This story was written for prompt #30 of ’s first First Indulgence.
The AA group had moved to the big conference room, spoiling Larry’s daily nap. While he supposed it was great that so many people were getting help from the program, this really messed with his routine.
Irritated, he snuck into the small rarely used meeting room in the community center’s basement, tucked himself behind the dusty, abandoned desk in the corner, and settled in for his two-hour siesta.
When he woke, he realized his naptime had been interrupted by a group meeting that wasn’t on the center’s board. He lay still and listened, wondering how he was going to get out without being caught sleeping on the job.
But what he heard interested him so much that he decided to stay a while longer.
“I miss it,” Edgar sobbed. “I miss the blood and the way they whimpered in fear when they saw the knife.”
“There there,” Jane answered, patting the weeping man on the shoulder. “We all feel that way sometimes. But we’re here to go straight together. You can lean on us in those moments.”
Larry held his breath and eased one eye over the corner of the desk. Six people sat in a loose circle of folding chairs. Styrofoam cups, a plate of store-bought cookies, and a cardboard sign that read S.K.A. — Serial Killers Anonymous in cheerful red marker occupied a table in the center like a campfire.
The crying man, Edgar, wiped his nose with a napkin. “I almost slipped last week. This jogger cut through the alley by my place, and —”
“— and you called your sponsor instead,” Jane interrupted brightly.
He nodded. “Right. I didn’t even open the toolbox.” There was a mix of pride and disappointment in his tone.
Polite applause rounded the circle. The sound of palms meeting softly was somehow louder than shouting.
Larry stared. Either this was the most committed improv group he’d ever seen, or he’d stumbled into something that could end with police tape and his face on the evening news. He debated crawling out the door and shifted that direction. The floor groaned beneath him. Someone’s head turned.
“Did anyone else hear that?” asked a woman with perfect posture and a necklace of tiny bones that might have been decorative. Might.
Larry froze. A second ticked by, then Jane smiled. “It’s probably just the pipes,” she said. “Old building.”
Edgar reached for another cookie as the circle relaxed.
Larry didn’t.
Jane clapped her hands, bright and cheerful as a kindergarten teacher. “All right, everyone. Before we close, it looks like we’ve got a new guest tonight!”
Six pairs of eyes turned toward the doorway. Larry ducked; the desk wasn’t as tall as he’d hoped.
A man in a windbreaker stood in the doorway, uncertain, half-inside.
Larry exhaled. They hadn’t seen him. Some poor idiot who’d gotten lost, like always.
“Uh,” the newcomer said, “is this the anger management group?”
“We all manage something,” Jane said, all warmth and dimples. “Come in, dear. Have a seat.”
Larry watched the man shuffle in, accept a cup of coffee, and sit. The group’s smiles were too wide. And way too predatory.
Jane continued, “As you all know, trust is the backbone of our recovery. And trust means transparency. Our new friend will need to prove he belongs.”
The man blinked. “You mean like… introduce myself?”
“No,” said Edgar, dabbing at his eyes with the napkin. “We mean proof.” He said it the way a priest might say sacrament.
The new guy looked around, still clutching his coffee. “Proof of what, exactly?”
Jane’s smile never faltered. “Of experience. We’ve all hurt people. It’s what brought us together. Honesty heals, doesn’t it?” A low murmur of agreement rippled through the circle.
“Look,” he said, half-laughing, “I think I’m in the wrong—”
Edgar leaned forward, the napkin crumpled in his fist. “Everyone says that their first time,” he said softly. “I told myself the same thing.”
Jane touched Edgar’s arm, calming him. “It’s fine,” she said. “Let’s just give our guest a minute.”
They waited. No one drank. No one moved. The hum of the vending machine filled the room like a pulse.
The man stood, flustered. “Yeah, I’m gonna head out.” He turned toward the door.
Jane’s voice sharpened. “We can’t have outsiders, remember?”
Two members rose, chairs scraping on tile.
Larry shrank behind the desk, heart hammering in his throat. He didn’t see what happened next, but he felt the air tighten. Then there was a loud groan — this time it wasn’t him.
Jane exhaled. “Well,” she said after a moment. “Relapse happens.”
A few soft claps. “Good work, everyone. Edgar, will you handle cleanup?”
Larry stared at the dark line creeping across the floor toward his shoes and thought, Not my mop, not today.
For a long moment, nobody moved. Then Edgar bent down, humming tunelessly, and dragged the body out of sight.
Jane straightened the folding chairs. The others returned to their seats, like a class after a fire drill.
Larry’s pulse should’ve been racing. It wasn’t.
He felt… steady. Calm. The smell of copper and cleaning solution mingled in the air, oddly comforting. Orderly. Familiar.
Jane cleared her throat. “Well, that was unexpected. Does anyone else have something they’d like to share before we close?”
Larry rose smoothly from behind the desk before he even knew he was doing it. “I might.”
Six heads turned.
He stepped into the circle, mopping water off his sleeve as if it were etiquette. “Sorry to interrupt. I overheard the first part of the meeting.”
Jane’s gaze sharpened. “You were here the whole time?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Larry said. “Didn’t want to intrude. I just… I think I understand what you’re doing here.”
Edgar looked up, curious, hopeful. “You one of us?”
Larry thought about it. About the years of empty rooms, the endless mopping, the way people never even looked at him when they walked past.
He smiled, small and genuine. “I think maybe I always was.”
Jane’s expression softened, warm again. “Then you know the rule.”
Larry nodded. “Yeah. I figured I’d need to show proof.”
Jane nodded once, business-like. “We’ll need to see something real. You understand.”
Larry did. Of course he did. Proof was how trust worked; even janitors understood locks. Hell, they carried all the keys.
He glanced around the circle. They all looked at him with a kind of nervous expectation, the way children watch a magician reach into his hat. Someone shifted in their chair. Edgar wiped his nose. The only open seat was beside him.
Larry smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “I already brought something.”
He reached into the battered cleaning cart by the door and drew out a folded towel. The room fell silent.
He set it gently on the center table. A dark bloom spread through the fabric.
“I usually take them out behind the dumpster,” he said conversationally. “Less mess. Quieter, too. But I haven’t gone out back yet, and I figured you might appreciate a visual.”
Edgar leaned forward. “You — you did this today?”
Larry nodded, pleased by the obvious interest. “Right before my shift. Habit, I guess. Helps me focus.”
The room stared. Then Jane clapped once, brisk and bright. “Well. Initiative is a good sign. Everyone, welcome our new member.”
Polite applause. Someone offered him a cookie.
Larry sat in the empty chair, grinning like a man who’d just learned he was about to be a father for the first time.
“This is nice,” he said. “I’ve been freelancing for years. Didn’t realize there were still organized folks out there.”
Jane laughed softly. “Oh, Larry. You have no idea.”
After the meeting, Larry helped stack the chairs. He was good at cleanup; always had been. Jane thanked him for volunteering, slipped him a laminated name tag that read LARRY — ONE DAY AT A TIME.
By the time the others filed out, the room looked normal again. No stains, no towels, no Edgar. Just the faint smell of coffee and disinfectant.
Larry wheeled his cart down the empty hall, humming off-key. At the bulletin board by the exit, he pinned a new sign next to the others:
Knitting Club, Wednesdays 6 PM
A.A., M-W-F 8 PM
S.K.A., Thursdays 8 sharp
He stepped back to admire his work.
Then he turned off the lights, locked the door, and whispered, almost fondly, “See you next week.”
—
‼️ If you liked this story, you may want to read some of my other fiction.
💀 Did this tale give you hope your special group is out there? Buy me a cup of existential dread and maybe I can write one for you…
Nice
Wow…. Very good.