All Around Me Are Worn Out Faces Novels & Stories

I want to sleep without listening for footsteps. Is that too much? The wind blows softly through the windows of the compound. It carries the sound of music from a bar somewhere. Laughter follows it. Stone City celebrates while I hide. I finish one loaf slowly. Wrap the second one carefully. That one must last until tomorrow. I stand up. Brush dust off my jeans though it makes no difference. My reflection in a cracked piece of glass nearby startles me. My face looks older than twenty-two. My cheeks are slightly hollow. A small scar runs near my eyebrow from a fight I didn't start but couldn't avoid. My eyes… they look tired. Not the kind of sleep that can be fixed. The kind that comes from fi

I know I can always learn it, but I feel like cooking isn't just for me. The thing about Monday is that everyone has their own version of Monday-morning faces: sagging, gaunt braced, resigned, ugly. Some are still yawning like they needed thirty minutes more of sleep; some shoulders were sloppy, almost like they've been carrying heavy weight all their lives. The streets were populated with crawling Monday-morning faces, which prompted me to pause for a brief moment to look at my face in the mirror. Nah, I look good. I continued driving.

The day I was released from prison, I was wearing old clothes that had been washed so many times they had lost their color. I was so thin that I was little more than skin and bones. I looked nothing like the bright, handsome Carter Quince I had been five years ago. Riley West was waiting outside in her car. “Carter, you’re finally out.” I looked up, revealing a face that wasn’t mine, covered in scars. There was even the word "trash" carved into it.

I stand around, confused, and feel completely useless. I walk around the wolves, looking at them more clearly in the daylight. They are skin and bones. It looks like they were only fed enough to keep them going. That, or they didn't have enough food. The whipping wounds were obvious on their backs, and the smell of infection was so strong it was nauseating. I look at all the broken faces looking around with confusion and panic. Not sure what is going on or what to do next. I don't recognize any of the faces though.

Sophia stood outside the glass doors of St. Clair Industries, staring at her reflection. The woman looking back at her wasn’t the same one who had walked through these doors weeks ago. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, her once soft features now sharp with exhaustion. Grief had stripped away every ounce of warmth she used to carry.

All were a pallid grey, whose faces were etched with a grim emptiness. “Something’s wrong with these people,” she said. “I can feel it. Or more like, I can hardly feel anything from them at all.”

Just people trying to heal without the polite vocabulary. I greeted Rosa with a hug. She squeezed me back like we were both holding each other’s broken pieces in place. “New faces today,” she murmured. I nodded, glancing around. Among the usuals, there were two unfamiliar figures. One, a man in his sixties with weary eyes. The other—a younger woman clutching a notebook like it was armor. People always carried something. Usually unseen. Like I had. Like I still did. The meeting started with the usual check-ins. Anger. Progress. Relapse. Everyone’s truths stacked like bricks, one after the other, building something fragile but real.

What stood out the most were the faces of the pack members. The faces of the pack members were sober, their eyes clouded with a mix of sadness and fear. They looked as though they were expecting to get attacked and their loved ones killed again, which would happen if we didn't get things in order soon. I could sense the weight of the battle still lingering in the air, the trauma and loss still fresh in their minds. As I walked, I noticed that the pack members were all keeping a safe distance from me, their eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

Then I turned away. “We leave at dawn,” I said, my voice steady. “There are still people out there who need us. And there’s still work to be done.” The others nodded, though exhaustion was evident in every movement. We were tired. We were broken. But we were not defeated. As we started walking back to what remained of our camp, a sudden gust of wind blew past me, cold and sharp like a whisper against my skin. A whisper that sent chills down my spine. **This isn’t over.**

I pulled up to the parking lot and some minutes later, I was already in the hallway. As I entered the room, I was met with a mixture of somber expressions, their faces a testament to the weight of their concerns. My wave, though well-intentioned, felt like a fragile bandage attempting to cover a deep wound. The look they had on their faces whenever they came here was different, a sense of trepidation hanging in the air like a challenge.