Chapter 5

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Staind - "It's Been Awhile"

Ethan stood behind the bar, mechanically polishing glasses to a barely perceptible shine, though his gaze was directed through them, into the void, as if the glass were an invisible wall between him and the world. His hands moved on their own, with polished, thoughtless gestures, but within him reigned an oppressive, deafening silence. He watched the few patrons of "The Echo," who seemed to exist in another dimension, inaccessible to him.

They lived their lives: they laughed at someone's jokes, their voices ringing in the subdued amber light, breaking against the walls but not reaching his consciousness; they argued about something trivial, their gestures emotional and alive, full of a passion Ethan had long forgotten; they flirted, exchanging glances and smiles, their touches light and full of promises he never expected. Every one of their activities, every emotion displayed—be it joy, anger, or affection—every living movement only intensified his own alienation and the deep, chilling sense that he was merely a shadow in this world, unseen and unheard, a ghost gliding among the living.

He saw a girl at a table by the window laugh, throwing her head back, and her laughter, clear and infectious, echoed off the walls, but not in his chest. Where there was once warmth, there was now only an icy lump that remained motionless. A little further away, a man, hunched over a glass of beer, was emotionally proving a point to his companion, waving his arms. Ethan saw the tension in his face, heard the raised tones, but felt not the slightest response. He was an empty vessel.

He saw in them what he himself had lost—the ability to feel joy, to laugh sincerely, to argue passionately, to flirt without fear. He saw in them the life he once knew and had now irretrievably lost. It didn't provoke envy or anger in him. Only a dull, all-encompassing indifference that was worse than any pain. It was like watching an old film where happy people acted, while you sat in a dark theater, knowing you could never be part of that picture. His heart remained still, not reacting to others' joy or sorrow. He felt as if his soul had detached from his body, observing this spectacle from above, without any interest.

The air was heavy with the smell of others' cigarettes and cheap coffee, mixed with the faint scent of stale beer, but Ethan barely noticed it, as if his sense of smell, like his other senses, had been dulled to an absolute minimum. He was there, behind the bar, his body performing routine movements, but his consciousness was far from it. It remained chained to the shadows of his past that would not let him go. He did not belong to this world of living, laughing, flirting people. He was a stranger, a hermit in his own body, a prisoner of his own apathy. His gaze, extinguished and empty, slid over the faces of the patrons, not lingering on any of them, as if they were just props in his personal drama of hopelessness.

This feeling of "not belonging" to the world of the living, this sense of being merely a shadow, was familiar to Ethan, but each time it pressed down with new force. It only emphasized the depth of his detachment from society, making his despair all the more palpable. He felt trapped within himself, in his invisible yet sturdy cage, and saw no way out of this prison, whose walls were growing ever higher, its bars ever stronger.

Immersed in his apathy, Ethan continued to mechanically wipe the glasses when his peripheral vision caught a movement. Ray, the manager of "The Echo," was standing at the entrance to the bar, leaning against the doorframe. He was an elderly man, his face etched with wrinkles, and his gaze, usually a bit cynical, was surprisingly perceptive. Ray had seen many different fates pass through this establishment and seemed to be able to read people like open books.

Ethan felt his gaze on him. It wasn't judgment, not curiosity, but something like a silent, almost paternal understanding. Ray was one of the few who seemed to see how bad Ethan was, but unlike his mother, he didn't pry with advice, didn't try to "normalize" him. He just watched in silence, accepting Ethan as he was—pale, gaunt, lost.

— Everything alright? — Ray's voice was raspy but devoid of any pressure. He didn't demand details, just asked a question that, for him, was apparently a standard form of greeting. His gaze slid over Ethan's extinguished eyes, then to the glass Ethan was holding.

— Yeah, — Ethan forced out, his voice as hollow and lifeless as his gaze.

Ray didn't push. He just nodded, as if he had received the expected answer, or perhaps had read much more in that single word. He knew that Ray, despite his cynicism, was the one who had provided him this fragile refuge from total collapse, allowing him to make ends meet.

— It's slow tonight. You can head out early if you want, — Ray gestured toward the half-empty room where a few patrons continued their conversations. It was a suggestion, not an order, and it held something akin to care, but without being intrusive.

— No, — Ethan shook his head. Going back to the dorm, to the empty room, to his thoughts, was worse. Here, in this hum, he could at least hide from himself. — I'll stay.

Ray nodded again. He turned and slowly walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the room. His silent presence, his unobtrusive understanding, was a strange comfort to Ethan. It was a rare phenomenon in his life, which was full of expectations and disappointments. Ethan felt that he was surrounded by people but still isolated, yet Ray's presence made that isolation a little less oppressive.

Just as Ray disappeared, the silence was broken by a cheerful voice. Jess, a young, vibrant waitress, emerged from behind the curtain leading to the kitchen, like a bright, out-of-place spot in the gloom of "The Echo." Her brightly painted lips were stretched into a wide, carefree smile, and her eyes, lined with black pencil, sparkled with a liveliness Ethan hadn't seen in himself for years.

— How's it going, Ethan? Gloomy as ever? — her voice tinkled like a bell, and without waiting for an answer, she deftly hopped over the bar counter to stand beside him. She smelled of a cheap but cloyingly sweet floral perfume that cut through the scent of beer and tobacco.

— Oh, you're still here? I thought you'd have escaped this dump by now, — she giggled, then sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically. — I didn't want to drag myself in at all today, but the morning shift was just insane, you know? The boss made us organize the damn stockroom, like, inventory! And I just bought concert tickets yesterday… you know, for that new indie rocker I told you about. Anyway, I need cash for a concert outfit, and they were paying overtime for the stockroom, so here I am, suffering.

She chattered quickly, jumping from topic to topic, as if trying to fill all the space around her. She leaned toward him, her amused gaze sliding over his face.

Ethan turned away coldly, his gaze fixed on the wall of vinyl records. He felt a wave of dull irritation rising within him. Her easy-going attitude, her inexhaustible energy, annoyed him because, like a distorted mirror, they reminded him of his own lost vitality. He saw himself in her, but a version he had irretrievably lost, and it was unbearable.

— Fine, — he ground out through his teeth, his voice devoid of any emotion. He didn't even look at her, continuing to wipe an already perfectly clean glass. He was used to his shell and didn't want anyone to stir him from it.

Jess seemed to ignore his coldness. She laughed—that clear, carefree laugh was the complete opposite of the oppressive grief Ethan constantly felt. She started telling him something about her day. Ethan heard her words, but they seemed to fly past him, not touching him.

However, through the haze of apathy, Ethan suddenly caught something different. Her brightness, though irritating, was at the same time a subtle reminder that life could be different. It was a faint hue, like the flickers of color he had seen after meeting Sky on the bridge. It was frightening, but at the same time, strangely, it hooked him. Cracks were appearing in his isolation, and through them, this bright, irritating, but living light was breaking through.

A few minutes later, after Jess had finally left, Ethan felt a sharp need for a break. His head was buzzing from the monotonous hum of the bass. He left the counter, telling Ray he needed to "get some air," and went outside.

He gripped the glass of cola, into which he had, with a practiced, imperceptible movement, poured whiskey from a bottle hidden beneath the counter. It was his small, secret ritual, his way of quieting the inner din. He raised the glass to his lips, and the bitter-sweet liquid spread across his tongue, leaving a warmth that, however, failed to reach his heart.

Ethan gazed at the gray, monotonous buildings. The dull, overcast sky, like a leaden dome, hung over the city, reflecting his own inner state. No stars, no moon—only darkness. In his eyes was the same hopelessness he had felt on the bridge.

He felt trapped in this monotony. Work, study, loneliness, attempts to drown the pain with alcohol—this was his existence. The bridge had offered him a brief, frightening glimpse of color in his monochrome world, but now, standing here, he felt that flicker fade, yielding to the familiar, oppressive grayness. He was trapped. And, it seemed, there was no way out.

And yet… somewhere deep within his consciousness, at the very edge of this gray world, he sensed a faint echo of that same "dissonance" the sky had brought. As if through a thick layer of concrete, a thin, barely audible chord broke through, alien, sharp, yet strangely familiar. It was like a distant roll of thunder, heralding a storm, or perhaps a new melody. He didn't understand what it was, but the feeling lingered, preventing him from dissolving completely into indifference.