Chapter Text
Cracked and broken, he laid there.
With a semi-exposed cheek pressed to the cool hardwood floor, he could hear Greta’s thundering footsteps sprinting down the hall.
They faded, growing distant as she ran away.
Away from him.
The realization made his chest ache, his heart pitifully thrashing against his ribs even as his blood spilled out onto the floor beneath him. Lodged in his torso was a screwdriver—a makeshift weapon Greta had used to subdue him.
After all they had endured, every tender moment they’d shared—even though it had been through the doll—Brahms thought she’d changed for him. He thought she wanted him, but the agony coursing through his body, a frigid fear settling into his bones, told him otherwise.
He’d been too foolish, too stupid to see the truth.
Greta didn’t want him, an ugly, scarred beast of a man. She yearned for Malcolm, a man who was gentle and normal—someone she wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with. Maybe if Brahms had stayed in the walls a little longer, built their relationship more, it would’ve ended differently.
But the ex-boyfriend had shown up unannounced, uninvited, and that was inexcusable to Brahms. And so, he’d shown himself, made his true nature known, and for what?
Heartache.
It was something that always seemed to follow him.
Shallow breaths that resembled wheezing kept Brahms company while he laid there. Coldness brushed across his sweat slicked skin, mimicking the only touch he’d ever known.
Would he die with that being his last thought? Memory?
Death should take him, he deserved it after all this time. Besides, one person could only cheat death so many times.
Right?
As fluttering sunlight streamed in through the glass window panes—its dance matching the unsteady one in his veins—warped by the trees outside, he understood that the universe was giving him another day, one more chance.
And he’d be a fool not to take it.
🖊🖊🖊
Through the tall panes of glass, the skyline begins to twinkle as dusk falls upon the city like a soft blanket. Although it’s never truly dark here—the light pollution and constant routines of people preventing that—the moment right before the sunset winks below the horizon, is your favorite.
That precipice, the balance between moments, is something you savor… even if you’re still sitting at your desk.
Work never seems to stop no matter how hard you try to get ahead.
Tearing your gaze away from the buildings across the way, amber in color as they reflect the brilliance of the sunset, you continue typing out the email you’d started moments before. Your fingers quickly tap over the keys, professional lingo spewing onto the white screen.
I hope this email finds you well…
See requested documents attached…
Please let me know if you need anything else…
It never ends, the bending over backwards all for a job that barely pays enough for you to live.
A soft sigh whispers past your lips as you send the email off, not caring enough at this hour to reread it. That version of you had died around two in the afternoon.
And it’s well past that now.
“How long are you gonna stay?” a familiar voice asks, startling you. Glancing over, you see Amelia as she walks between the rows of cubicles before sidling up to your desk.
Her own cubicle is a couple paces down, and every evening when she leaves, she’s made it a habit to stop by and pester you. “Lovingly” if she is to tell the story.
Your eyes flick up to her, tracing the blazer she wears and her purse which is tucked neatly under her arm.
“Oh, I don’t know,” you start, “I keep telling myself I’m only going to write one more email, but that was six emails ago.”
She chuckles, shaking her head at you. “You know you don’t have to try this hard. In fact, people who’ve done less have been promoted faster.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I feel like it’s my duty to remind you these days. Go home, girl. Work will be here tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Let me check on a few more things, and then I’ll head out.” Your dutiful clicking resumes as Amelia eyes you warily. She doesn’t believe you.
“Don’t make me check the cameras,” she counters, “I know a few people who owe me some favors.”
“I’m sure you do.” You roll your eyes playfully.
Amelia chuckles, patting the wall of your cubicle in her telltale signal that she’s leaving. “Regardless, don’t stay too late, it’s unhealthy.”
“About as unhealthy as all the caffeine you consume,” you retort over your shoulder as she walks away. Her laughter echoes back to you.
With a quick shake of your head, you turn your attention back to your monitor as a vacuum starts up across the office. It's a sound that weirdly relaxes you as you push on, determined to finish your work in hopes to have a slower day tomorrow.
You know that's not how this works, you think, the voice in your head sounding an awful lot like Amelia.
Regardless, you’ve stayed this long, might as well see it through.
Per my last email…
This was resolved last week…
Please review…
The cycle continues, and minutes fade into one another—
Abruptly the vacuum stops, the silence loud.
That didn’t last very long.
As embarrassing as it is to admit, you know the length of time it takes the cleaning staff to make their rounds; it’s inevitable with your try-hard personality.
And that time segment hadn’t been long enough for them to finish.
Curiosity piqued, you stand, taking the moment to stretch your legs.
Maybe I’ll go to the bathroom.
Smoothing your hands over your slacks, you make your way across the sea of cubicles. Up ahead the lobby awaits. Your heels click against the dark marble floors, and the bright walls with minimal décor are blurry after staring at a screen all day.
Nothing like living in the twenty-first century…
The company’s logo hangs on the wall behind the reception desk in clear view of those stepping out of the elevators.
Most of the lights are dimmed, set to an after work hours setting, creating an eerie atmosphere. During the day, the bright white and gray walls invoke a corporate atmosphere, but now it paints a grim picture. You remember your first couple weeks here, jumping at every little sound and refusing to wander too far from the lights. But now, you know this office like the back of your hand.
An embarrassing skill, I’m afraid.
Even the smell of stale coffee—something that was egregious to your senses—has been erased by time. Your desensitized nose can’t even discern it anymore.
Around the corner, the restrooms wait, but something grabs your attention in the unsettling silence.
Voices.
The aggravated tones are apparent the closer you get, the task of going to the bathroom now forgotten.
So much for being the last one here, you mentally chide.
Beyond the bank of restrooms tucked away in a passthrough, there is more open office space. It’s essentially a mirror of the side that you sit on. Most of the time it’s empty, the after five o’clock crowd dispersing with the setting sun.
But not today.
Your brain begs you to peer around the corner, interested in what’s happening, but the anger evident in one of the people’s voices stops you. Lingering in the shadows, you listen.
“—times do I have to tell you not to sweep while I’m still here?” the male voice scolds. He sounds familiar, but without seeing his face, you have no idea who is talking.
A mumbled response comes from someone else—the person the first man must be berating.
“Don’t apologize,” the man snaps, “just listen next time. Or do your deformities continue into your brain too? Too stupid to form a thought and that’s why you became a janitor?”
Your hand softly smacks over your mouth, stifling the gasp threatening to expose your presence.
How cruel? you think, heart racing while you stand there dumbfounded. Should I go out there and say something? Intervene?
With your feet rooted to the marble, you wait.
If they say something else, I’ll go out there.
But suddenly, you know who one of the people out there is.
The building’s custodian.
You’d met him a couple times in passing, your late working hours always ensuring that your time with him overlapped, but from what you’d seen, he was harmless. He was shy, usually keeping to himself and doing his work all while staying out of everyone's way. So, this behavior seems unwarranted. It doesn't seem right for him to be reprimanded—by an employee no less.
A sick feeling slithers into your gut.
While you always donned a smile when passing the cleaning man, you’d seen how others looked at him.
Maybe part of it was human nature, people’s inability to not stare, but still it happened. The man—Brahms, if you recall his nametag correctly—was unusual in the sense that mangled flesh erased parts of his beard and left eyebrow. Marks of it streaked down his neck, marring the small portion of skin that you saw above the collar of his work attire. Jagged and irregular markings indicated that he was most likely a burn victim, but that didn’t mean you needed to stare or treat him any differently.
He was human all the same.
And whoever is yelling at him now apparently doesn't agree with your thoughts.
“—don’t just stand there, get out of my w—”
Enough.
Rounding the corner, you make your presence known, uncaring for the confrontation that’s about to happen. Heat flares beneath your skin, anger simmering just below the surface. You’d had your fair share of bullying, and you wouldn’t stand by as a witness to someone else being tormented.
The custodian's back is to you, but it’s not him that your eyes latch onto. It’s the man taunting him.
Ben.
He’s a prick to put it nicely.
And there’s a reason his voice sounds familiar; he never shuts up. Whether it be during meetings, lunch hour, or after hours, that man’s mouth is always open.
“Ben,” you spit, striding up to him, “I didn’t know you were still here.”
From the corner of your eye, you see the maintenance man glance over at you in surprise, but you're too focused on Ben to acknowledge him at first.
Ben’s reddened cheeks are noticeable as he swivels his attention toward you, almost surprised to be cut off. “Oh, I didn’t know there was anyone else left in the office at this hour.” Ben glances at his watch.
“I’m usually always here at this time,” you supply, eyes flicking over to Brahms finally. His frame is tall, muscular beneath his work clothes—a light shirt tucked into navy pants—and his scarred face is proudly on display beneath the harsh office lights. His own eyes trace over the lines surely etched into your brow, your determination evident. On the contrary, his expression conveys shock, but you don’t linger on his face for too long, afraid he will misinterpret your observations. Especially since this incident with Ben is one of many you’ve overheard.
Brahms' demeanor is more suited for quiet evenings—which explains his job—and for most part, he isn’t bothered. But when he is, he stands there taking the brutal actions of others with his head bent and fingers wringing. It proves to you just how unkind humanity can be.
His outward appearance makes most people avoid talking to him altogether, and his job is one that your coworkers think is lesser than theirs.
Tamping down a sigh, your patience for cruel behavior waning, you continue. “Ben, I think it’s time we pack up for the night. It seems like he” —you gesture to the custodian— “needs to finish up his work.”
“And I need to finish mi—”
“There’s always tomorrow.”
Ben mutters something under his breath, but relents. He was only berating Brahms because he was a seemingly easy target—something men like him crave—but your intervention had taken the “fun” out of his bullying.
You stand your ground beside the other man, watching as Ben meanders back to his desk and begins packing his things. Out of the corner of your eye, you can feel the moment Brahms eyes land on you instead.
Words form on your tongue, apologies that aren’t yours to give and sentences that steer the topic away from whatever had just happened begging to be let out, but you say nothing. Relishing in the silence between you, one that is surprisingly easy, you let him look.
That’s something you’ve noticed about him too. When he thinks others aren’t paying attention—which is usually frequently—he takes that time to observe them.
After a few moments, you glance up, catching his gaze. Azure eyes meet yours only for a couple seconds, but it's enough time to see unnamed emotions flashing across them. It feels as though he wants to keep watching, wants to say something, but his lips are pressed shut. Ben's reprimanding has stunned the man across from you into silence.
Disfigured skin pulls at the corner of his one eye and the left side of his lips, morphing his face into an almost unreadable visage.
But you catch his discomfort—his uncertainty.
And that makes you angry.
His jaw moves as he clenches his teeth, the situation probably wearing his social battery thin.
Honestly, after the day I've had, I'm right there with him.
Tearing his bright eyes away from you, you watch as they fall down to peer at the carpet he was just vacuuming. It could be a trick of the light, but you swear you see a slight flush on his cheeks and a tremble in his fingers before he hastily slips them into his pant's pockets.
So shy…
“Are you okay?” you start, willing to do whatever to erase the hurt he might be feeling right now. The man nods, lips still pressed into a thin line. But that motion is all you need, the pressure building in your chest lessens at his confirmation.
Getting him out of harm's way is all that matters.
“Good,” you murmur, “I’m sorry about him.” There is no pity in your voice, just solidarity.
His foot taps a couple times before he answers. “I-it's okay.” He clears his throat and tries again, his shoulders curling in slightly as if he can't bear to talk so loudly—so openly.
What happened to him to make him feel this way?
“It happens more than you know,” he continues, unaware of the annoyance flowing through your body at society's injustices.
Your heart hurts, your need to protect everyone is both an outstanding attribute, and a tiresome one. But right now, you're glad to have it.
“Just because it happens frequently, doesn't mean it's right.”
“People don't care about what’s right.” His words slam into you, a punch to your gut that you try to ignore—to shove down in fear that he'll see too much of your true emotions. “They only care about themselves.”
It's a hard truth, one you hate, but can't dispute.
“Maybe one day, we’ll both be wrong about that.” It's not much, but it's the only words of comfort you know to offer to placate him.
You take a couple steps back, feeling that you've overstayed and made him more uncomfortable than necessary. “Well, I should also go pack up…”
The swish of his starched clothes rubbing against each other is the only sound heard while you both nervously fidget. You watch as his lashes flutter against his marred cheeks, eyes still unable to meet yours as the seconds stretching between you feels like an eternity.
After wiping your clammy hands on your slacks, you finally speak. “Have a good night, Brahms.”
As you turn away, you see his mouth pop open in disbelief. Before either of you can say anything, you leave him to do his job in peace.
But you swear that after you’ve fully turned around, you can feel the tingle of his eyes on the center of your back.