Nicolle Rotilli-Serra

Extract from No Epitaphs

Ezra steps into the community centre, the air a warm blanket that soothes his aches from the cold. The floor feels rubbery under his feet, familiar. It almost squeaks under his boots, and his cane taps are muffled by it, something he’s somewhat glad for. Ezra hates when the sound echoes on hard floors and draws attention he doesn’t want. People’s clear confusion at his age and visible disability, at how haggard he looks. It’s easy to see their pity sink into suspicion when they take in the brown of his skin and his ratty clothes. It’s around that point that Ezra starts getting itchy for a fight. It’d be easy to make people stare for a reason, have them watch him for something he chose. The doors behind him swing open again, and the gust of cold against his back snaps Ezra out of his thoughts.

Refocused, he allows muscle memory to lead him, as trying to actively think about the way makes him realise how long it’s actually been since he’s had to. It’s been a few years since he’s let nostalgia lead him back this way. Ezra drifts down past cheap yellow doors, making a few left turns, and finds himself automatically slowing to a stop. He looks up, and low-and-behold, it’s the very door he needs.

There’s a soft chatter coming from behind it, and Ezra pauses a moment. He could just leave. Doesn’t have to go in. Could find a park somewhere, smoke his last few cigarettes and try to stay somewhat warm. He doesn’t need to fall back on old routines. Somehow though, the thought of being alone, while usually comforting, sends his pulse racing. He frowns, shaking his head trying to clear it of the creeping fear. As if barely an hour of sleep and a shower could wash away the trauma of last night. His hand automatically goes to his chest, resting over his scar.

 A laugh sounds behind the door, and Ezra makes up his mind, heart panging. It sounds familiar, and stirs up memories of times when he’d looked forwards to the comradery of these things. It feels wrong to be using the group as an excuse to avoid interaction, but he’s selfish enough to want to surround himself with something normal. Something distinctly un-supernatural. He pushes in quietly, heading straight for the table set up with drinks. Two dispensers sit on one side of the table, the other side set up with plates of biscuits and crackers, cups, and boxes of tea. Ezra eyes the bourbons and custard creams, before grabbing a paper cup and allowing himself a quick glance around the room.

The repurposed room is large, but not the fullest he’s ever seen. Most people who were going to show up already have, and they’re all already standing or sitting in little groups. Ezra keeps his gaze fixed on his tea, avoiding eye contact. He hopes they’re distracted, intending to stay clear of conversation before the meeting starts, and fails almost immediately. As he’s pouring milk into his cup, someone comes up beside him.

“Ezra Rai, my man!”

 It’s too late to leave again but Ezra spares a glance towards the door anyways. So much for avoiding people who know him. Taking a sip of tea before turning, he looks up at the familiar face. Grinning warmly down at him, his twists pulled back into a short half-up half-down look, is Nathan Omondi.

“Hiya Nate.” Ezra says finally, putting his cup down on the table. It’s good that he does, because Nate quickly wraps a friendly arm around his shoulder in a warm, one-armed hug. Ezra doesn’t mind being jostled slightly by the greeting, and appreciates the gesture in fact. He remembers the issues they’d had when they first met. Nate, very tactile, friendly, and slightly older; Ezra on edge, suspicious, and freshly homeless.

Ezra was still growing accustomed to sleeping on the streets at the time. His paranoia was ramped up to an all time high, and was severely embittered by his lot in life. A friendly shoulder punch went down wrong one time, and Nate quickly changed tactics. Not that it was hard to send Ezra into a quasi-violent panic attack in those days, but Nate wasn’t the kind to put his own comfort above people’s triggers. Newly discovered ones or not. Years later, Nate has kept up with his accommodation, and it makes Ezra surprisingly warm.  

“How’ve you been, how’s Faizah? You guys still living together?” Nate asks, words coming out quick and excited. The man could talk about almost anything with the same enthusiasm most people reserved for football, birthdays, or puppies. This Ezra knows from experience, having spent much of his late teens hearing about Nate’s interest of the week. Ask Ezra now what he remembers about tardigrades or tannins, and he wouldn’t be able to tell you, but he’d spent many a peaceful afternoon just listening to Nate chatter.

He snorts softly at the question, and the timing of it. Maybe it was a little stupid on his part to come here, where people know him and his history. The place he’d go for Shul is just around the corner, and nearer to that, the kitchen Faizah used to volunteer at, the one where they’d met. He didn’t think that coming to this meeting  would bring up so many old memories, but then again, he supposes there’s a reason he chose not to come to this particular meeting anymore, and it isn’t his work schedule. No, the reason for that is standing right in front of him, kind brown eyes fixed on his face. Nate knows him too well, cares about him too much. It’s more than Ezra deserves. Nate’s brows draw together, forehead wrinkling in faint concern as he takes maybe too long to respond. Ezra lightly rubs at his chest as he thinks how to phrase things nicely.

“Yeah, yeah. Still living together. I mean, it’s Faizah, she’s great.” Ezra picks his tea back up, leaning on his cane with his other hand. He takes a short sip, looking away briefly. “I’m fine, busy. Work you know.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Nate jokes, and Ezra looks back up, sees his blue volunteer shirt, and raises an eyebrow. 

“Very funny. Maybe I should let you get back to work?”

“If you must,” Nate says with a hint of put-on drama to his tone. With a roll of his eyes, Ezra lightly elbows Nate in the side.

“Sorry it’s been a while.” He says softly, and while Nate’s smile has been warm this entire time, it brightens and widens until his eyes crinkle.

“Man, it’s fine. That’s life, innit. Visit more than once every few months, and we’ll be even.”

Ezra smiles slightly, though it feels a little tighter than he means it. “Sure, yeah, an attempt will definitely be made.”

It’s Nate’s turn to snort, and he shakes his head fondly. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Grab a seat, yeah? Think Keith’s ready to get started.”

Ezra looks back across the room, people starting to move towards the wide circle of chairs set up in the centre of what he assumes is usually a sports hall. The floor is the same rubbery material as outside, though made to look like a light-coloured wood. It’s painted in lines and semi-circles of different colours. Red, yellow, and blue all cross over each other, and Ezra’s eyes follow one of the shorter lines to the other side of the room. Spare tables sit leant up against the wall opposite the door, a few stacks of chairs beside them. Behind them, on the furthest most wall, an emergency exit. Ezra chucks his cup in the bin, and turns his attention back to the snacks table.

“Don’t be a stranger, Ez. You take care, okay?”

“I’ll try.” Ezra says, looking up again. Nate smiles a small smile. Ezra thinks maybe it’s a little sad around the edges.

“No you won’t.” Nate says, and Ezra winces a little. His shoulders hunch under the weight of this familiarity. He hums and tries to shrug off the pressure of being known. Nate nods towards the chairs, signalling again that Ezra should sit down. With a sigh, and biscuit, Ezra walks over.

Ezra used to help put the chairs out, back when he spent near all his time at the centre with Nate and Faizah. Before his health took a sharp turn for the worse. Before his visits got less and less frequent. It’s not like they’ve not got people to help with that now, but something like guilt, nostalgia, or maybe even loss pangs in his chest all the same. Sure, he’d mostly helped to avoid talking to people more than he had to, but it was still something. Something that was his. What does he have now, aside from things he’s letting die?

He folds himself into a chair as carefully as he can, and holds his cane between his knees, safety strap still loosely hanging off his wrist. Others take their seats, and his gaze drifts from person to person. He thinks he spots an old hookup’s familiar face, but other people step into his line of sight and he doesn’t look around for them. Probably for the best. If it is who he thought it was, they hadn’t ended on good terms. He’s smacked lightly with the sleeve of a denim jacket as a woman removes it to sit to his left, blonde hair short and undercut, black sports bra visible from the cut open side of her muscle tee. She mutters an absent apology, and Ezra shrugs it away.

The rules are the same as always, and Ezra zones out for them. Everything is confidential and nothing said is to be shared outside of group; try to share experiences, not advice; don’t judge people; don’t be rude, don’t have side conversations when people are sharing. That sort of thing. Ezra tries to stay focused for introductions, but loses track of who’s who by the time it gets round to him. He barely realises it’s his turn until Frank, the woman beside him, lightly elbows him. He looks up with a blink, glancing round the circle.

“Oh right, uh. Ezra. He/him.”

Nicolas sits to his right, a stocky guy who sits with his long legs kicked out in front of him, and talks a lot with his hands. Beside Nicolas is Sky with the blue hair, and so on.

“The meeting is now open, if anyone would like to share?” Keith asks when eventually the circle comes back round to him.

Ezra’s been to these meetings countless times over the past six years, and even still, every time he’s supposed to open up, the idea of vulnerability makes him itch. He knows it’s supposed to be healing, to be helpful, but he can’t. If he brings down his walls for these people, his would-be peers, what’s to say they won’t hurt him too? All he has is his privacy. So he doesn’t say much, he just listens, gaze flickering from strangers, and to the room behind them. There’s a short uncertain moment of silence before the first person speaks up.

“Last week I’d said I was struggling to find somewhere new to live, but I’ve got good news for once,” they start with an awkward laugh. Lin, Ezra thinks their name is. Their undercut hair is pulled into a high ponytail, straight, long, and inky black. They play with the end of it as they chat about their progress and how they’re settling into their new community. Their star-studded boots jitter nervously as they go on about making new friends. People around them congratulate them, some leaning forwards in their seats to do so. The creaking of plastic chairs and the rustle of clothes intermixes with the conversation. Lin smiles, visibly but modestly excited. The white light of the room flickers. Ezra frowns, looks up to see what caused it, and can’t find anything. He starts distractedly bouncing his cane handle from palm to palm.

Someone else isn’t sleeping well, nightmares, and when invited to by Nate, another person chimes in. Something about their voice stands out strangely, and at first, Ezra can’t quite place why. Maybe an accent? He thinks they sound American. Yet another person chimes in, and Ezra loses interest. He has his own nightmares to worry about, if he can even get to sleep, and doesn’t really have any advice to give. What could he possibly say, don’t eat cheese before bed? Sleep better next time? Or some empty sympathetic: ‘Wow, that sucks, I feel you’? He doesn’t see the point.

Outside of the circle of bodies, there's a flash of movement. His already drifting attention is snapped away, and his eyes are drawn towards the corners of the room. The lights don’t quite illuminate the outer edges of the hall. They’re darker, and shrouded in shadow from the stacks of chairs and tables. The shadows don’t seem any different to how they were before. Not any darker, nothing moving or hiding in them. There aren’t any windows for trees to be casting shapes from, so where could the sense of something moving have even come from? It’s nothing, Ezra decides with a nod to himself. Though he could have sworn— No, it’s nothing, must have been. Ezra frowns and rubs a hand over his face, closing his eyes for a moment.

“My dad keeps trying to contact me,” comes that American accent again, and Ezra allows his attention to settle on the group again, opening his eyes.

“He’s using lawyers and everything.” The guy raises an envelope he’s got in his lap, shaking it with a little laugh. “It’s a bit pathetic really. We only spoke once and he was dismissive the whole time, didn’t want anything to do with me or my… proclivities.” He puts a disdainful emphasis on the final word, and drops the envelope back onto his lap. People sitting beside Ezra hiss in sympathy, and he frowns along with them.

“That’s fine by me, I didn't want to work for him anyways. But now—” The American lets out an explosive sigh. “Moving is hard enough, you know? Even without the culture shock, time zones, and job searches. Don’t need dear old pops on my ass too.”

The conversation is turned out to the group, and Ezra’s increasingly foggy brain tries to stay on track. He wants to pay attention, really, he does, but then, again, something in his periphery shifts. He thinks he hears a hissing behind him, almost feels something cold brush against the back of his neck. He turns quickly, jerking away from the touch automatically. His chair shifts with the force of his movement. His cane clatters to the floor. Ezra barely notices. There’s nothing behind him.

Ezra looks back and forth quickly, frustrated. The door is there, and the same stacked chairs and standing whiteboards. Nothing different about them. There’s nothing above him either when he looks up to checks for pipes or vents. There is one difference though, the room is quiet. He turns back to the group slowly, glancing down to find Frank has already picked up his cane. He takes it with a nod and mutter of thanks.

“You alright, Ezra?” Nate asks from across the circle, and Ezra forces a smile onto his face.

“Yeah, sorry. Just a random shiver.”

“Right,” Nate gives him a strange look, but turns a warm smile to the rest of the group. “This seems like a good enough place for a break. Let’s all take ten and rejoin after, yeah?”

People stand, and Ezra quickly makes his way out for a smoke.

***

Chronic Fatigue experts recommend against smoking, saying that it doesn’t help his already terrible sleep and poor energy levels. He knows he shouldn’t be. His health is terrible as is, but Ezra is habitual, and hasn’t quite gotten around to quitting, despite his diagnosis not being quite so new anymore. He’ll quit, and find himself falling onto old patterns when he’s stressed. It’s fine. He’s fine.

Ezra steps out the emergency exit into the alley behind the community centre. It’s shadowed there, the sun not quite able to reach through the building and the one next to it. Ezra ignores the bins down the way, and settles himself against a wall, leaning against it for balance. His cigarettes come out and he tucks one behind his ear, briefly acknowledging the shift of his hair into his face with a sigh.

It’s when rummaging in his bag for his matches that Ezra hears footsteps approaching. He ignores them, and his fingers brush the match box briefly. He huffs in frustration, fumbling it a few times, but finally fishes it out, and moves the cigarette to hold it between his teeth.

“I hope you’re not here for the smoking group too,” comes a sarcastic voice from the door behind him. American. Ezra still doesn’t look up, focusing on getting his cigarette to light.

“No, clearly I’m here for the brownies meeting,” he says dryly, once he manages, breathing in soon afterwards.

“Can’t be, they only come in at five,” the other responds, and Ezra looks up with a raised eyebrow. The first thing Ezra notices about him is that he’s tall. Very tall.

Not that that’s saying much, considering his own height, but it’s enough that Ezra is almost annoyed by it. Thick dark hair falls into grey-blue eyes, and his grin looks almost jackal-like. Not warm or friendly, but pointed and sharp. Ezra’d seen him earlier, at group. Recognises the accent, obviously, not many Americans around; but sitting down across from him, Ezra hadn’t figured he’d be so damn tall. He’s wearing a leather jacket now, over the faded black long sleeve Ezra had seen before, and the large brown envelope he’d been gesturing with hangs loosely at his side.

Ezra pulls his cigarette away from his mouth, and angles his face away slightly to exhale. He almost lets his eyes shut in relief, but restrains himself. Humming a short sound, Ezra frowns a little as he thinks.

“The smoking group isn’t actually here yet, right? Didn’t think they came in ‘til late,” he asks, feeling vaguely guilty. He’d rather not ruin someone’s progress because he’s bad at quitting. The other guy laughs and shakes his head.

“Nah, not yet.” He gets out a tin from his pocket, taking out a prepared rollup and snaps it back shut again before asking, “You got a light?”

Ezra offers him the matches. The box is a dingy old thing he’d nicked from a pub once a few years ago, and found recently when his lighters had all run out. The guy nods his thanks, and reaches out to take it, long pale fingers lightly brushing Ezra’s own as he does.

“Thanks,” he says, striking a match. He tilts it to the side, getting the flame to grow little, before lowering it. He doesn’t light the roll up between his lips, but rather sets fire to the envelope. It’s that nice kind of envelope, the type that usually carries important documents, with a thick piece of card holding it straight. Expensive, Ezra remembers from his brief stint at working at a stationary store. It goes up in flames regardless of price, and Ezra watches absently, not quite awake enough to question it. He just looks up, eyebrow raised as this stranger holds the flaming papers at the right angle so the fire spreads. Then, lifting it, he lets the flames lick the end of the cigarette and lights it. He hums in satisfaction, and drops the envelope, letting it fall to the floor before he burns his hands.

“Oh fuck off,” Ezra says with no bite, not quite managing to hide his grin.

The stranger looks up with an unreadable look, flames sending flickering warm yellow light across his face. Absently, Ezra notes that he has very nice cheekbones.

“Bit dramatic,” Ezra adds, and the guy shrugs.

“I like drama,” he says, and Ezra breathes a short laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, “sure looks like it.” He doesn’t need to gesture down at the flaming papers between them, and the guy quirks his lips up slightly in what could be interpreted as a smile.

“Maybe I just really hate getting mail,” he responds, before holding out a hand. “I’m Adrian.”

Ezra takes the hand, “Ezra.”

They shake.

Adrian’s palm is warm and calloused, something they have in common apparently. Both of them have visible knicks and scars across their knuckles, though Ezra’s stand out a littler starker in contrast against the brown of his skin. When Adrian pulls away to stomp out the lingering fire, Ezra is still distantly aware of that warmth against his palm. He wraps his hand carefully around his cane before he does something stupid, like look at his hand and imagine it being held again. He focuses on what he came out here to do, smoke, and does so until Adrian hums thoughtfully.

“The cameras out here don’t work, right?”

Ezra shakes his head, faintly amused.

“No,” he says, “Haven’t for a few years.”

“Good.” Adrian says decidedly.

Ezra thinks that’s probably something he should have considered before setting a fire in clear view of them. Bit stupid really.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” Adrian continues, and Ezra purposely turns his attention to his cigarette, needing an excuse to look away.

“No, you probably haven’t,” he says lightly.

“But Nate knows you,” Adrian says, and it’s not a question.

“I switched to Wednesday's meeting a few years ago.”

“That’ll be it,” Adrian says, and then looks back at Ezra with a grin. “I saw your face when Rick spoke.” At the mention of Rick, Ezra scrunches up his face in distaste, just like he must have done earlier. He hadn’t even really been aware that Rick had even spoken.

Ezra sighs. “Ah. Him. He’s a self absorbed prick, but I probably shouldn’t make fun of him.” He looks up, “Bit mean.”

“Yeah, just a bit.” Adrian snorts softly, “It’s alright, I won’t tell.”

Ezra rolls his eyes.

“Oh thank you,” he says flatly,  before smirking just a little bit. “It’s fine, we don’t really get on. He thinks I have a… negative outlook on life, and I think he’s a stuck-up twat. S’why we stopped hooking up.”

Adrian grins, “Oh that explains the stink eye he gave you.”

“I usually go to Wednesday’s meetings. Better to avoid him that way. ” Ezra says again, and Adrian laughs a little. A laugh that peters out as they turn back to their respective cigarettes and fall into a surprisingly amicable silence. Minutes pass and Ezra feels himself actually almost relax. He goes to tap out his ashes without thinking about it, and looks down to realise he’s basically down to the filter. He puts the cigarette out against the wall with a sigh.

Adrian stops, puts out his own cigarette. “If we go back in, you think they’ll still have those cookies?”

“The tea biscuits? Yeah.”

“Great, I’m starved,” Adrian says. “Best thing about these meetings.”

“Absolutely.” Ezra agrees, “Free biscuits are the only reason I come to any of these anymore.” 

“Completely fair,” Adrian says, nodding faux sagely, pretending the twitch of his lips doesn’t give him away. They step up to the entrance, and Adrian holds open the door for him. Ezra doesn’t feel his usual flare of anger at being helped for some reason, and walks in, nodding his thanks. Maybe it’s the lack of pity in Adrian’s face, or his own lack of sleep. Anger takes a lot of energy, and Ezra can’t be arsed for once. His cane-clicks echo as he makes his way over to the table with snacks, and he’s still there when the meeting starts up again.