make my way into the kitchen before she can say anything in reply. On my way past the dining room, I gather all the dishes lingering from dinner, so that, once I reach the sink, I have a rather large pile in my hands. Carefully, I dump them in the sink before moving towards the trash and tossing the letter away without a second thought.

Once upon a time I'd save these letters, hoarded them like gold, and read them each night like they were holy. Once upon a time, they held a promise: dreams and plans and a future. Once upon a time I'd wait each and every day by the mailbox for any new letter that might appear but not now.

Not anymore.

Now they're just nothing more than ink on weathered paper, covered in whiskey stains. A drunken—because there's no doubt that he was drunk while writing this— man's promise and that's something you'd be foolish to believe.

So tossing the letter into the trash is nothing. It's not cathartic or painful or anything other than completely routine. A second nature that brings with it absolutely nothing. Not even relief. Still, I make sure to keep the money, anger be damned. As much as I don't want to keep it, I do because I'm still short on this month's rent.

So I keep the money, even if doing so brings with it memories I don't want. As it serves as a reminder of just who sent it to me so that all my thoughts are full of a man who hadn't wanted me as I start on the dishes.

They say time makes the heart grow fonder, but even now, four years since I've last seen him, all my memories of him are unpleasant. My memories are filled with cruel words and the overbearing smell of alcohol. Of vomit and drunken slurs and his only saving grace had been that he'd never been someone prone to violence even with how deep in the bottle he had been.

No, my dad wasn't physically abusive and on his sober days, as few as they were, he was strong, kind, caring. Once upon a time, dad wasn't an alcoholic. He was a good man, but once upon a time was a long time ago and now he's nothing more than the asshole that abandoned his daughter.

The very same asshole that sold the house, packed his bags, and walked out the door with nothing more than a letter telling me to head out before the new owners arrived. Of course, there had also been a long-winded explanation on just why he left along with a heartfelt apology and instructions to head over to my newly appointed guardian's house.

To say that the Guardian part had been surprising would have been an understatement. Both because it meant that he had dragged himself out of the bottle long enough to realize that such an arrangement would be necessary and because of just who he'd chosen.

Isabel Graves.

Luz's mom.

And the wicked witch of the west—of sorts. Before that day I'd only ever heard bad things about her and, a few days after moving in, I realized they were all surprisingly true. She's cold, standoffish, and holds a tongue sharp enough to draw blood with the wit to match. And she's anything but polite; if a bland remark isn't leaving her lips then you better watch for that carefully disguised insult.

Half the time the target of her irritation doesn't notice they're being insulted. Not until someone sits them down and cautiously explains that what might have sounded like praise is actually nothing more than a sarcastic comment meant to offend.

Honestly, if I hadn't been feeling so lost, I would have given him a round of applause. How he managed to pull off getting Isabel to agree to take me in, I'll never know. Though, I'm sure it took a hell of a lot of begging and a trip down memory lane because, once upon a time, Isabel was my father's best friend.

Though I never did find out what drove them apart. Not that I ever really had anyone around who I could actually ask. And I've always known better than to ask Isabel or my dad directly. Especially when my housing situation is contingent on Isabel feeling merciful enough to house me.

"Aren't you finished yet?"

The voice is sharp, sudden, and it cuts across the room like a whip, causing me to lose my grip on a plastic plate I'd been scrubbing. It clatters against the tile floor and I ignore the perfectly plucked brow raised in my direction as I bend to pick it up.

"This is why I don't like to keep glass in the house," Isabel says, voice cool and calm and it has me wincing because the venom is there, carefully hidden away with Luz so close by. For all that Isabel can be vicious at the drop of a hat, even she knows that Luz wouldn't like seeing it directed my way.

"Sorry, you scared me," I tell her, a smirk on my lips when I catch the hints of a sneer on hers. Despite all her viciousness where Luz can't see, I can't deny that I appreciate just how utter transparent she is with me. I'll take blatant dislike over forced friendliness any day. "You just kind of have that effect on people, you know?"

I should be grateful to her for letting me move in and I actually, really am. But, for all that I appreciate everything she's done for me, even I can't keep the snark back when faced with her attitude. That she doesn't mind the snark and even encourages, would be more concerning if she didn't smile in absolute delight every time I do it.

I guess she appreciates someone being real with her too.

"Now, now sweetie, what have I told you about flattery?" she asks, and I roll my eyes in exasperation even as the sneer on her lips turn into a smile so smug you'd think I'd just paid her an actual compliment. "It'll get you everywhere."

I laugh at that, the sound startled because, yeah, she's insane. And damn if that didn't make me absolutely love her for it. Viciousness and all because a woman that vicious is nothing if not confident, independent, and just overall awe-inspiring in her fierceness.

"Now then, why don't you tell me how much that magnificent father of yours sent this time?"

"Oh you're going to love this," I tell her as I finish rinsing off the last dish and wipe my wet hands on my jeans. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out five crumpled twenties and wave them in front of her nose. "One hundred dollars, Bel. One hundred fucking dollars."

"You're lying," she says, words slow as she takes the bills. Not that she really does think I would lie to her about it. She counts the money as if to check that there really are only five twenties before attempting to hand it back. "Well, shit."

"Keep it," I tell her, now dry hands coming up to massage my temples. I can feel a headache growing. One brought on by frustration and anger and just the utter audacity of the person I'm unlucky enough to call a father. "I'll bring you the rest after I get paid tomorrow."

"What am I going to do with you?" she asks and I'm not sure if she's expecting an actual answer, but I shrug my shoulders just in case. "Look, I'm not trying to be an out-right bitch but let's face it. I got my hands full with Luz and I don't make anywhere near enough money to support all three of us. And if push comes to shove, well, I'm going to pick my daughter over you any day."

There's nothing I can say to that say to that. Not when I agree with it wholeheartedly. I can't fault her for putting her daughter over me. As her mother, Luz should always come first for Isabel, and even with the threat of homelessness hanging over my head, hearing her say that Luz will always come first only makes me like Isabel more.

"And let's face it. I'm being pushed here, Trixy, and the bills are piling up," she says and this time her voice is soft, as comforting as the hand she places on my shoulder, slim fingers gently squeezing. "I'll talk to your father tonight. Maybe he can arrange something more…permanent."

She leaves after those last words. I don't watch her go. Instead, I lean against the counter, utterly drained. I don't blame her or hate her.

I can't.

Because she's not doing it because she hates me or to get rid of me. She's doing it for Luz, her daughter. So that she'll have enough money to pay the bills, buy food, and to just be able to keep a roof over Luz's head. That's a hell of a lot more than my mom ever did for me.

I stay like that for longer than I mean to, pondering my poor fate, and it's not until an elbow gently nudges my ribs that I'm pulled out of my thoughts.

"Mom says to clean up," Luz says, the words careful as she leans on the counter next to me. She stands there, waiting to see if I'll tell her anything. Not that she's actually trying to pry, just offering to listen. When I don't say anything, she nods and pushes away from the counter. "You did the dishes already, so I guess I'll mop, sweep, and get the kitchen. And you get the living room, okay?"

"Sure," I accept easily enough, more than eager to finish up so that I can retreat to my own bed. I only get more desperate to get to sleep when a peek at the numberless clock shows that it's half an hour till midnight.

Even with it being a weekend, Friday night to be exact, I don't have the pleasure of staying up all night. Not when weekends mean it's time to go to work and bring in as much money I can get. Seeing as I'm a high school student, weekends are the only time I actually can work. Even despite the fact that I could use all the hours I can get, as a minor, I'm forced to stay strictly part-time by law.

Still, working at a mom-and-pop restaurant is better than nothing. Even if my limited hours make it so I don't make enough to cover all my bills, the tips make it just worth it enough to stick around the food industry over any other job I could possibly get at my age.

Not that it's a very desirable job even with that added benefits of tips. Whatever hours I manage to get are always long, grueling, and brutal because the restaurant environment is fast-paced and hectic on a good day. So that every day is killer, each day starting early and being utterly exhausting.

The temptation to quit would be completely irresistible if I wasn't so hard for cash. But I am and with my next shift schedule for opening tomorrow, I'm now desperate to get to bed as quickly as possible.

With that thought in mind, I clean the living room quickly. Setting everything back in its place and tossing all the trash I can find, I rush to finish so that I can finally jump in the shower and crawl into bed. Luz, though, takes her time, not needing to rush because her weekend will be spent at home, unbusy, and relaxing until school on Monday. So as I rush up the stairs, I can still hear her puttering around the kitchen, cleaning slowly enough that I know I can take as long as I want in the shower without worrying about her needing to take one too just yet.

With no one waiting for me to finish, I take a long, piping hot shower. In that moment, nothing feels better than allowing the water to rush down my back, the heat if it is easing all the knots of stress and exhaustion that twist up my muscles. The water steams up the room, turning it cloudy and warm and all the more relaxing for it.

Lost under the stream of hot water, I take longer than I mean to. It isn't until the water starts to chill that I start to wash but by then I do rush. Unwilling to stand under cold water, I'm scrubbed clean and rinsed off before the temperature of the water can drop more than a few degrees.

After that, I waste no time toweling off and slipping into my pajamas because, while the steam had been comforting in the moment, it's now stuffy and heavy. It fogs up the mirror so completely I can only see a vague outline of myself in it and I want nothing more to be free of it as quickly as possible. So tug on my clothes quickly, ignoring how they stick to my still damp skin as I brush my teeth just as quickly and dash out of the room before the mirror can clear.

Washed and finally ready for bed, I make my way down the hall and to my room as the weight of the day finally hit. As the stress causes my building headache to grow enough to blur my vision as I stumble, sleepily down the hall, drowsier than I can ever remember being. Mind muddle by stress and exhaustion when I finally reach my room at the end of the hall, I rush into the room and crawl into bed without a thought.

The bed and sheets feel like clouds against my weary muscles and I melt into them instantly.

The second my head hits the pillow, I'm too drained to do anything but shut my eyes and allow sleep to take me. So maybe that's why I forgot that my sheets aren't black, that my room isn't white, and that my bed has never felt quite this soft.