Chapter 3: Bleeding Hearts, Broken Walls

One day, when I went downstairs to take out the trash, I ran into Mr. Calloway, drunk as always. I had a bad feeling.

He reeked of cheap whiskey, stumbling against the wall as he fumbled for his keys. I ducked my head, hoping he wouldn’t notice me.

Sure enough, not long after I got home, there was a huge commotion upstairs—really, just him raging and cursing.

The shouting echoed down the stairwell, rattling the doors. I pressed my ear to the wall, heart pounding.

"You bastard, son of a whore! You little shit!"

And so on…

The words were slurred, ugly. I hugged my knees to my chest, wishing the walls were thicker.

The walls in this building are paper-thin.

You could hear everything—arguments, TVs, even the sound of someone crying late at night.

For some reason, I felt suffocated and miserable. Nathan grew up in this hell—watching his mother get beaten bloody, scalded with boiling water, her eardrum ruptured, ribs broken, bruised all over.

It made my chest ache. I pictured a little boy cowering in a corner, flinching at every shout.

When his mother finally couldn’t take it and escaped, the beatings landed on little Nathan instead.

He was left behind, the only target left for his father’s rage.

Violence and insults were daily life.

It was a miracle he’d survived at all, let alone made it this far.

Soon, Officer Logan Pierce arrived.

His squad car’s lights flashed outside. He came up the stairs two at a time, face set in a grim line.

I hesitated, but followed him upstairs. When they kicked the door in, I was shocked by what I saw inside. Blood spattered on the walls, things smashed everywhere—it looked like a horror movie set.

The living room was a wreck—broken glass, overturned furniture, the metallic smell of blood hanging in the air. My stomach churned.

Thankfully, nothing irreversible had happened yet.

Mr. Calloway was still alive—

He was slumped on the floor, clutching his arm, swearing under his breath. Nathan stood nearby, face blank, blood dripping from his hand.

Officer Pierce quickly figured out what had happened. Mr. Calloway got drunk, started beating his son, and pulled a knife on him. The blood on the wall was from Nathan blocking the knife with his hand.

Nathan snapped, grabbed the knife barehanded.

That’s when we barged in.

Officer Pierce took both Nathan and his father to the station for processing. He looked about as conflicted as I felt. If he hadn’t been in uniform, I bet he’d have thrown a few punches himself.

He shot Nathan a look that was equal parts pity and frustration. You could tell he’d seen this kind of thing too many times before.

As a witness, I was brought along too.

I sat on a hard plastic chair, hands shaking, trying not to cry. The station was cold and smelled like stale coffee.

Officer Pierce wanted to take Nathan to the hospital, but Nathan refused.

Nathan shook his head, jaw clenched. He looked like he’d rather bleed out than accept help.

Soon, after giving my statement, I left. Mr. Calloway was detained.

Night fell, city lights flickering.

The city felt different after dark—harsher, lonelier. The streetlamps buzzed, casting long shadows on the sidewalk.

Nathan walked ahead, tall and imposing, a bloody gash on his arm. His prison buzz cut and cold eyes made passersby avoid him like the plague.

People crossed the street to avoid him. Mothers pulled their kids closer. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.

He didn’t fit in with the city at all—he was like a child of darkness, abandoned by the world, lonely and shunned.

He moved like a ghost, half-invisible, half-dangerous. I watched him, and my chest felt tight.

It felt like someone was squeezing my heart. My fear of him was slowly replaced by pity.

I wanted to say something, but didn’t know how.

"Nathan, wait up."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. He paused, turning to look at me with wary eyes.

For a second, I thought he might keep walking. But he stopped, waiting.

I jogged over to a nearby pharmacy.

I ducked inside, grabbing a first aid kit, some gauze, and a bottle of antiseptic. The cashier eyed me curiously as I fumbled for change.

When I came back, he was still standing there. I let out a sigh of relief.

He hadn’t run. That had to count for something.

I took his good hand and led him to the park.

It was late, the park empty except for a few stray cats prowling under the benches. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and rain.

A warm streetlamp glowed by the bench.

The light flickered, painting everything in a soft golden hue. I motioned for him to sit, my hands shaking.

I had him sit down and carefully cleaned his wound. It was deep, the flesh gaping—just looking at it made me wince.

I tried not to show how queasy I felt, focusing on the task. His skin was cold, his arm tense under my touch.

Under the light, his eyes were downcast, his lids hiding any emotion. He let me treat him, his gaze cold and distant.

He watched the ground, jaw tight. I wondered what he was thinking, if he felt anything at all.

Neither of us said much.

The silence between us was thick, but not uncomfortable. It felt like we were both holding our breath, waiting for something to break.

The guy in front of me had once killed and dismembered me, but right now, I wasn’t afraid of him at all.

I studied his face, searching for the monster I’d imagined. But all I saw was a boy, tired and hurt.

The wound. The insults. All of it was pushing this boy further into the dark.

If none of this had happened, he should have been enjoying college life, surrounded by shy admirers. With his looks, he’d have had no shortage of fans.

He could’ve been the star of his own story—a varsity athlete, maybe, or the quiet guy everyone secretly liked.

Not being shunned and avoided everywhere he went.

Instead, he was a cautionary tale, whispered about in hallways and avoided in the grocery store.

Maybe…

Maybe fate could be changed. Like today—Mr. Calloway was still alive, wasn’t he?

Maybe I could rewrite the ending, just a little. Maybe kindness could nudge the plot off its rails.

My heart stirred. I glanced up at Nathan, just as he looked over, his gaze icy and calm.

He caught me staring, and I quickly looked away, cheeks burning.

"All done."

His stare made me nervous. I finished bandaging him and sat quietly by his side.

I tried to smile, but my hands were still shaking. I tucked the first aid kit away, unsure what to say next.

He’d refused Officer Pierce’s offer of help.

He was stubborn, proud. It was clear he didn’t trust easily.

I could guess why—

Money.

Nathan had just gotten out of juvie. With a father like his, forget getting money—he’d be lucky if his dad didn’t take what little he had.

He probably didn’t even have enough for a decent meal, let alone a hospital bill.

If he wanted to move on, reality was clear: step one was money.

A job, a place to live—basic things most people took for granted.

I hesitated, then finally spoke up.

"Are you looking for a job?"

My voice was soft, almost apologetic. I braced myself for a snarky comeback.

Nathan frowned slightly, turned his head, and stared at me in silence.

His eyes narrowed, like he was trying to figure out if I was serious.

I could see his doubt.

Growing up in that environment made him hypersensitive. He could sense my former fear of him. Even if I helped him today, maybe he just thought I pitied his misery. Nothing more.

He stayed silent, his face calm in the half-light.

"People like me don’t get hired, you know?"

His words were flat, heavy. The resignation in his voice made my chest ache.

Just as I was second-guessing myself, he finally broke the silence. His voice was low and rough, far too weary for his age.

Maybe because I knew his fate, seeing his pale face made me picture him walking to his execution.

"I’ll help you."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My heart thudded in my chest. I must have sounded crazy.

God knows why, but I blurted it out.

I must be crazy.

Fantasizing that I could change a broken man’s fate, like some transmigrated heroine.

But I knew the truth. For more than twenty years, he’d waited for salvation. Why else would he have stabbed the principal who tried to assault the heroine, just because she’d once been kind to him?

But salvation never came. He was abandoned.

The world had given up on him a long time ago.