The clock ticked past midnight in the city that never bothered to sleep. Trash blew across cracked sidewalks. Neon signs flickered above the 24-hour liquor store where a lone man worked the late shift—again.
He swept the dusty floor in silence, fingers blistered from swinging a sledgehammer all day on the construction site.
Another double shift.
Rent was due.
No one waited for him at home.
His mother hadn't left the couch in days. The only signs of life were the empty pill bottles littering the floor and the sound of daytime TV echoing in the dark.
He blinked slowly. The store lights buzzed overhead.
Then the door opened.
Three of them.
Boys from his old school. Thugs now. All buzzcuts, laughter, and ugly intent.
He recognized them instantly.
They recognized him too.
"Yo, look who it is," said the tallest, a meathead with a chain around his neck and scabs on his knuckles. "Mercer the mutant."
They fanned out through the store, knocking items off shelves like they owned the place. Damian said nothing. Just watched.
He wasn't afraid. Not exactly. He'd been through this before. Do nothing. Take it. Hope they leave.
"You think you're better than us now, Mercer?" said another. "With your little night job? Wearing that sad-ass name tag?"
The meathead approached the counter, reached out, and flicked Damian's hat off.
Still, Damian didn't react.
That's when the first punch landed.
It was sudden. Brutal. Right to the temple.
The next hit sent him into a rack of instant noodles. A can struck his cheek as he fell. Blood filled his mouth.
Laughter.
"Still weak," one of them muttered. "Still a freak."
Boots followed.
He didn't fight back.
He couldn't.
They dragged him outside. Into the alley. The back of his head hit the concrete hard enough to make the world strobe.
Rib. Stomach. Jaw.
Kicks. Punches. More laughter.
One of them pulled a pipe from the trash and cracked it across his back.
"Let's see if he bleeds like a normal person."
Darkness crept in. Warm. Heavy.
The last thing he saw was the night sky above the alley, pale and distant between the buildings.
...
The peace he felt as he was laying on the bed was disturbed by the warm touch of a person .
He opened his eyes and looked at the nurse who was checking his wounds.
"Mr. Mercer?" she asked gently. "Can you hear me?"
Damian didn't answer. He simply stared.
Her hands paused on his bandaged arm.
"You're lucky someone called it in. You were bleeding pretty bad. We weren't sure you'd make it through the night."
He blinked.
Voices murmured outside the curtain.
Doctors. Nurses. Patients
His ribs burned. His face was swollen. He couldn't feel his fingers.
But something else was stirring.
A whisper at the edge of his hearing.
A weightlessness.
The nurse turned to adjust the IV bag.
"Did my mom come?"
The nurse turned back to him and told him no.
The look on his face turned from indifference to anger and his eyes began shaking while looking at the ceiling.
His anger was pointed towards the ceiling and it suddenly began cracking little by little.
Noticing the cracks in the ceiling, Damian stopped and a look of surprise overshadowed his anger.
He smiled.
After seeing this scene he pulled out the needles from his arm and quickly left the room and soon after, the hospital.
By the time he was at the hospital's gate all his wounds healed. His face was back to normal as if nothing happened.
...
He shut the door behind him.
The apartment was dark, except for the bluish glow of the television casting flickering shadows across the mess. Bottles. Crushed cans. Fast food bags. Pill containers without labels. An ashtray overflowing onto the coffee table.
And on the couch, half-buried in a nest of blankets and wrappers, lay her.
His mother.
Stringy blonde hair. Hollow cheeks. Red eyes framed by smeared makeup that hadn't been removed in days. A cigarette dangled between her fingers. The TV played an infomercial about kitchen knives at full volume.
She didn't look at him when he entered. Just puffed lazily and exhaled toward the ceiling.
"Oh, there you are," she crooned, as if she'd just noticed him. "Didn't hear you come in."
He stood in the doorway, fists clenched at his sides.
"Look at you, all fixed up already. Didn't even take a day."
"You knew?"
She tapped the ashtray overflowing on the table. "The hospital called. Said you were beat half to death. Asked if I could come down."
She took a long drag. Exhaled toward the ceiling.
"I told them you'd be fine."
Damian stood still in the dark, jaw tight.
"You didn't even answer the second call."
She turned to him, finally. Smiled that dead-eyed smile. "Why should I? You heal fast. You always have. Like a freakin' dog. What am I supposed to do, waste my night to watch you lay in bed and breathe?"
The silence was thick.
Then she added, sweet and sour, "You made it back, didn't you?"
He walked past her. Didn't say a word.
The TV laughed in the background. Canned and fake.
He entered his room and closed the door behind him. But the noise didn't stop.
Not the TV.
Not her.
Not the other voices.
They crept in—whispers behind his eyes, curling under his skin, breathing down his spine.
No one else heard them.
But he did.
Their words were secrets. Rotten truths. Promises.
He sat on the bed, unmoving, as something shifted inside him.
Something that had been waiting.
---
He stepped back out into the living room.
His mother was still slouched on the couch, smoking the same half-burned cigarette, reruns flickering across her hollow face.
He walked slowly. Calm.
She didn't react until he crouched down in front of her—face to face. Eye level.
"What?" she muttered.
He stared at her.
Then, without warning, he swept his arm across the coffee table—crashing everything to the floor. Bottles. Ashtrays. Pills. Trash.
She jumped, startled. "The hell is wrong with you?"
He didn't answer.
He plucked the cigarette from her lips, took a long drag, and blew the smoke directly into her face.
She blinked.
His eyes were unreadable.
He leaned in.
"Hey, bitch."
Her face twitched.
"How long are you gonna act like a fucking worm, you skeleton-looking bitch?"
Her jaw dropped slightly, eyes wide, stunned.
"Your husband left you because you're brain-dead. And now you're trying to drag me down with you?"
He puffed again.
"You're a crack addict. A whore. A jobless mutt. And you stink."
She flinched.
"You're making this whole apartment smell like a fucking graveyard, you useless bitch."
The words hit like knives.
Her shock boiled into rage. She stood up, hand raised to slap him across the face.
But he was faster.
Smack.
Her head snapped sideways.
She barely caught her breath before—
Smack.
Smack.
Again. And again. His face was cold. Emotionless.
Her cheeks burned red, tears welling from shock more than pain.
She screamed—but he grabbed her by the hair, yanked her off the couch like a rag doll, and dragged her down the hall.
Kicking. Cursing. Clawing.
He didn't stop.
Not once.
He opened the storage closet—just wide enough for a broken lamp and some paint cans. He shoved her in, slammed the door, and locked it.
Silence.
For a moment, the apartment was quiet.
Only the TV laughed now.
.....
The first night passed in silence.
Damian didn't sleep.
He sat on the floor of his room, cigarette smoke curling in the air, staring at the wall.
The voices didn't stop. Not even once.
Whispers in languages he didn't recognize.
Orders. Prayers. Screams.
And laughter.
Sometimes they laughed like gods.
Sometimes like children.
By morning, his eyes were dry and red. His muscles didn't ache anymore. His ribs didn't hurt.
He felt stronger.
More aware. More… awake.
---
He unlocked the storage room and pulled the door open.
She was curled up in the corner, arms around her knees. No words. Just a look of dread.
He grabbed her by the collar and dragged her into the living room.
She hit the floor hard. Didn't even try to stand.
"You gonna sit there all day again?" Damian asked.
His voice wasn't loud. But it was cold. Clear. Cruel.
"Is that what you are now? Furniture?"
She didn't answer.
He picked up the burnt cigarette from the ashtray and shoved it against her arm.
She screamed.
"Speak."
"I—I didn't do anything—"
SLAP.
"You exist," he said. "That's enough of a crime."
He walked to the fridge. Opened it.
Nothing but moldy cheese and expired milk.
"You don't cook. You don't clean. You don't do anything. Except rot."
She wept softly. Still on the floor.
He paced like a teacher waiting for a class to fail.
"You know what I realized, Ma?" He crouched beside her again, like the first time. "Worms don't scream. They just squirm."
She turned her head away.
"Answer me."
"I don't—please, I don't know—"
KICK.
She doubled over.
He dragged her back to the storage room and locked the door. Again.
---
After a day:
This time, when he opened the door, she was already sitting up.
Tense. Alert. Waiting.
She didn't cry. She didn't beg.
She stood on her own, trembling legs stiff as wood.
Damian said nothing. Just watched.
In the kitchen, she moved like a broken puppet.
Boiled water. Cleaned the counters. Threw out the old food.
He didn't have to tell her.
For the first time in years, she cooked.
Not well. But it was edible. It was effort.
When she served the food, her hands shook.
Damian didn't thank her.
"You've got twenty years of filth to scrub," he said, chewing. "Don't get proud over eggs and toast."
She nodded. Didn't look him in the eyes.
He let her eat after him. The leftovers.
By nightfall, the apartment was cleaner than it had been in years.
She asked if she could sleep on the couch.
He stared.
"Ask properly."
She dropped to her knees. "Please... let me rest."
He watched her like a man inspecting trash.
Then he pointed to the storage room.
She didn't argue.
---
After another day:
She was already sweeping when he woke.
Dishes done. Counters clean. The stench was gone.
He watched her move around the apartment like a servant possessed.
No pills. No booze. No cigarettes. Nothing.
She didn't even sit down.
Her hair was tied up. Her eyes were sunken and alert.
Every movement precise, afraid of disapproval.
When he lit a cigarette, she brought him the ashtray before he asked.
When he finished, she took the stub and flushed it.
She didn't speak unless spoken to.
That night, when dinner was done and the floor was spotless, she walked into the living room and stood in front of him.
Then she dropped to her knees.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Damian said nothing.
She lowered her forehead to the floor.
"I'm a failure. A leech. I don't deserve your mercy. I... I was a bad mother. I let the rot in."
She was shaking. Crying quietly.
"But I'm trying. I've stopped. I swear. No more pills. No more anything. I don't want to die. Please... don't kill me."
Damian smoked in silence. Watched her like one might study an insect finally learning tricks.
"I'll serve you. I'll be useful. I'm not a worm anymore. I'm a person again. Let me prove it. Please."
He smirked.