Don’t You Remember Me?

Don’t You Remember Me?

The scent of grease clung to Eli’s clothes, seeping into his skin no matter how many showers he took. The restaurant where he worked was never truly clean—tables sticky with syrup, carpets faintly damp from old spills, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He wiped down a booth for the third time, not because it needed it, but because movement was the only thing that distracted him from the gnawing emptiness in his chest.

A vibration in his apron pocket pulled him out of his trance. He pulled out his phone, expecting a coupon alert or a reminder from his manager. Instead, he read the words that would cleave his world in two:

“Eli… she’s gone. I’m so sorry. Mom passed an hour ago.”

The rag dropped from his hand. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow, his knees trembling beneath him. He read the message again, and again, as though repetition might change the words. His mother. His only family. His anchor, his warmth, his reason to keep going. Cancer had been chewing away at her for months, but she always smiled when he visited, insisting, “I’m okay, sweetheart. Don’t worry about me.” Now she was gone.

He stumbled to the back, muttered something about taking his break, and fled through the employee door to his car. Inside, grief hit him like a tidal wave. His sobs came raw and violent, shaking his body as he pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. Tears soaked his cheeks, blurring his vision until the world itself felt unreal.

“I’m alone now,” he whispered to the empty car. “Completely alone.”

The thought clawed at him. His mother was the only one who had ever truly loved him. He had no father, no siblings, no extended family worth mentioning. Just her. Now the last thread connecting him to anything resembling home had snapped. He wanted to drive. To leave and never come back. But bills waited, and his rent wouldn’t forgive him for grief. So he wiped his eyes, straightened his apron, and went back inside.

Eli’s earliest lessons weren’t about math or grammar—they were about peace. His mother, a quiet woman with gentle eyes, raised him on the belief that violence solved nothing. “People who hurt others are really just hurting inside themselves,” she’d say, brushing his hair back after another long day at school. “You must never let their pain turn you cruel too. Promise me, Eli.” And Eli had promised. He never raised his fists, not even when Ryder started in on him in second grade.

Ryder was bigger, louder, hungrier for dominance. He shoved Eli into lockers, tripped him in the cafeteria, spat words like loser and freak until they clung like stains. Ryder laughed when Eli cried, laughed harder when Eli stayed quiet. One day, after Ryder and his friends dumped Eli’s backpack into the mud, Eli came home trembling with fury. His mother held him as he wept, begging her, “Why can’t I hit him back? Why can’t I make him stop?” She cupped his face with both hands. “Because if you do, you’ll become like him. And you’re better than that.”

So Eli swallowed the anger. Year after year, punch after shove, insult after humiliation, he held it in. He buried it so deep he thought it might disappear. But anger doesn’t vanish. It ferments.

By evening, the restaurant filled with the usual crowd: tired families, cranky kids, couples stretching cheap date nights. Eli moved on autopilot—smile, greet, serve, repeat. Then the bell over the door jingled, and Eli’s blood ran cold. Ryder. Older, but unmistakable. Still broad-shouldered, with the same smug swagger. But now a woman walked beside him, holding the hand of a boy who looked no older than seven. The kid carried Ryder’s grin, sharp and mischievous.

Eli ducked behind a pillar, heart pounding. Maybe they’d be seated in another section. Maybe he’d slip by unnoticed. But fate was cruel. Ryder’s voice cut through the restaurant like a blade. “Hey! Waiter!”

Another server glanced at Eli. “He’s asking for you.”

Eli’s throat tightened. Slowly, he approached the booth, pad in hand. Ryder squinted, then his face lit with recognition. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He leaned back, smirk stretching wide. “Don’t you remember me?”

The words sliced through Eli like glass. He wanted to lie, to say no, but Ryder didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s Ryder. Ryder Hensley. Back in school? Man, we had some good times, didn’t we?” He chuckled, elbowing his son. “I used to make this kid’s life a living hell. Shoved him in lockers, made him eat dirt once. Classic stuff.”

The boy laughed on cue. Ryder’s wife, however, looked away, discomfort etched on her face. “Ryder,” she murmured, “that’s not funny.”

“Relax,” he snapped. “Guy survived, didn’t he?” He turned back to Eli, eyes glinting. “You survived, right, Eli?”

Eli’s voice was brittle. “What can I get for you tonight?”

The meal dragged on like a punishment. Ryder mocked him whenever he passed, sent back his steak twice, and dropped his fork just so Eli would have to bend and pick it up. Each time, the boy laughed, imitating his father’s sneers. The wife ate little, eyes fixed on her lap.

When the check came, Ryder barked a laugh. “Tip? Get a real job.” He tossed cash onto the floor. “Oops.” His wife scrambled to pick it up. Eli stood motionless, fists clenched so tight his knuckles ached. Ryder swaggered out with his family. Eli let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. But relief was short-lived. Shouting erupted outside.

Through the windows, diners gathered, whispering. Eli heard Ryder’s voice, louder than ever. “Don’t you ever interrupt me while I’m speaking!” Then—crack. The sound of skin meeting skin. Gasps rippled through the restaurant.

Eli didn’t think. He bolted outside. Ryder’s wife clutched her cheek, tears streaking her face. Ryder loomed over her, hand raised again. But before it could fall, Eli caught his wrist midair. “Don’t,” Eli growled.

Ryder spun, shock flashing before rage. “You? Still trying to play hero?” He shoved Eli back. “Mind your own business.”

Eli stood firm. “This is my business.” Ryder swung first. Eli ducked, years of suppressed fury propelling him forward. He grabbed Ryder’s arm, drove him to the ground. Gravel bit into their skin as they grappled.

“Still the weak little freak!” Ryder spat. “You’ll always be nothing!”

The words ignited something deep inside. Memories exploded—locker doors slamming, laughter echoing, nights of silent tears. Then Ryder spit in his face. Something snapped.

Eli’s fists crashed down, one after another. Years of buried rage found release in every blow. “You called me nothing!” Crack. “You ruined my life!” Crack. “You never stopped!” Crack, crack, crack.

The world blurred. He wasn’t in the parking lot anymore—he was back in middle school, surrounded by laughter and cruelty. His mother’s voice echoed faintly, pleading, “Don’t let their pain turn you cruel.” But Eli couldn’t stop. Hands tugged at his shoulders, voices shouted, but they barely registered.

It wasn’t until Ryder’s son screamed—a high, terrified wail—that Eli froze. He blinked down. Ryder’s face was a ruin of blood and swelling, his body limp on the asphalt. Eli staggered back, chest heaving, his hands slick with crimson.

The boy sobbed into his mother’s side. Patrons stared in horrified silence. Eli looked at his knuckles, trembling, dripping with the life of the man who once tormented him. “What have I done?” he whispered.

Sirens wailed in the distance. People murmured, some in shock, others in judgment. Ryder’s wife clutched her son close, eyes darting between Eli and her husband. Eli stood frozen, the weight of years collapsing on him all at once. He had broken the promise he made to his mother. He had let anger consume him, let Ryder drag him down to his level.

For the first time in his life, Ryder was silent. And for the first time in his life, Eli was terrified of himself.