“Don’t cry when he opens the door.” Link elbowed me in the side as Alden slipped a golden key in the lock, shooting me a toothy grin. I was too afraid to snap back at him. Had it been Fickle, however, I probably could’ve managed a comeback. Ahead, the door slowly pushed open, groaning softly as it revealed the inside.
On the other side, a small living room opened out in front of us, with an old, brown couch in the center. A small coffee table, oak and missing a chunk on the left side, balanced a mug of coffee. Upon entry, I could see it was half empty, with flies beginning to collect on the side. The carpet, tan and scraggly, had a few stains, though its condition was much better than the other floors I’d seen. A television was pushed back into the corner, the screen cracked on the left edge. The stench of mildew was much softer here, though it still wafted in from the hall. Fickle settled comfortably on the couch, propping her feet up on the armrest. Craven settled near the television, leaning one hip against it as Link pulled open a pair of orange drapes, letting the minimal sunlight of the city filter in. Alden began clearing off the table, his lip curling slightly as he took the mug into the neighboring room. Left alone, I began to look at the wall decor. Photos of Alden’s parents were scattered across the chipping brown paint, no real order or pattern to them. There were a few pictures of Alden scattered in there, though none of them looked as though they’d been taken in the last three years. They looked so happy as they celebrated birthdays, posed in front of the new television, and snuggled in the blankets. Alden’s mother, a woman of small stature with light blonde hair and glimmering blue eyes, stood in the center of most of them, a bright smile on her face as she held her son up, showing him off to the world as though he were the most prestigious award. He hadn’t done anything impressive; he’d been young in most of those photos. Why did she seem so proud of him? Was that how mothers were supposed to act with their children? I wasn’t sure.
My stomach twisted in slight envy as I continued to scan them over, taking a good look at the glimmering family. They were the kinds of households you read about, where they looked happy no matter the occasion. Even in one, where Alden was covered head-to-toe in mud, they were laughing and smiling. His parents, when in the same photo, were always close together, hugging and, in some, even exchanging light pecks on the cheek. Once again, I was left wondering if that was how couples were supposed to act. My parents never so much as spoke to each other if it wasn’t to discuss business, which they usually did in their virtual office, or to scold me. Coming to the end of the photos, I was left with the sinking realization that, while my family was wealthy, they were not rich. Alden’s family had been the richest of all, blessed with a type of wealth money could never replicate. Longing settled in my stomach. I wanted to know what it felt like to have parents who cared about me, not just what I was capable of doing for the business or the family name. I wanted someone to show me off like I was special just for existing. I wanted my parents to exchange funny banter and take cute photos. I wanted what I had missed and knew I could never have.
“Praise the technology.”
The phrase, soft and barely audible, startled me from my thoughts. In the doorway of the room to the left of us, a short and frail woman was standing, her pupils dilated and her gaze blank. Her hair was unkempt and messy, full of dirt clumps and large tangles. Her mouth was stuck in a permanent frown, her cheeks sunken in. She looked nothing like the glowing, laughing woman I’d seen in the photos. The life had been drained from her eyes, her frame had somehow gotten even lighter, and she held herself as though unsure of how to stand. Were it not for the breath rattling from her chest, I would’ve mistaken her for a propped-up street corpse. Beside me, Fickle sank deeper into the couch, and Link flinched away uncomfortably.
Alden reappeared from the kitchen, dipping his head respectfully to her. “Hello, Mom.”
With robotic movements, she turned to face him, her hollow gaze staring straight through his face. Mother and son held gazes for a long, awkward moment, a tense silence falling across the room. From the way she was gazing at him, it was impossible to tell if she even recognized him as her son. Alden, on the other hand, was watching her with barely suppressed hope, his eyes begging her to say something, to show some sign of life.
Instead, she grumbled unintelligibly and went to turn away. Alden’s shoulders sank in disappointment. As the woman slowly rotated, her lifeless gaze locked on me, standing awkwardly in the corner amidst the family photos. She stopped in her tracks, her eyelids lifting in what, on anyone else, would’ve been surprise. On her, it looked more like curtains being drawn up to reveal an empty stage.
With a shaking finger, she pointed at me. The gazes of the other teenagers followed her gesture. Sweat began to bead on my forehead as four stares and one pair of eyes bore into my skin. Was she going to accuse me of intruding on her home? Did she recognize me as the son of the man who had killed her husband, and was going to enact some grand revenge? Was this all part of Alden’s plan? With how uncertain he looked, I’d say it was unlikely, and with how weak his mother was, I figured it was likely I could hold my own against her.
“907,” The numbers were hoarse and barely audible. “Nine. Zero. Seven.” Her breathing heightened as she began to repeat the numbers. “Nine. Zero. Seven. Nine. Zero. Seven…”
Discomfort ran down my spine as she frantically repeated the last numbers of my name, her voice gradually becoming louder. Her body shook with each repetition, her eyes beginning to spark with desperation and, perhaps, a small bit of fear. I could only stare, frozen in fear, as she continued to holler and wail.
“Nine. Zero. Seven. Nine. Zero. Seven! Nine! Zero! Seven! NineZeroSevenNineZeroSevenNineZeroSeven…!”
