The Rise Of A Broken Man

Three

All he saw was red throughout the day, and he wanted to punch something, but up until now, he was able to reel in his emotions, because the last thing he wanted to do was screw up this for himself, this job he was grateful for.

Before Hector left the prison, and promised to find him a job, he had doubted he would ever get a job at all. He was an ex-convict, whether or not he liked it, or what made him that was his fault.

He had no college degree; he didn’t even finish high school. But thankfully, during his sentence, he had been able to earn his GED and complete a certification in automotive repair. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him through the door; enough to make him feel like maybe he still had a chance to start over.

He had spent years under fluorescent lights fixing broken engines just to survive, now, doing it for a paycheck felt almost like redemption. Almost.

Still, seeing them again; the Curtises, had ripped open wounds he thought had scarred over. Every time he replayed that moment in the shop, Diana’s voice, Sean’s face, his hands shook.

He gritted his teeth and tightened another bolt on the engine in front of him, forcing the anger back down. He couldn’t lose control, not here. Not now.

If he wanted his freedom to mean anything this time, he had to hold it together.

“Hey, Devon.” Hector called him as he walked into the back room, a grin on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked and Devon nodded.

“Yeah, why won't I be?” he asked.

Hector shrugged. “I don't know, you've been on edge since… I don't know, but I noticed it.” he said.

Devon gritted his teeth, hating that he hadn't been able to keep his emotion in check. “I'm fine, just a bit hungry, that's all.” he said.

“Good. Miguel invited us both to his house later this evening for a cookout, with some of the guys as well.”

Hector’s grin widened. “His wife’s making carne asada, man. You don’t say no to that. Trust me, you’ll dream about it for a week.”

Devon wiped his hands on a rag and gave him a look. “I don’t really do crowds.”

“It’s not a crowd, it’s a backyard and a grill,” Hector said, leaning against the workbench. “Couple of guys from the shop, Miguel’s kids running around, music, beer… normal stuff. You could use some of that.”

Normal. The word sat heavy in Devon’s chest. He had spent twelve years watching the world move on without him; normal was a language he hadn’t spoken in a long time.

He tried for a smile anyway. “I don’t know, man. I wouldn’t exactly fit in.”

“Bullshit,” Hector said, smirking. “You work hard, you keep your head down, and you fix cars better than half the guys here already. That’s all anyone cares about. You think Miguel gives a damn about your past? He invited you, didn’t he?”

Devon hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll go. But only for a bit.”

“That’s the spirit.” Hector clapped him on the shoulder. “And wear something that doesn’t smell like engine grease, yeah? I’m not showing up with the ghost of the shop.”

Devon huffed a quiet laugh. “No promises.”

As Hector walked off, still talking about food, Devon leaned back against the workbench, telling himself he needed to get his feelings sorted and put on a mask more. He needed to be unreadable, ice cold.

It was the only way he wouldn’t be hurt or taken for granted anymore. He had after all, been taught that being soft, could be the fall of a man.

Sighing, he rubbed his temple, and walked to his locker to get changed. He needed to get to the target store to get himself some clothes, not the ones he had brought out from prison.

He got out of his overalls and wore his faded jeans and T-shirt, the same ones he had gotten while still in prison. They were worn thin but clean and good enough for now. He slipped on his jacket, the fabric still carrying a faint scent of motor oil and the outdoors, something that oddly grounded him.

As he shut his locker, his reflection caught in the small dented mirror on the inside of the door. For a second, he didn’t recognize the man staring back; short-cropped hair, tired eyes, a jaw always tight with restraint with the five o’clock shadow on his face.

All the years behind bars had carved out the boy he had once been, leaving only edges and silence in his place.

He blew out a breath slowly and shut the door with a metallic clang.

The Target was a fifteen-minute walk from the shop. He could’ve asked Hector for a ride, but he preferred the quiet, the space to think. The city around him was alive; honking cars, kids yelling near a bus stop, a woman laughing into her phone, and yet, he felt like a ghost moving through it. No one looked at him twice, and that was how he wanted it.

A lot had changed since he was last on the outside world, the kind of cars now, trucks, the people, the houses.

Inside the store, the bright lights made him squint. He grabbed a basket and wandered to the men’s section, scanning the racks like he was searching for something more than just clothes.

He picked up a plain button-down, grabbed two black t-shirts, one short sleeved and one long, and two pairs of jeans that actually fit.

Moving slowly, his eyes caught a belt and he picked it up, then he picked up two white Tshirts, and a pair of grey ones. He picked up a pair of grey sweats and a black one, then a simple black hoodie. Nothing fancy, just things that would make him blend in, disappear.

Those were all the clothes he needed to look… decent, and not like some thug.

At the checkout, the cashier; a girl who couldn’t have been older than twenty, smiled at him. “You finding everything okay?”

He nodded, avoiding her gaze. “Yeah.”

“Big plans tonight?” she asked, scanning the clothes.

“Something like that,” he said, his tone low but he made sure he was polite. He might be angry at the world, but he was cultured enough to know he shouldn't take it out on innocent people.

When she handed him the bag and wished him a good evening, he managed a faint, awkward smile. “Thanks.”

Outside, the sun was dipping lower, and Devon stood for a moment by the curb, clutching the bag in one hand. He told himself it was just a cookout, just food and a few laughs he didn’t have to join in on.

But somewhere beneath the hardened surface, a small, uneasy part of him wondered if this was the start of something; something dangerously close to living again.

Sighing again, a habit he realized he was leaning more and more into since his release, to keep him off the edge, he told himself to get home to his apartment, and shower, so that he could get himself to Miguel’s on time.

Oh, right! First, he had to pick up a bottle of cheap wine. He wasn't showing up in someone’s house to dinner empty handed.