Overreach - 2. Chapter 2

The guys had been silent to him all throughout his 15 hour shift, and Elliot wasn’t sure how to take it. Well, he actually wasn’t sure if it was because of his bruised and now swelling face, or if it was just because he was a person that was easily discarded. Fair weather friends, he thought, bitterly, shaking his head.

His job wasn’t a hard one, but the hours took a toll on him. He work 6 days a week, 15 hours a day in order to provide for his mother, and sometimes himself, and it was taxing. He was constantly depressed, knowing that work was always around the corner. He didn’t have an outlet of any sort really, either. He’d just liked to relax.

But, of course, he knew that wasn’t an option. So, he denied himself and toiled for his mother - his only family. The only thing that kept his mother alive after his father’s death was him, and he wasn’t about to let that fall to pieces because he was tired. What baby’s play.

The hot factory he was used to, and when he exited the large grey building the refreshing breeze nearly brought tears to his eyes. The rest of the guys - boys mostly - skittered off to their own slums, eager to spend what little money they earned on nasty magazines and tobacco. He shook his head, both understanding their plight and pitying them for it. They wanted an outlet, he knew, but he knew that those things would kill them sooner rather than later. Or, at least the tobacco would.

He put it out of his mind for now. Using spare change from last week, he picked up a meal for two at the local ready-to-eat bakery and carried it back in two paper sacks. He figured his mother would like a treat, and especially since he had tomorrow off, he could finally relax. Arriving home, he put his belongings down and stepped into his mother’s room to find her asleep and the television still on. He shut that off, made sure she was comfortable, and then went about heating up the meal he brought home.

“Ma?” He asked softly, shaking her awake. Her eyes inched open, and then opened a bit more when she saw what he had. Homemade - or close enough - food. They could only afford this maybe once a month. The rest of the time they had to rely on processed food tablets and caloric enhancers.

“Elliot!” She gasped. “This meal must’ve cost a fortune; it’s not even the end of the month!”

He smiled slightly, and set the tray down in front of her. He fetched his own and then sat down in the chair next to her. “I worked some more overtime this week, so I used what I had in surplus to treat us. I thought you’d enjoy a treat.”

She closed her eyes contentedly before she took her utensil and tried a bit. She hummed in pleasure as the food hit her tongue. She opened her eye in gratitude. “Thank you, Elliot.” She sank back into her pillow.

Elliot finished up, and then sat on the edge of her bed when she motioned him over. Aria looked him up and down, supremely proud of the boy she raised. It’d been hard on her the most, and both mother and son knew that her time left wasn’t a lot. After Lawrence’s death, she had done her best to support her grieving child; so much so that she barely had time to grieve herself, though she’d never tell Elliot that. The perspective of a parent is much different than that of the child, she mused, silently. She knew that first hand, and with the medicine not having the same effect as it would’ve had even a month ago, Aria saw the writing on the wall.

She cupped Elliot’s soft face with her hand an examined the bruising, setting her mouth in an unsatisfied line. “You should put some salve on that,” she said quietly, sighing. “I know you’ll never tell me, but please. Did Fally really beat you up?”

Elliot didn’t meet her eyes, and she saw a tear drop; one which he brushed away quickly. “No,” was his simple answer.

She let the subject drop when he faced her again, this time his eyes harboring something intense. She wasn’t sure quite how to react, so she removed her hand from his face.

“I know this all has been hard on you,” she said weakly, casting her eyes down and picking at her food. “You work so hard to support us. You have really become the man of the house.”

There was no response.

“You know, Lawrence and I met at the Gala. Of course, I could afford to attend then,” she said, wistfully. The Gala was - or, rather, had been - a yearly soiree for the common people of the city, with the mayor and councilmen shutting down a factory and remaking it into a glittering display of almost nauseating mirth and good-will. But that was nearly 35 years ago, with the last one ending in the workers overtaking the party and demanding they get more hours and more pay. After a long hostage situation, the city felt that the Gala was to be no more. Elliot had no experience with it, but his mother had quite vivid memories.

“He was dashing. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him the whole time - not that I had the courage to go up and talk to him or anything,” she laughed lightly. “He was such a good man. Strong. Courageous.” She turned to Elliot. “Do you remember?”

Elliot searched his mind. He had a vague memory of being lifted up by strong arms, being chased around playfully by a man that seemed to work constantly. But that faded, and in its place he instead remember a corpse in a bed, breathing heavily, labored, groaning in pain and self-pity. Elliot couldn’t bare the image. “I don’t, mother.”

She sighed. “No, I wouldn’t expect you to. But he was.” She turned to him. “You’re a lot like him, you know. There’s fire in you. I know it; I can feel it. Please, El, hold onto that fire. Don’t let anyone destroy it, or destroy you. No matter what happens, remember that you can always rely on yourself.”

Elliot snorted involuntarily. These days, he didn’t feel like he could rely on anyone, much less himself. Quiet, he reviewed what had happened a few days prior. His mind’s eye turned back and saw the bloody mess on the ground he created. Greasy doughnut boxes flashed out. He saw stacks upon stack of magazines. He could smell the rancid odor of sweat and lust. He turned away quickly, wrestling with the image and what he had done. He had done it in self defense - hadn’t he? Parts of him screamed, animal! Only an animal would bring a man to such a horrid end! What a paltry and souring act that was, to beat a man to death with such brutality! Other parts tugged on Elliot’s soul as well, gently consoling him and guiding him to the conclusion that what he had done, he had done for his family, for his mother. She needed that medicine. But, the other side tugged again, would she take it if she’d known how he acquired it?

He growled silently to himself, and shook away the thoughts. The simply fact was, he did what he had to do. Full stop. Yes, maybe he was confused. Angry. But things needed to be done, and he needed to do them. Someone got hurt? Too bad! That’s what they get for standing in the way of Elliot Kestle!

“El,” his mother said, startling him from his reverie. She patted his arm. “Get some rest. Relax tomorrow. We’ll talk more then.”

But of course, Elliot seemed to innately understand that tomorrow would never come. He could feel the icy tendrils of foreboding enter his mind as he drifted to sleep, and the next day, when he quietly entered his mother’s room, her stiff, cold fingers confirmed it.