Archive of Our Own

Hey! You! You’re supposed to take a number and wait here, like the others!"

The man’s voice, loud and abrasive, rings in Tyler’s ears. A cacophony of claustrophobia and fear. Instinctively, he jumps back, his hands fumbling with the sunflower lanyard around his neck. 

Hide from the loud 
Hide from the loud
Hide from the loud 

Tyler stares at the ground and mouths the words. It’s still the only way for him to feel safe in his body. He brings his fingers up to his eyes and starts to flick them rapidly. 

Hide from the loud (you’re going to be okay)
Hide from the loud (you’re going to be okay)
Hide from the loud

Now the man takes a step forward. Tyler can smell him — unwashed clothes, tobacco, and traces of cheap aftershave — and it makes him feel sick to his stomach. He isn’t even hungry anymore, even though he had his proper last meal yesterday, at lunch. Now he’s just himself, which means never enough.

Hide
Hide from the loud 

The man stares at him. Tyler can’t read the expression on his face but he can feel the man’s malice dripping all over his body. Over his shoes (an old pair of Vans from Zack, a size too small), over his jeans (black and sagging, another hand-me-down from his younger and slightly bulkier brother) to his yellow hoodie. Tyler coughs. He hand-washed his clothes in the sink this morning, with a bar of soap he nicked from the communal bathrooms. He was desperate to wear the only piece of clothing that makes him feel safe. He also wanted to make a good first impression at the food bank, but the hoodie didn’t dry in time. Tyler starts to shiver. The damp fabric isn’t enough to withstand the blustery, rainy afternoon in early May and he’s got nothing else to wear — literally.

Hide

There’s a small hole in the sole of his shoes, the stains are still visible on the hoodie. By now his entire body is shivering. He’s making an impression, alright — but not the one he intended to make.

Hide from

Tyler can feel the man focusing on him twitching and mumbling to himself. Making eye contact with strangers is nearly impossible and other people — normal people — never take that well. He braces himself. He knows what’s about to come, he’s heard it in so many different ways over the years.

Hide

"You a junkie?"

Tyler’s heart sinks. He shakes his head vehemently, his eyes still on the ground. 

"You sure? I’ve seen people like you loitering around these parts. You look like you need a fix."

Suddenly, his whole body feels like two sizes too small. Another hand-me-down, scared and scarred in all the wrong places. He’s hot and itchy, like his skin isn’t enough to contain him. Tyler can’t always identify his emotions, but he can tell the texture of every feeling passing through him. Words are never enough, anyway. 

Blinding and prickling
Can’t breathe, can’t move
Like panic, but spikier. Much closer 

Hide
H…

Tyler brings his fingers to his mouth. He starts to hum. It takes all his willpower not to bite himself and scream until this man, this obnoxious, ignorant, stupid little person guarding the entrance to the local food bank, vanishes. The sentences he had practiced with Judith, his social worker, disappear. The lanyard with the laminated card detailing his access and communication needs, his sensory triggers and his emergency contact, feels far away. He can’t move, can’t speak, and he can’t make the horrible man go away.

H… Hide from … from the … the …
My name … Tyler … I am …
The … the loud …

Everything disappears in a blur of hunger, tears, and shame. Tyler turns away, his hands clamped over his ears. He can still hear the man call after him, yelling something that makes everyone else stare. Tyler breaks out into a run, ignoring the tiny stars dancing in front of his eyes. He feels lightheaded with panic and hunger but he doesn’t care, not now. He’d rather leave with an empty stomach than face any more public humiliation. He runs until the voices, the stares, and the tight, crawling sensation in his chest soften into something else. 

Hide … hide from the loud 

The hostel looks just as bleak and dismal as ever on this Wednesday afternoon: a chunky, uninviting grey block of concrete sitting at a busy intersection. It’s not even a real hostel, more like a cross between a halfway house and an emergency shelter. A poor attempt at replicating something close to home. No, it’s just another roof over his head, Tyler decided when he moved in, one that leaks when it rains too much. The walls are so thin you can hear people cry and yell in their sleep. He’s come to know people’s life stories long before he knew their actual names. Who wears long sleeves in the summer. Who’s got purple shadows under their eyes that never disappear. Who disappears every night before lights out, only to return at six in the morning, half an hour before the social workers' morning shift starts. 

He’s learned to keep secrets. 

People don’t ask in return. 

You trade silence, the only currency you have. 

"A dumping ground for those who have nowhere to go except the psych ward or the streets," that’s how the psychiatrist from the ER put it a few months ago. A dumping ground, as if he wasn’t even human, just a trembling piece of human garbage. Someone to be plucked off bridges by the police, in and out of hospital, every time a little worse for the wear. And now this, because no accommodation could cater to his needs anymore and his parents issued an ultimatum years ago: Start behaving normally or we’ll kick you out. 

Tyler breathes heavily. He’s got eight hospital admissions, two group homes and a therapeutic community on his tally. Soon it’ll be his anniversary at the hostel.

See, mom. Dad. I’m still just me. 

His heart racing, he runs up the steps to the entrance. Someone — no doubt one of the social workers — bought a few plants for decoration. A feigned attempt to bring in some spring vibes. The plants are sitting in pretty, pastel-colored flower pots in a neat row right by the main door. Tyler scoffs. One of the hostel’s inhabitants (or guests, as they’re officially called, as if they all had a home to return to) used them as ashtrays and now the plants are all dead. Well, better dead begonias than the rat infestation they had a few weeks ago.

Ignoring the hand-painted Everyone Welcome! sign at the entrance, Tyler marches straight into the lobby. His feet are killing him and the throbbing pain in his toes is a welcome distraction. Everything seems normal by hostel standards. The carpet is still stained, the fluorescent lights are burning and two young social workers smile at him from the counter. They’re trying to engage him in conversation like they always do but Tyler walks straight to the corridor leading to the rooms. He doesn’t need a cup of tea and a twenty-five-year-old giving him advice. They’re all wearing sneakers that cost twice as much as he gets for disability benefits every month. 

He kicks open the door to his shared room. The relief is instant — the room is empty for once. With quick, rushed movements Tyler takes off the hoodie and the lanyard and throws both on his bed. His head is still buzzing and he feels faint but underneath he’s quieter, more focused now. There’s something coming alive right inside his chest, a craving that can’t be satisfied with moldy bread from the food bank. He fumbles for something right under his mattress — his self-harm stash, wrapped tightly in an old pillowcase from the hospital. Two scalpels and a collection of razor blades. Gauze, Band-Aids in various colors and sizes, and bandages. There’s the rubber bracelet Judith had given him when they first met. He hasn’t worn it yet. It feels weird around his arm, much too loose, and snapping rubber against his wrist doesn’t even come close to the real thing. It’s ridiculous. Ludicrous, just the thing an inexperienced social worker thinks of, like offering a heavy smoker a bubble toy cigarette. 

Tyler flickers his fingers. He’s listening, and for once the noise doesn’t feel threatening. Now it’s just sound he can stomach. There’s the familiar rush of traffic outside. The girl from upstairs stomps around her room. Someone blasts music, it’s Taylor Swift again. No loud voices, no hasty steps. No ambulance coming to a screeching halt in the driveway and, heaven forbid, no police. Tyler takes a deep breath. He’s done it. The world is finally at arm’s length, exactly where he needs it to be. 

A sense of precision spreads inside Tyler’s mind, the same quiet that deepens inside him right before he cuts himself. He knows exactly how far he can take it. Mandatory room checks aren’t due until Friday and he knows the best hiding places anyway. 

His fingers trembling slightly, he takes a fresh scalpel and, without hesitating once, draws the blade across his left bicep, the only bit of skin left to tarnish. The feeling never gets old. The tension — the fear, the disgrace, the embarrassment — disappears in a rush of endorphins. There’s warmth spreading inside his body now. Contentment, bliss, and control. 

At least something has gone right today. 

Tyler hums softly. He collects the blood with an old cloth he keeps hidden with his blades. Blood on the carpet is a rookie mistake he’s long grown out of. After a few minutes, he presses the last remaining bits of gauze onto the cut and wraps a bandage around it. The wound pulsates. It’s deeper than he meant to, but he’s still got Steri-Strips somewhere. It’ll bleed through his T-shirt but that won’t matter. The majority of people who live here self-harm in one form or another. Usually none of the staff say anything as long as you wash the bloodstains out of your clothes and bedding. 

Tyler stuffs his things back into the pillowcase and shoves it back under his mattress. It’ll feel good to shower in a few hours and feel his skin burn. If worse comes to worst, he can always pretend he has a headache and ask for ibuprofen.

Taking a deep breath, Tyler collapses onto his bunk bed. He falls asleep instantly, the pangs of hunger finally gone. 

...

"Tyler! Wake up, it’s almost three in the afternoon! Hey! Tyler!"

Tyler groans. The figure right in front of his bed swims slowly into focus. Bright blonde hair in a high ponytail. White sneakers, bright blue jeans, and a long, hand-knitted cardigan. 

Judith. 

Shoot. Today is …

"It’s Thursday, Tyler. Remember the appointment we had at 1:30 PM? I’ve waited half an hour and you didn’t show up. Again."

Tyler pulls his blanket up to his chin and eyes Judith owlishly. He feels hungover but he didn’t have anything to drink. Just no food for more than 24 hours. That’s enough to wreck the system on its own. 

"Tyler, I’m talking to you. Are you even listening?"

He nods quickly, not daring to look at Judith. She sighs. Tyler can sense her frustration, her helplessness — it makes him uneasy. He can feel his body starting to shake, like when he hears a mother shout at their child in the street.

His body knows before he does.

Always.

"By the way, how did it go at the food bank yesterday? Did you get the food you wanted? I told Derrick to hold back on toast and those frozen cheeseburgers you like."

Tyler doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know who Derrick is. He doesn’t care. Instead, he buries himself deeper into his sheets and pulls his duvet over his head, then his blanket too. It’s the patchwork quilt his grandma sewed for him. Zack had rescued it from the trash and smuggled it into the group home Tyler had lived in at the time. 

He inhales deeply. It still smells like home. Like longing and missing and buttermilk pancakes on Saturday morning. He still knows his mom’s phone number by heart, his dad’s too. Zack’s. But they never call, not anymore.

Zack does, sometimes, when he’s back at college and remembers he has an older brother. 

The window in the bedroom is open — the scream of traffic is overwhelming. The driver of a delivery van is honking impatiently, a truck is reversing and from somewhere, an engine backfires. The sun is shining directly into the room, there’s dust everywhere — on his nightstand, on the windowsill, in the air.

Tyler grinds his teeth.

Sunlight and fresh air. The cure for all ailments, according to social workers. 

It’s taking all his strength not to bang his head against the bedroom wall. He needs an empty room, with the curtains shut, noise-cancelling headphones and The Killers on repeat. 

All he’s got is a bunk bed in a hostel and Judith, who won’t stop talking.

Somewhere inside the house, music is being blasted again. This time, it’s It’s All Over by The Broken Family Band.

How fitting. 

"Hey, Ty."

Judith’s voice softens. She knows she isn’t supposed to touch him and she hasn’t broken her promise yet but Tyler can feel her coming closer, can smell faint traces of her perfume. Light. Flowery. He retreats under his sheets.

Throw open, your beautiful doors
And phone, your beautiful friends …

She kneels beside his bed.

"It didn’t go well? Were you able to show them the card with your emergency info? Your communication cards? I talked to them beforehand. They said they’d watch out for anyone wearing a sunflower lanyard." 

Tyler shakes his head. The memories come back, flooding his chest. Too fast, too close. The man at the entrance. His face, his voice. His smell. Tyler presses his lips together. He feels sick all over.

Suddenly, Judith sucks her breath through her teeth. Her hand is on the mattress, she’s rubbing on a stain. "What’s this?"

Quickly, Tyler turns around and stares at the bed in horror. There’s a massive bloodstain on his sheets and by the looks of it, it soaked the mattress. He groans. His arm doesn’t feel too bad but there’s a blotchy, dark spot on his T-shirt. The fabric clings to his arm and he doesn’t dare touch it. Tyler hides his bicep with his right hand.

"Could … could be an old stain. Must … have been there before."

Judith sighs. She closes her eyes in frustration. Tyler bites his lip. He starts to flick his fingers rhythmically but Judith keeps pressing on. 

"Did you cut yourself, Tyler?"

Silence. 

"Let me see this."

Tyler shakes his head vehemently. Judith isn’t the argumentative type and he appreciates her for that. But when it comes to self-harm, she overreacts. Everyone does, always. He’s got it under control. He knows exactly when and where to stop. 

She sighs, again. "Tyler. You know our agreement, right? The one you signed when you moved in?"

The agreement, better known as the suicide prevention contract he was forced to sign in lieu of a rental contract. He can’t keep a roof over his head but he’s got to stay alive. What a deal. 

Tyler stares at a spot right beside her. 

"Promise … promise me not to c-call an … an a-ambulance."

The words feel alien in his mouth and he’s stumbling over them. Tyler looks at Judith’s chest, a determined expression on his face. This is the closest he can come to making eye contact and she knows it. 

Judith clears her throat.

"I can’t exactly do that and you know it, Tyler. I’ll be gentle. Just one look. I promise."

Hanging his head low, Tyler turns to show her the mess. 

"Oh, Tyler. You should have gotten stitches for that, you really should have."

Tyler huffs. Right. Stitches. Like the last time, when a disgruntled surgeon from the ER had to patch him up. He had poured iodine straight onto the wounds on his wrist and used uneven stitches. There will be scar tissue nonetheless, the doctor had told him, turning his back to Tyler who sat at the edge of a metal table, his fingers tearing at the crinkly paper underneath him. That’s what you’re after, isn't it?

No more stitches, Tyler had sworn to himself after he got back to the hostel and went straight back to his stash. Once everyone had gone to bed, he had removed the stitches one by one with nail scissors and a pair of tweezers, cursing the surgeon and the nurses who simply stared at him, a mingled look of shock and disbelief on their faces. He had been hungry then too, but too shy to ask for a cup of juice and no one had bothered to monitor his blood sugar. Had he been ten years younger and hurt himself in an accident, he would have gotten a special Band-Aid and a lollipop. Unhoused psych patients, on the other hand, only get stitches, not even a bed on the acute psych ward. 

They just can’t wait to chuck you out again. 

Tyler traces the scars on his left wrist with his right index finger. There are two of them, one is slightly longer and one a bit shorter. The Mississippi and the Nile, that’s what he calls them. Hypertrophic and thick, they’re either red or purple, depending on the room temperature. Tyler swears he can hear the roar of the water inside him late at night, when noise and his racing heart keep him up. 

An ocean, calling from far away. 

The Mississippi and the Nile. Two rivers flowing under his skin, nesting among tendons and the radial artery. His fingers move up and down the scars. They feel smooth, reliable. Cutting himself is his way of reclaiming his body, at least that’s what Alex, his psychiatrist, says. And in a way, he’s right. His wrist took months to heal properly and he alone dictated the speed. Tyler still suspects Judith knows about him removing the stitches, even though she never addressed it. And anyway, the scars are easy to hide in the sleeves of a hoodie. 

In the blink of an eye, he can be normal again.

Judith’s voice brings him back. She squints at the cut on Tyler’s bicep. "Did you apply the Steri-Strips yourself? You didn’t call anyone for help?"

Tyler nods, then shakes his head. Shame is flooding his body. Somehow he’s close to tears, again. Can’t do anything right. Can’t live. Can’t destroy my body, either. What’s left of me? Who will take me?

Something inside him answers, a snide whisper that cuts right through him: Nothing. There’s no one waiting for you, Tyler. 

Judith claps her hands. Tyler flinches and shields his face with his hands. The social worker holds her hands up.

"I’m sorry. But we need to get going. We still need to go over your appointment with Alex next Monday. You’re due for your depot injection. I know, I know," she half-smiles at the expression on Tyler’s face. 

"And you need to eat something, Tyler. You look peaky. And I want to take a closer look at this wound. There'll be no more infected wounds, not on my watch." 

Tyler grunts. With slow, painful movements he tries to kick his duvet but his body won’t cooperate. Everything feels sluggish, heavy, and daunting, like he’s watching a landslide come towards him in slow motion. Except this isn’t a collapsed piece of land — it’s just the gnarly, garbled pieces of himself. The life he’s left with. A life that’s trying to kill him, yet he’s bound to stay.

He rolls onto his stomach. The shapes in the room — the bunk bed, the old metal lockers pressed against the wall in the back, the clothes someone threw haphazardly on the floor — pulsate and move, as if they had come alive. Everything is one sickening swirl of color. Tyler closes his eyes. He can’t focus, can’t focus at all. 

"Come on. I’ve got juice and cereal waiting for you."

"J…"

"Orange juice. And cereal. No, no Froot Loops. I actually got you — what’s it called? Cap’n Crunch. I had to practically rescue it from the ladies in the kitchen." 

Tyler jumps up. Immediately, he starts to sway and stumble. 

Judith holds her arm out. Tyler takes it, tentatively. 

"Thanks," he breathes, his eyes on Judith’s cardigan. There’s a pattern in the knitting, he’s only recognizing it now. Cats, in various shapes and sizes. It doesn’t look too bad actually, not like the ghastly owl sweaters Judith’s predecessor wore. Those mournful yellow eyes made him feel paranoid, like he was being watched all the time.  

Judith smiles, this time genuinely. 

"You’re welcome. Just this once though because—"

"This is not a hotel," Tyler mumbles, finishing her sentence for her. 

...

They’re sitting at the table by the window, the one furthest away from the entrance. Here, they have a perfect view of what the hostel brochure calls the community garden: Some benches, a few scattered metal tables and a couple of plastic garden chairs. There’s no lawn, not even a tree to offer shade and shelter in the summer, just raw concrete and a few pigeons pecking for corn. Not even the smokers spend time there, they’re all huddled together by the entrance. The birds don’t care about the hostel and its inhabitants. They look as forlorn as everyone else. Tyler stares at the pigeons. One looks especially woebegone, its feet tangled in some kind of rope. It hops from one spot to the other, desperate for food.  

He makes a mental note to look for the bird later. He usually offers the pigeons water in small plastic containers. The social workers don’t mind. That way, he gets the space all to himself.

That’s as close to privacy as you can get here. 

Judith types something into her phone, mumbling under her breath. Tyler leans forward. He focuses on the glass in front of him. Fresh orange juice, with the right kind of acidity balancing the sweetness. Judith even managed to get a straw for him. A fancy one, made of glass.

He eyes Judith beadily. She hasn’t looked up once this past minute. This would be the ideal opportunity to nick the straw, pretend he lost it or it’s never been there. They don’t do strip-searches here. He could break it in two and keep the pieces.

A tiny pocket of safety.

Instead, he pushes his hands further into his sleeves and drinks the juice in big, hungry gulps. His hoodie has finally dried and it feels good to wear it. Safe. He’s careful not to touch the table’s sticky surface. The plastic sheet on the fake wooden surface makes him feel icky, even though it’s clean this time.

Tyler hums to himself. He rocks back and forth, that’s the only way his body can exist in this room. There are no doors in the kitchen. It’s all open, inviting, but the emptiness just feels bleak and threatening. Agoraphobic. The room is designed to be a cross between a kitchen and a living room, with a couple of sofas, an ancient TV and a foosball table in the corner. Tyler hasn’t been to the kitchen and the communal areas much. The fridge in the far corner of the kitchen is far too loud. It’s just as ancient as the TV and its high-pitched electric screeching feels invasive, menacing. It rubs him the wrong way — it ruffles his feathers. That’s the word.

See, Alex. I’m naming my feelings. 

Judith doesn’t seem to mind. She got herself a coffee, in that chunky reusable coffee mug she carries everywhere, along with her keychain on a rainbow-colored lanyard. Sometimes, when looking at the cup and the keychain, Tyler wonders what it’s like to carry these things around to work, to the gym, to that café you’re meeting your friends in, to someone waiting for you at home, a house with fake Matisse prints on the wall and a Roomba in the corner of the kitchen. To be normal and say things like see you at seven in the evening or don’t wait up I’m meeting friends for dinner or whose turn is it to empty the dishwasher? 

He doesn’t have a keychain. He doesn’t even have a key. The bedrooms are shared and the entrance to the hostel is manned with social workers all the time. 

Here, he just has himself. 

Here, he’s got nothing left except himself. 

He takes another gulp of orange juice. The straw hits the bottom of the glass. 

Clink clink. 

Judith looks up.

"You’ve got some of your color back," she comments brightly. "Does it feel good?"

Tyler nods quickly, not saying anything. The porcelain bowl with Cap’n Crunch sits in front of him, untouched. There’s also a carton of milk that’s been in the shared fridge for God knows how long. He stares at the cereal as if he’s peering down a well. The pieces look identical and they smell the same. Still, he needs to make sure they’re exactly the same. 

He fumbles for a small piece of cereal and holds it up to his face. 

"Looks good. Do you want to try it?"

Tyler starts to chew on a small piece. 

Yes, still the same. 

Judith clears her throat. Wrapping her cardigan around her, she lowers her voice. "I’m worried about you, Tyler."

Tyler doesn’t respond. He focuses on the taste and the texture in his mouth. The cereal tastes sweet, like crumbled biscuits, and there’s the crunch — the only sound he can tolerate. 

He takes another bite. The rush of sugar goes straight to his head. It feels good. Invigorating.

"Your behavior worries me. Not showing up to appointments. Not engaging in activities relating to your life skills. Self-harming."

Tyler grunts. "I’m alive. That’s my skill."

Judith sighs, deeply. "Don’t deflect. Where are you headed with this, Tyler?"

Where are we heading, Tyler? That’s what Alex asked him last time. He didn’t have an answer back then, either. 

One thing is to cut yourself when you’re upset. Another thing is to have a clear plan to end it all. You need to help me understand where you’re at. 

Alex’s voice and the implied threat ring in Tyler’s ears. He swallows hard. 

Judith massages her temples. 

"You can’t stay here if you’re actively self-harming. It’s in the agreement. You know that." 

"Wasn’t self-harm," Tyler retorts. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears, hammering. With one movement, he pushes the bowl away. "I just … slipped. Won’t happen again. Promise. I promise," he whispers. 

Judith sighs. She purses her lips and pushes her hair behind her ears. 

"That’s what you said last time. And the time before. Tyler, if you’re actively self-harming again, we need to think about hospital. The hostel doesn’t have the resources and I really don’t want an intervention like last time —"

He jumps up. Time stops before it speeds up: The metal chair screeching over the tiles. The bowl with cereal falling to the floor and shattering into a million little pieces.

Like last time. The ambulance had arrived quickly. Two paramedics and two police officers had come, with deep gravelly voices and hands that moved too quickly. No one had explained anything. There was blood on the kitchen floor, on his arms, his hands and the knife he had held, not daring anyone to come closer. There was blood and he had tasted metal in his mouth when one of the officers, a burly, faceless man, tackled and handcuffed him. The officer had dislocated his shoulder but no one had believed him. He spent weeks in pain. Doctors and nurses told him he was imagining the pain because he was too unwell in the head, then blamed him for not seeking help earlier. It was Alex who finally believed him. He’d handed him a referral for physiotherapy and smiled at him, a sad look on his face. 

It’s all in your head.

Judith gets up, too. She talks and talks and talks, just like Alex told her not to. Tyler winces. The images are burned into his retinas. He can taste metal in his mouth. His heart starts to race. 

"It won’t be like last time it won’t"

A voice that’s getting louder and louder. Shouting. Everyone’s talking at the same time and it hurts, hurts, hurts. Tyler balls his fists. There’s a metal taste and there’s blood on his lips and he can’t let that happen to him, not again.

"It won’t be like last time it won’t it won’t it WON’T"

"Tyler, would you sit down please and—"

"NO I WON’T I WON’T I WON’T" 

"Tyler, you—"

No no no no (can’t breathe) 

"Do you need help?"

Shut up shut up shut up (no air) 

"No, it’s fine. He needs a minute."

Don’t touch me don’t touch me (can’t) 

"No, really. I’ve known Tyler for over a year. I know what helps. Just … yeah. No, he won’t lash out. He just needs space."

DON’T TOUCH ME (air…)

"I know what it looks like. No, he’s not … no. He’s … yes. It’s in his care plan. I know. I understand."

No no no no no no no

No no no 

No no

No

"Tyler, I’m going to help you up. We’re going to get you back to your room, okay? Just nod or shake your head."

Nod nod

Just like that, they’re back. There’s someone sleeping in the bunk bed, at the top. A mane of dirty blonde hair peeks out from under the duvet. Tyler recognizes the snores instantly. Noah, his roommate. He can sleep through anything and he doesn’t care about the rest, that’s what he said the first time they met. After months of bickering about noise they reached some kind of roommate agreement: Noah doesn’t snitch on Tyler cuts and burns himself. In turn, Tyler pees into Noah’s cup during mandatory drug screenings and pretends he doesn’t know where Noah disappears to at night. Sometimes, Noah leaves chocolate bars on Tyler’s pillow when he climbs through their window at 6 AM. Tyler returns the favor with cigarette filters. 

Noah, whose snores sound like a metronome. A heartbeat that keeps him tethered to planet earth when he’s up all night, his head heavy with thoughts he doesn’t recognize. 

Slowly, Judith steers him to his bed. He can’t feel his body at all. His fingers scratch blindly over his wrist. He’s desperate for wind in his face. For his feet in cold water on the first day of spring. 

For Zack, to give him one final hug. 

The Mississippi and the Nile 
The Mississippi and the Nile
The Mississippi and the Nile
The …

"There you go."

Suddenly, there’s something heavy and warm around his shoulders. Judith drapes his quilt over his back. She takes a step backward. Tyler folds himself on his bed, making himself as small as possible. Resting his chin on his knees, he observes Judith in his space. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy, like the weight of the world is resting on them. 

With quick, practiced movements Judith closes the window before she pulls the curtains shut. She puts a new bowl of cereal, a small carton of orange juice and a cup on his nightstand.

The straw disappeared. 

Tyler stares at her groggily. She holds his hospital pillowcase between outstretched fingers. How did she get that into her hands? Did he tell her? He wouldn’t. 

Or perhaps he did. He can’t remember, remember at all. 

She bends down and fumbles with something. "Is this your phone?"

Nod 

"Would you like me to look for a charger?"

Nod nod

"Okay, I’m going to get your phone charged." 

Tyler tries to point at the cup with trembling hands. Cup - nightstand - carton of orange juice. Shoot. Cup… 

"Would you like some juice?"

Yes please

Humming slightly under her breath, Judith fills a quarter of the cup and holds it out for Tyler. He holds it with both hands and sniffs the juice before taking a sip. It runs down his chin, spilling his front. Blinking furiously, he dabs at the stains on his chest.

"Don’t worry, Tyler. I’ll help you with your laundry later, okay?"

Okay

The social worker gets up. A towering figure, looking at him from above. "You go get some rest. I’ll return in an hour to check up on you, Tyler. You’re not alone." 

I know I know I promise 

Judith closes the door quietly on her way out. Not bothering to wipe his mouth, Tyler falls asleep again.  

...

"Right. Fresh produce goes over there, at this table. We try to offer each guest at least two kinds of fruit and veg if possible. Household items are over here …"

Fresh produce. Fruit and veg. Household items. Josh repeats the words under his breath while following Dorothy, the manager of the local food bank, around. The instructions are coming at him left, right and center and it’s much louder than he expected. The place is technically empty but the delivery men in the yard are making a whole racket, banging boxes with food, smoking and laughing. They’re a rough, sailor-mouthed crew. Someone yelled something in Josh’s direction when he first showed up, fifteen minutes early and with no idea where he was actually supposed to be because unbeknownst to Josh, the building has two entrances and a complicated floor plan. Josh pretended not to hear and pulled down the sleeves of his sweatshirt with his thumbs.

He’s getting good at pretending. 

He knows all the things strangers yell at him when they’re sure he’s within earshot. 

Still, it’s Wednesday, his first day as a volunteer at the food bank and, according to Dorothy, the best day of the week. "Lots of families and disabled folk are coming today. They have priority access. I mean — those who are differently abled." She smiles benevolently, her eyes resting on the sunflower lanyard around Josh’s neck. 

Joshnods, staring at his feet, trying to brush off the moment of awkwardness. The lanyard was his mom’s idea and of course, it’s stupidly useless. The food bank isn’t an airport, mom. No one will know what it means he had argued, but his mom had insisted. 

Dorothy doesn’t seem to mind. At least she didn’t say handicapped, incapacitated or — worst of them all — special needs. She didn’t pry about his lanyard or his diagnoses, either. She simply took him on, introduced him as "Joshua, who prefers to be called Josh" and assigned him a task. Today, he’ll be the one registering new clients, taking down their names and contact details. "I’ll do the greetings, love. Coming here the first time can be overwhelming, that goes for clients and volunteers alike. You watch and listen, okay? We’ve got lots of different folks coming here, from all walks of life." 

Josh watches. 

And he listens.

He can tell Dorothy isn’t just the manager of the food bank. She’s some sort of mother hen, calling everybody by their first name and handing out cups with lukewarm coffee and listening to endless stories about benefits being cut or withheld. Her sentences end with oh honey and a hug. 

Her feet, swollen at the ankles, are stuck in worn-out Birkenstock sandals and her long skirt swishes around as she takes Josh through the empty warehouse that’s going to be a food bank in less than an hour. 

Dorothy looks old enough to be his grandmother and immediately, Josh takes a liking to her — from her Birkenstocks and her long, salt and pepper hair to her reading glasses perched precariously on her sunburned nose. She laughs a lot, too, the rattling and raspy laugh of a long-time smoker. It’s infectious though, and Josh can’t help but smile as Dorothy shares a joke with one of the volunteers bringing in boxes of food. 

At least she won’t gossip, not like the ladies in the back who all looked him up and down when he arrived. Look at his hair. And long sleeves in May. I ask you. I bet he’s from that hostel.  

As the clock approaches 1:30 PM, Dorothy redirects Josh to his new desk right at the entrance to the food bank. The warehouse transformed into the local food bank yet it doesn’t smell or look like Josh imagined. A far cry from the DIY supermarket Josh had in mind, it’s simply fruit, veg, bread, and other things in green boxes arranged on a couple of rickety plastic foldout tables. Each food group got its own table. Non-perishable items, snacks, a few cans and what looks like mountains of chocolate got the biggest table, the bright red discount stickers easily visible. Everything that’s remotely healthy — bananas, a few apples, a few carrots, onions and courgettes, all in the early stages of decomposition — is relegated to the smallest table right at the front. There are a couple of boxes containing shower gel, the cheap kind that smells artificial and dries out your skin in no time. No sanitary products. There’s bread, a couple of buns and toast, but it’s all pre-arranged into bags.   

The place smells like rotten vegetables, dust, and chemicals. 

Josh sits perched on a plastic chair. He’s bouncing his legs under the foldout table that’s his makeshift desk for today. No one has told him off for fidgeting — everyone’s too busy surviving it seems. There’s a sheet of paper right in front of him, an Excel spreadsheet printed out using only half of the paper. Josh squints at it. The columns are impossibly tiny and he has no idea how he’s going to fit his handwriting into it. There’s also a plastic cup with fresh pens, another cup for pens that are used. Spare sheets of paper. At the front, a bowl with sweets he’s knocked over twice so far. The whole thing looks like a cross between the lemonade stand he and his sister had manned during the summer holidays and a very run-down open-air office of some sorts.

Dorothy comes waddling over. She put her hair up in a bun. There’s sweat collecting on her upper lip and on her neck despite the cold temperatures outside. 

"You’re free to get yourself a coffee or use the bathroom, love. Just let me or someone else know, alright? We need someone at the front desk at all times." 

Josh nods. He took his jacket and uses it as a cushion for one of the chairs but sitting on this plastic foldout mess still feels impossible. He took a biro from the cup of fresh pens and spins it. His mind is racing with a thousand questions. Dorothy smiles at him as she fumbles for a tissue. 

"Don’t worry, Josh. I’ll stay here for a bit during rush hour and then we’ll take it from there, okay?"

Josh nods, feeling glum. This isn’t what he imagined at all. When he signed up to volunteer at the food bank he thought he’d get to hand out bread or apples, something simple. A task that doesn’t require talking, socializing or planning. And now this. The front desk. He’s the face of the food bank, essentially, a nervous, sweaty, fidgety face promising rotten carrots. He’s got to make a good impression on people. 

"You’ll do great," Dorothy smiles. Josh nods, not daring to speak. He’s got to keep his head down. If he pushes through the next two hours he’ll be done with his trial attempt. After that, he can call it quits anyway. 

...

2:15 PM. Josh leans back in his chair and lets out a sigh. 

"How is it going? Need a break?" 

Dorothy approaches. Josh gives her a thumbs up, then shakes his head. He’s on his second cup of lukewarm coffee and feels okay — thanks to caffeine, hyperfocus and the biro pens which are amazing for fiddling with. 

The elderly woman leans on the desk, looks at the list and sighs quietly. "Lots of new names today. It doesn’t get easier. It really doesn’t."

Josh nods and goes back to spinning a biro in his fingers. After a few embarrassing failed attempts he got the gist of it: Registering new clients, updating addresses and phone numbers of regular guests and offering everyone a sweet in between. He even tried to joke with a family whose kids were named Olive and Oliver — "if you ever plan a third one you can call it Ollivest," which didn’t go down well with the mom. Other than that, it’s been smooth sailing mostly. Or perhaps people tolerated him because they’re hungry and there’s free food right behind him, Josh thinks to himself, digging the tip of the pen into his hand. Nonetheless, no one’s complained about him so far which is a success in itself. 

Dorothy looks at her watch and rubs her forehead with one hand. "Right. A little over an hour to go. There’s a social worker who’s supposed to come in with a new client but if they show up after 3:30 we’re going to call it a day. We’ve got to keep things fair for everyone."

Josh nods, feeling apprehensive and nervous for the new person. The good things are gone for the most part — whatever’s left of the fruit and veg section now is hardly edible. There’s toast but it’s the horrible, soggy kind. The families with kids raided most of the sweets but there’s still chocolate from Easter. Chocolate eggs and a few gold bunnies from Lindt with their ears bashed in by small sticky fingers. There are also three small cartons of some sort of juice, orange maybe. Well, that’ll contain some vitamins at least. 

...

3:24 PM

The food bank is empty now except a few volunteers who are circling the tables, eyeing what can be stored and what needs to be thrown out. Josh is about to turn to Dorothy to ask whether he can call the registration closed for today when the door opens. A woman walks in. Josh immediately recognizes her — high ponytail, long, knitted cardigan, a spring in her step and a determined expression on her face. That’s Judith, one of the social workers from the hospital. He met her once, when he was first admitted last year. She stepped in briefly as his care coordinator but then disappeared for a while. 

Well, there she is. 

"Hello," she addresses Josh as though they never met. As if he was a cashier at a supermarket and she’s buying two bottles of wine and a truckload of chocolate after a long day at work. 

"Err, hello," Josh replies, staring at his hands. He’s pretty sure his hair, dyed pink this time, gives him away, in combination with the colorful leggins he still likes to wear. It doesn’t help that he’s wearing a hand-written name tag that says Hello I’m Josh. Judith isn’t the type to forget names, ever. 

"Hi," Judith says briskly. She bends over the table and inspects the list in front of Josh. 

"I’m here to register one of my clients."

Josh’s heart starts to race. He can make out a figure right behind Judith but he doesn’t know who that person is. He briefly closes his eyes, praying it isn’t someone he knows. 

"Uhm, yes, of course, s-sure. It’s just, it’s five minutes until c-closing time so uh, I don’t know if … if there’s enough … enough t-time … "

Josh whispers, going beet red in the face. The figure takes a step closer. It’s a guy dressed in a battered yellow hoodie, faded black jeans and a pair of old Vans. A mop of brown hair. He’s quiet, not in the shy but in the sedated kind of way. Droopy eyelids. Slow, sluggish movements, as if his entire body was forced into slow motion. His mouth hangs slightly open. There’s stubble on his chin and upper lip. 

Josh catches himself staring at the guy and going even redder in the face. He clears his throat. 

"I-I’ll see what I can do," he goes on, trying to force his brain into work mode. "I, err, just need a few details."

"That’s okay," Judith replies, her eyes on Josh. He can feel the blood rushing in his ears. He feels like he’s back at school, with a stern teacher in front of him, scolding him for not following the rules and forgetting his homework, once again.

Someone like you will never be able to work a decent job or live independently, mark my words

Well all he’s managed to do since becoming an adult is to stay in different hospitals, get a case worker and a volunteer gig at a food bank so perhaps they’re right. 

Perhaps I’m just nothing, after all 

"I-I need y-your name and d-date of birth," Josh reads aloud the info on the post-it Dorothy gave him, his voice quivering. "And … and proof of your residency as well as p-proof of your income." 

He looks into the young man’s face, at that point on his forehead most people conflate with eye contact. The guy is pale, his eyes are puffy. They dart over the folding table where Josh sits, then over the hall with the food, as if the place was a book he’s trying to read.

Josh clears his throat. "Please." 

He jumps, as if coming out of a reverie. 

"Ty…" Tyler whispers, startled, but Judith next to him jumps in straight away. "Tyler Robert Joseph," she says, her voice ringing. "Born 1st of December, 1988."

"Okey-dokey," Josh reads out loud as he scribbles, "Tyler … Robert … Joseph. Got it."

Tyler mumbles something about not wanting to use his middle name. 

"Oh that’s okay," Josh agrees, nervous to fill the sticky silence. "I’ve got an anonymous middle name too. I mean … ominous. William. I mean," he chuckles nervously to himself. "Joshua William. What kind of name is that." 

Judith gives Josh a quick smile. Tyler doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile, either. Josh can’t tell if he’s heard him at all. He simply stares at the list of names, his fingers tugging at the lanyard he’s wearing around his neck. With a beat of recognition, Josh notices the lanyard for what it is. Tyler has a bunch of laminated cards on the lanyard too, on a keychain. Automatically, Josh’s fingers fumble with his own lanyard. He removed the card with his personal information just before he started, shoving it into his bag like a dirty little secret. He swore he’d pass the lanyard off as a fashion accessory if anyone asked. He never imagined he’d see someone else wearing it at a food bank of all places. 

"I put down your name like this," Josh says quietly. "Look." He shows him the list and points at an entry all the way down. "That’s you, right over here. Tyler (R.) Joseph. I know my handwriting is abysmal but I … I promise. You’re a registered client now." 

"Okay," Tyler mumbles. Right in that moment, Dorothy comes over. She bends over Josh’s list. 

"Is everything going well here? Josh, darling, did you get Tyler’s details? The address is still missing."

"You’re right, s-sorry," Josh responds. He can feel himself trembling again. "I, err, I need your address. Please."

"Uhm," Tyler turns to his social worker. "Do you … I don’t …"

"Here it is," the social worker hands Josh a leaflet. "You need to put down the address of the hostel. It’s Tyler’s accommodation for the time being." 

"Right." Josh focuses on the details of the address, only realizing the place once he’s written down the name. It’s that hostel everyone gossiped about at the hospital. The place his parents threatened him with.

"And proof of your income and residency," Josh mumbles, staring at the leaflet. He’s heard the horror stories. It looks even worse on the shiny leaflet right in front of him. 

Judith hands Josh several documents. Josh’s heart starts to race. The paperwork looks absolutely daunting. Pages and pages of — everything. A letter from a psychiatrist. Josh recognizes the name instantly — it’s Alex, one of the consultant psychiatrists from the hospital. Another letter, this time from Judith. There’s a document from the city, too, including a detailed account of Tyler’s disability benefits. Seeing the amount of money spelled out like that makes Josh uneasy. This isn’t an income. It’s a pittance. 

"Uhm, Dorothy, this  is … what do I do with it?" He whispers frantically. "Am I supposed to take it all or …?"

"Oh that’s okay," Dorothy smiles before turning to Tyler and his social worker. "I’ll hold on to this so we can make a copy for our files. You’ll get the documents back when you’re leaving, is that okay?"

The social worker nods. 

"Sure, that’s fine."

Judith and Tyler are on their way to the tables when Dorothy calls them back. "Mr. Joseph — Tyler — you still need to sign here," she points at a column on Josh’s list. Josh fishes for a fresh biro and holds it out to Tyler who takes the pen clumsily with his left hand. His right arm is wrapped in thick gauze, with only his fingers peeking out from the frayed sleeve of his hoodie. Slowly, he drags the pen along with his non-dominant hand, scrawling his initials on Josh’s list and smudging the ink. The left sleeve of his hoodie slides a little. Josh catches his breath. He can make out what looks like the beginning of two thick scars on Tyler’s left wrist. Clearly, this wasn’t an accident. The scars look deliberate and badly healed. Josh remembers getting stitches on his wrist once. 

It hurt tremendously, like he was going to die and forced to feel every second of it. 

His left hand shaking slightly, Tyler puts the pen into the cup with used pens, then pulls the sleeve back over his wrist. The expression on his face is hard to read. Josh doesn’t know where to look, what to say. The room is awfully quiet and he yearns for the delivery men or the volunteers to shout, to say something, anything to make it better. To make the earth lighter, for just one moment. He has a sudden, inexplicable urge to run to the next supermarket and get Tyler all the food, not just the moldy bits from the food bank. To give him the sandwich his mom packed and he hasn’t touched because he can’t stand the texture of cheese on bread. 

Dorothy’s voice again. Judith answers. Tyler stays silent. The three of them head to whatever’s left in the boxes, walking towards the tables like they’re kids playing pretend, like this is an all you can eat buffet at a fancy restaurant and not just an empty local food bank. 

Emptiness filled with emptiness is still nothing. Josh stares at Tyler’s back, at the monotonous, robotic movements of his body. He longs to give Tyler his stupid sandwich. Vaguely, he remembers what it’s like to feel like a person, again, maybe even a friend, and not just a client, a guest, a patient. 

He hasn’t felt like that in a long time. 

Josh fumbles for a spare piece of paper. He hastily scribbles his phone number and his name on it, then hides it in the stack of Tyler’s documents as everyone gets ready to pack up and leave.  

Tyler leaves the food bank with two cartons of orange juice, a chocolate bunny and a few discarded Easter eggs in a tattered tote bag. His body a semicolon, a smudge of ink as he disappears into the blustery afternoon, Judith by his side.