Nothing goes right for Steven Grant.
He remembers everyone's names, nobody remembers his. He starts conversations with people, they turn away. He helps others out, they don't thank him for it.
Most say he's not quite right. Harsher people call him fucking mental.
But he keeps trying.
He turns up at work every day with as big of a smile as the last, greets everyone even when they say nothing in return, and does favours for people who won't remember it. Afterwards, he catches up with a living statue, who has never said a word back to him, and sends voicemails to a mother who never calls back.
He goes home to nobody, chains himself to his bed at night, and tries not to sleep. He fails, and wakes up feeling as though someone's beaten him within an inch of his life. He goes to work, wincing every step of the way, and gets shouted at for ten minutes for being late again.
Nothing goes right for Steven Grant. But he keeps trying.
"Morning, J.B!"
"Alright, Scotty?"
"It's, er, Steven, actually- and hi, Donna!" Steven's early for once- and despite a throbbing ache in his back, like he's landed on it too hard, he's chipper as always.
"Don't smile at me like that, Stevie, it's scaring the living daylights out of me," Donna says, with her trademark irritability. "What are you planning? You're here early for once, so you're gonna cause trouble another way?"
"It's Steven... And I don't plan trouble," Steven protests. "It just... comes to me. Through no fault of my own. You know when you're just minding your own business, going about life, and a really annoying person jumps in to ruin your day?"
"Yeah, I do," Donna says, staring at him intently. "All too well, actually."
"Well, that's what it's like for me, so I feel like I'm the victim in this- oh. I understand what you're saying."
"That makes a nice change, don't it?" Donna sticks her tongue between her teeth and jerks her head towards the counter. "Now get behind that till, and don't you say a word to customers that isn't related to jelly snakes and Egyptian themed pens."
"Ok... but there's a lot of trivia that doesn't get touched upon in this exhibit that I think they'd find really-"
Donna waves a hand through the air, cutting him off. "Jelly snakes and pens, Stevie!"
Shoulders slumped, Steven shuffles over to the cash register. Sometimes the visitors do like to listen to him talk. He's not a complete liability. Despite his gloominess, his drooping face instantly returns to a beam when a father and his daughter shuffle up to him.
Time goes by at a crawl. As he hands over pens and packets of jelly snakes, Steven lets his gaze wander across the museum floor. Families bundle around exhibits, with small children pressing their faces against the glass. Couples link hands, on a museum date- Steven would love to try that one day, but at any other museum than this one. His coworkers occasionally band together, sharing giggles whenever they get time to themselves.
He stands behind the counter alone.
For a moment, he imagines being as happy as one of them. He'd say, 'hey, J.B!' and J.B would say, 'Alright, Steven?'. Maybe he'd have a girlfriend, who'd drop in on his lunch breaks and tell him about her day, before asking about his. And Donna would smile at him when he arrives at work instead of scowling- and offer him a well-paid tour guide gig on top of it.
That would be fun, he thinks. Having people like that in his life. But-
"Stevie, will you pick up your jaw and serve your customers?" Donna's hiss breaks through his daydreaming. "Doze off again, and I'll brain you!"
"Oh, sorry!" There's a line of museum visitors waiting by the till, all staring at him. "What can I get you?"
"Some good service," the surly customer at the front of the queue says.
- nothing goes right for Steven Grant.
It was fun to think about, at least. He'll keep trying.
After work, his coworkers decide to visit the local pub for a pint. They don't ask Steven if he wants to join them, but that's okay, because he doesn't drink anyway. He thinks he'll buy some new, fancier fish food for Gus instead, just as a special treat.
On the bus, he rings his mother.
"Hiya, Mum!" he says to her voicemail, as he has done for... a while, now. "Sorry, I can't chat for long, I'm just on the bus and it's a bit crowded. I just wanted to let you know that everything's alright, as per usual, and that you don't need to worry about me. I miss you, though. It'd be great if you could call me back soon. I don't have big plans tonight, so I'll be free if you want to call then- or you can even just send me a postcard at some point, if you're too busy. Just let me know how you're doing, yeah? A- Anyway, I love you Mum, talk soon... Laters gators..."
He thinks she might write him another letter, like she normally does when he leaves a lot of voicemails. That's okay. He likes reading what she has to say, even if he does want to hear her voice once in a while.
Sliding his phone into his pocket, he leans his head against the window, staring out at the city rolling by. He wonders what his coworkers are talking about at the pub. Maybe they're laughing together about the child who threw up in one of the exhibits, or venting about work, or discussing their fellow employees' romantic lives at length. Steven's not that big on gossip, but he imagines it would be fun having long conversations with others, laughing with them about mundane things.
Yet here he is on the bus, about to go home to only Gus as company. Not to say he doesn't love Gus- that little guy has been with him through thick and thin- but he doesn't talk. He's in a similar predicament with the living statue. Lovely bloke- but not much of a conversationalist.
Oh well. At least they're great listeners.
One day it'll all change, he tells himself, as he watches groups of friends jump on and off the bus. There's a world beyond the British Museum. With eight billion people on this planet, there must be someone out there interested in what he has to offer. His time will come. He doesn't need to mope about it.
He just has to keep trying.
Sixteen stops before he gets to the pet shop, and there's a hell of a lot of traffic... Gus had better be appreciative of his new food, given how bloody far he's travelling for it. Steven closes his eyes, thinking he's got enough time to unwind before he gets there-
- and jolts up in bed.
With his eyes as wide as anatomy allows, Steven bends down to touch his ankle. It's muscle memory by now, every time he wakes up.
He's got the ankle restraints on, and it's two-thirty in the morning.
It was a dream? All of that was a dream? Steven has incredibly vivid dreams, but that one was so normal. And boring. It was... wait.
... He's sweating all over. Why is he sweating?
Steven's eyes flicker up to Gus' tank.
"Gus, mate," Steven calls out to his one-finned friend in a trembling voice. "I reckon I should invest in a body-cam."
Gus floats among reeds, far more serene than his companion.
"No, it was a dream," Steven says under his breath. "I'm in bed, it's half-past two- I was dreaming. Probably tossing and turning, that's why there's all this sweat... Bleeding hell, that must be the most depressing dream I've ever had. I did a whole shift at work and then I woke up? I got stuck in traffic and all..."
He sinks back down onto his pillow. Everything in the dream is crystal clear to him. The shift at work where he watched everyone enjoying themselves, sending his mum a voice message, sitting on the bus and telling himself he'll find his people some day...
It'll be a bit hard to do that, he thinks, when he doesn't even know if he's in the real world half the time.
No, he'll keep trying.
He supposes he can do it tomorrow, when he's awake and among other people. It'll be a fresh start to the day, he tells himself. This time it'll actually be real. He just has to go to sleep and start again.
Should he sleep? Steven hesitates- but the unusual tiredness he feels pulls him further down into his mattress. He's managed the night okay so far. It can't hurt...
The next day at work, despite having gone back to sleep, he feels exhausted. But he shakes it off. Weariness won't drag him down, nor will the confusion that murks his mind. He's trying.
"Hi, J.B," he says brightly, when passing security.
"Morning, Scotty."
"It's-"
Steven's interrupted by a near-holler of, "Stevie!"
Donna stands by a glass case and looks rather like she wants to shatter it. This sight doesn't bode well for Steven, who has no idea why she looks like that.
"G- Good morning, Donna...?" he tries.
"Stuff the morning, it's nearly afternoon!" Donna snaps at him, for once not caring one jot about how loud she is in front of the visitors. "Stevie, you're a bone-idle good-for-nothing git! You're two hours late!"
Steven checks his watch, then stares at her. "What do you mean? It's eleven?"
"You don't see a problem with that?" Donna says, eyes flashing.
"No...? My shift starts at eleven on Thursday this week-"
"Yeah, only it's not flaming Thursday, is it?" Donna says. "You did that yesterday! Today's Friday, when you start at nine!"
What? "Friday?"
Sheer disbelief shows on Donna's face, something that's different from her usual impatience. "Yeah, Friday! Check the calendar, or better yet, check the front of your sodding phone!"
Steven does just that, and indeed, the word 'Friday' is on his lockscreen.
There's no way.
"But I didn't work Thursday," he says, but his voice is soft, barely audible. "I- I didn't. Or... I didn't think it was real..."
"You didn't think it was real? Y'know what, you have got a screw loose, Stevie," Donna says, shaking her head. "You are absolutely mental. And I don't have time for you today. Sling your hook. You'll be on inventory for the next two weeks."
Steven is rooted to the spot, unable to move or talk or even think.
"It's no wonder you're Billy no mates, I can't imagine having to be the poor sod who deals with you out of work hours. Didn't think it was real..." Donna continues to chunter under her breath. When he continues to stand in the same place, unmoving, she adds, "What are you standing there gawping for? Get to work!"
Nodding shakily, Steven hurries inside. His mind is ticking so fast he barely registers anyone around him, causing him to inadvertently knock into several people on his way to the counter.
It's Friday. But it's supposed to be Thursday. The Thursday Donna talked about was supposed to be a dream.
I must be losing it, he thinks, staring at his reflection in the glass case of goods on the counter. Despite how rigid his muscles are, he looks surprisingly put together, far more so than he feels.
He doesn't talk to anyone else for the rest of the shift, too caught up in his own head. Nobody approaches him. He hears them whispering, though.
Not even the living statue is there to listen to him when the day's over. Once again, he goes home alone, and wonders if things are always going to be like this.
Nothing goes right for Steven Grant. He doesn't know if he should keep trying.