by Allan Deligi
Tom wasn’t the kind of man people noticed—not in a good way, anyway. He moved through life like a shadow, a worn figure. His once-thick, vibrant-red hair had receded into a few pale, wiry strands that clung stubbornly to his scalp. His ears stuck out too far, his teeth were crooked, and a jagged scar ran from the corner of his left eyebrow down to the right side of his jaw, splitting his face in two like an old, broken mask. Most people winced when they saw it, their expressions shifting just enough to remind him how ugly he was.
In truth, there were only two things Tom liked about himself: his eyes. They were an unusual shade of blue-gray that always caught people off guard. Depending on the light, they could look deep as the ocean or cold as steel. His eyes were his armor, the one part of himself he could rely on. When he fixed his gaze on someone, he knew they would falter under the weight of those icy orbs.
But there was only so much armor could do when the world insisted on reminding him how ugly he was.
When Tom was seven, his parents died in the car accident that left him scarred. After the accident, he lived with one of his aunts, Helen. She only kept him for the government checks, making no effort to hide her resentment. The rules there were simple. Don’t ask questions. Don’t expect affection. Don’t stay in sight when there’s company. When he was growing up, he often asked himself why she hated him. What had he done to her? He later understood that ugliness meant evilness.
When he turned eighteen and the checks stopped, so did any pretense of care. She told him to leave without a second thought, and he did. From that moment, Tom knew better than to expect kindness from anyone. People weren’t kind unless they wanted something.
Years passed, and the scar hardened into a part of him. So did the loneliness, but it was easier that way. You couldn’t miss what you never had. The fewer people in your life, the less they could hurt you. It was simple.
The years hardened him. His cold stare became his most reliable defense, a way to push people back before they could get too close. It worked on everyone.
So when Anna approached him at the warehouse that morning, Tom was sure he knew exactly what she was thinking.
She was younger than most of the workers, probably in her mid-twenties, and too clean for a place like that, with soft brown curls that caught the light in unexpected ways. She saw him before he could disappear behind a stack of pallets.
“Hey.” Her voice was light but uncertain. “You’re Tom, right? I’m Anna. I’m the new intern.”
Tom gave her a slow, deliberate stare, the one that usually made people look away before they could mock him. But she didn’t. She just smiled, her brown eyes steady, as if she were waiting for him to say something. She even wrung her hands a little, as if she were the nervous one.
“You’ve got really beautiful eyes,” she said finally. “They’re so unique.”
Tom blinked. His first instinct was to laugh. It had to be a joke. Compliments were uncharted territory. Was she serious? Every instinct told him to brush her off, to let the coldness in his gaze do the talking. However, her face stayed open and sincere, as if the compliment was just . . . a fact.
“Thanks,” he muttered, the silence between them stretching a second too long. It felt strange to say something that wasn’t a defense or a retort. He glanced away, suddenly unable to meet her gaze.
“Yeah . . .,” Anna murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Well, I’ll see you around,” she said, and then she was gone, her footsteps light against the concrete floor.
Tom stood there for a long moment, unsettled. His eyes had always been a weapon—a warning, a barrier. He couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t been enough to scare someone off. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
The next day, Tom arrived at the warehouse early, as he always did. He liked the quiet of the mornings before anyone else showed up. It was easier to work without worrying about sneers or whispered comments.
But to his surprise, Anna was already there, struggling to carry a heavy crate across the floor. She wasn’t supposed to be lifting things—that was his job. Interns were usually stuck with paperwork or sorting inventory.
He hesitated for a moment, his first instinct to keep his distance, but as he watched her strain under the weight, something tugged at him. With a sigh, he walked over, clearing his throat to announce his presence.
“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep lifting like that,” he said gruffly.
Anna looked up, startled, then smiled—a smile without a hint of mockery. “Oh, hey, Tom. Yeah, I just needed to get this stuff to Mr. Mullin’s office, but I guess I bit off more than I could chew.” She stepped back, letting him take over. “Thanks for the help.”
Tom adjusted his grip on the crate and lifted it with ease. When he returned from dropping it off in Mullin’s office, Anna was still waiting, leaning against a stack of boxes.
“You’re here early,” she said, brushing a stray curl from her face.
Tom shrugged. “Helps to get a head start before everyone else shows up.”
Anna nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. Mornings are quieter—it’s nice.”
Tom studied her, expecting some hint of pity in her expression, but there was none. She just seemed . . . genuine.
“Thanks again for the help,” Anna said, smiling. “And hey, if you ever want to talk, I’m around.”
Tom blinked, caught off guard by the offer. It wasn’t pity or an attempt to fix him. It was just . . . there. A hand held out, if he wanted to take it.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Anna smiled once more before turning to leave. “See you around, Tom.”
He watched her walk away, her figure disappearing into the maze of crates. People like Anna didn’t talk to people like him unless they had a reason. He knew that much from experience.
But Anna . . . she seemed different, and that unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain. She hadn’t looked away. She hadn’t laughed or made some snide comment. She had just . . . seen him.
Tom let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, rubbing the back of his neck. His whole life, people were either a threat or indifferent, and both were manageable in their own ways. He had learned how to keep threats at bay, how to deflect and shield himself, and he had learned how to blend into the background for those who didn’t care enough to notice him.
He turned back to his work, picking up another crate and setting it onto the nearby pallet. The noise of the warehouse was picking up now, the hum of machinery and the chatter of workers filling the space. As Tom adjusted a stack of boxes, he caught a couple of guys from the loading team walking toward him, their voices loud as they joked with each other.
One of them—Mark, a burly guy with a loud laugh—called out to Tom, his tone half mocking. “Damn, Tom! You planning on holding onto those last few hairs forever? Man, you look like a scarecrow that got hit by a lawnmower.”
The other—Kevin—cackled, nudging Mark’s arm. “Or a chicken that lost a bet.”
Tom felt the familiar surge of anger rising in his chest, his fingers tightening around the crate he was holding. He turned slowly, fixing his gaze on Mark, the coldness settling in his eyes—a stare as sharp and cutting as ice. He didn’t speak; he let his eyes do the talking, the silence between them growing thick and tense.
Mark’s laughter faltered, his grin wavering as Tom’s stare bore into him, unrelenting. The air seemed to grow colder, the mocking expression on Mark’s face slipping into something more uncertain. He tried to hold on to his bravado, but Tom could see the flicker of unease, the way Mark’s eyes shifted, searching for support.
Kevin, who had been chuckling beside him, suddenly found the floor far more interesting, his gaze dropping as he shuffled back a step. Finally, Mark muttered something under his breath and turned away, nudging Kevin to follow, their footsteps echoing as they hurried off.
Tom watched them go, a familiar sense of satisfaction settling in his chest. It was the reaction he was used to, the one he had cultivated over the years. He wondered if they thought he was a serial killer or something.
And yet, as he turned back to his work, lifting another crate and feeling the weight of it settle in his arms, Tom found himself thinking of Anna again. She hadn’t looked away, hadn’t hurried off like Mark and his friend—and she had stared right into his eyes. She had smiled genuinely and offered him something he wasn’t used to: kindness without strings, without expectations. That unsettled him more than Mark’s insults ever could.
He shifted his weight, the cold concrete beneath his feet grounding him in the present. It had been a long time since anyone had made an effort to see him. Not the rough exterior, not the coldness in his eyes, but the person underneath. He had spent so long building up walls, fortifying himself against the laughter, the sneers, the comments that had followed him like a shadow his entire life.
But now, with the warehouse slowly coming to life around him, the distant sound of forklifts and voices echoing through the space, Tom felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name. A longing, maybe. A curiosity. What would it be like, he wondered, to let someone in, even just a little? What would it be like to have . . . someone. Someone who didn’t want anything from him, someone who wouldn’t use his vulnerabilities against him, but someone who cared?
It was a dangerous thought, one that made his chest tighten with fear. He had spent so long keeping people out, building his armor piece by piece, that he wasn’t sure he even knew how to let someone in. The idea of it made him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.
And yet, there was something about Anna that made him want to try. Just once. Just enough to see if maybe, just maybe, there was a different way to live. A way that didn’t involve walls and coldness and the constant weight of isolation.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts, but they lingered, stubborn as ever. Maybe it didn’t matter right now. Maybe he didn’t have to decide anything. Anna had offered her hand, and for now, that was enough. He didn’t have to take it, not yet, but he could consider it. He could let the possibility sit with him, let it simmer in the quiet corners of his mind.
Tom turned back to the crates, his hands finding the familiar grooves of the wood, the weight of the task anchoring him. He had work to do. The world around him was the same as it had always been—dusty, loud, unrelenting. Within him though, something had shifted, just a little.
Over the next few weeks, Anna kept appearing in the quiet moments between shifts. She never pushed, never pried. If their paths crossed, she’d offer a small wave or a quick smile. It wasn’t much, but it felt like something. Somehow, without meaning to, Tom found himself nodding back.
They never shared personal stories. No deep conversations or promises to meet outside of work. Just little moments—a laugh over a backfiring forklift, a quiet lunch eaten side by side on a stack of pallets. It was . . . enough.
On Anna’s last day, they sat together during lunch, the hum of machinery filling the space between them. She scrolled through her phone, curls falling across her face.
After a while, she glanced at him. “You know, Tom . . . I think you’ve spent your whole life waiting for people to hurt you.”
He stared at his chicken sandwich, unsure how to respond.
Anna shrugged lightly. “Some people, sure, but not everyone.”
Tom didn’t look up, but her words hit a steel plate inside him, slowly grinding their way through.
She stood, slinging her jacket over one shoulder. “Take it easy, Tom.”
He nodded, watching her walk away until she disappeared between the stacks of crates. She didn’t leave a phone number or promise to stay in touch. It wasn’t that kind of goodbye.
Tom sat there a little longer, her words turning over in his mind.
The warehouse buzzed around him, same as always. Dusty, loud, unrelenting. Only now, something had shifted.
He picked up a crate and hefted it onto a pallet. It felt lighter in his hands. Something clicked. The world around him didn’t change, wouldn’t change, couldn’t change.
But maybe he could.
Category: Featured, Fiction, Short Story