Thursday morning loomed, almost suffocatingly, over Hilary while a tempest of dread stirred in the pit of her stomach. The return to her grind at the Lucky Bean was imminent, and she was reluctant to walk through the door. Last night hadn't offered much in the way of respite as she tossed about, her thoughts entangled with visions of Bryson and the demise of his laptop, along with the elderly woman responsible for its destruction.
Hilary has felt haunted by her ever since that horrible evening. She closes her eyes, only to somehow see that tiny old bat's wizened face eating away at the eigengrau as it morphs into a shapeless visage of terror. This, combined with the handsome but furious face of Bryson repeatedly appearing and dissolving, made her feel like a kitten on hot bricks. While yesterday's session was better than her prior visits, she couldn't shake the uneasiness that Bryson's subtle anger brought about.
Sleep had never eluded her like this before. Her rest had been replaced by a night spent wrestling with her emotions. The echo of her crush's presence lingered in her mind, and the unspoken connection they shared tugged at the tattered fringes of her consciousness.
Laying sprawled out in her bed, Hilary suddenly felt nudged to action by the lambency of the polychromatic, rocket-shaped lava lamp on her nightstand. Its slowly shifting lights began to sap away the loathing she felt. She stared at it in awe, fixated on the globs of wax inside, noting aloud how her existence has been a lot of aimless floating akin to them.
At that moment, she knew she had to do something, make some kind of change, but she was uncertain of what exactly. For now, she would have to settle on the escapism of watching WeVue, her preferred video site.
*☕*
What started as a few minutes of streaming, quickly became hours that bled away as she doom-watched random videos, seeking refuge from the tumult in her brain. Her chosen (and final) distraction took the form of a video concerning The Seeds of the Farthest Star, a religious cult that had made its presence known around the country recently.
The clip, which was ominously titled "Never Blaspheme Against The Antecessors", unfolded with a graphic display of the torture and execution of a family of four plus their dog. It had been extracted from the cult's latest livestream and amassed over ten million views. Hilary's eyes widened in horrified fascination, the queasiness in her stomach growing with each passing second. The screams of anguish and fear, as well as the disheartening imagery, were immediately seared into her consciousness, rendering a grim tableau upon her already harried psyche.
Although aghast and nearly hyperventilating, she couldn't tear her gaze away. Her smartphone was now an inescapable portal into a world of macabre rituals, zealotry and twisted teachings. Her work alarm, a harsh interruption to the morbid spectacle, jolted Hilary from her trance. The video ceased, but the aftertaste of despair idled, waiting to pull her into its embrace once more.
With the weight of the impending workday pressed upon her, Hilary urged herself to cast it all aside and face reality. Since she had showered the night before, she hastily threw on her clothes. However, each movement was fueled by a fervent desire to escape the creeping tendrils of dolor.
With her phone in hand and a large purse draped over her shoulder, she dashed out of her one-bedroom apartment and made a beeline for the bus stop.
*☕*
She reached the bus stop with a few minutes to spare. The morning air offered a chill that mirrored the brumal turmoil within her. The sun's futile attempts to pierce through the clouds fell short of warming the heavy atmosphere. Hilary clutched her smartphone, a device that had become both a window to the world's darkness and a lifeline to the mundane routine she sought refuge in.
The bus arrived, a mechanical beast that would carry her away from the cocoon of her thoughts and into the familiar chaos of the Lucky Bean. As she stepped aboard, the hum of the engine blended with the weight of her melancholy, creating a dissonant symphony that accompanied her journey to the place she both longed for and feared.
The Lucky Bean Bungalow loomed ahead, a quaint facade concealing the labyrinth of emotions that churned within Hilary. The café, once a haven of simple pleasures, now held echoes of the elderly lady's presence and Bryson's shattered laptop, serving as a haunting reminder of a day that defied normalcy.
Stepping through the familiar door, Hilary couldn't shake the unease that clung to her like a shadow. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, once comforting, now mingled with the lingering scent of fear and chaos. The cacophony of orders and barista banter became an unsettling symphony, a discordant backdrop to the internal turmoil that threatened to consume her.
***
The first glimpse of the café's interior stirred a blend of emotions—nostalgia, fear, and an undercurrent of longing. Bryson's absence, though unspoken, cast a shadow over the establishment, turning it into a landscape of missed connections and shattered possibilities.
As she navigated her pre-shift rituals, Hilary couldn't escape the phantom presence that hovered around her. The rhythm of her routine was punctuated by the memory of her crush's calm demeanor, a calmness she adored and which is now lost to the chaos forever etched in her mind. After all of her morning preparations, each interaction with customers became a fleeting distraction, a feeble attempt to anchor herself in her prosaic present amid the storm of emotions.
The grind continued, the coffee machine's hiss and the clinking of mugs blending with the rhythm of Hilary's heartbeat. Conversations around her became a distant murmur, the world narrowing to the intimate space between her and the memories that lingered.
In the lull between orders, she allowed herself a moment to glance out the window. The people traveling to and fro in the street beyond the café were unimpeded by its normalcy, oblivious to the tempest that raged within her. The clouds, heavy with unspoken emotions, mirrored the weight she carried.
*☕*
As the morning continued to unfold, each cup served and table cleared became a ritualistic act, a means to distract from the unresolved yearning that nestled within Hilary's heart. There was a void within which she dared not acknowledge, a growing darkness that felt more menacing with every passing moment.
The Lucky Bean, once a sanctuary, had transformed into a landscape of both solace and sorrow. The workaday routine masked the vestiges of an unspoken connection, leaving Hilary to navigate the currents of her own emotions in the uncharted waters of a new life. The day pressed on, a tapestry of missed opportunities and the persistent ache of longing weaving itself into the fabric of her existence.
