Same location… Or pick another, just for fun.
Mark sat on the futon’s edge, his leg nervously bouncing as he stared at the digital clock atop his dresser. It read 11:58 PM; the numbers flickered in random bursts as the apartment’s problematic electricity stuttered, per usual. The clock seemed exhausted from its lifetime of outages, yet Mark always reset it to the correct time, despite the persistent, sickly longing he saw in the clock’s wan flashes, as if it yearned for the sweet, blissful release of death. Mark could relate, but wasn’t brave enough to lose an equal, even an inanimate one.
The sole light in the room, an uncovered bulb dangling from the creaking roof on a rusty chain over the middle of the space, irritatingly just off-center, flickered in sync with the clock; without realizing it, Mark matched its tempo with his leg in a double-time rhythm. Perhaps if someone had been there to point this out to him, he may have suddenly remembered the passion for drumming he’d had in his youth; the revitalized interest would reinvigorate him and pull him out of this terrible slump. He could relive his dreams and remember the glory days, maybe even recreate them in some faithful, imperfect yet still satisfying form; or, at the very least, he could be able to think of a good memory.
But no, he was alone, as he had been for a long while, with nobody to help him rekindle the fading flames lining the halls of his past, so he kept staring at the clock, watching an imaginary hand tick across its digital face, and tried to remember why he had chosen midnight to do this. The date itself had meant something when he had been planning this, and there had to be a reason why he had picked it, and why he had specified it had to be done at midnight. Seriously, the thought was just on his mind, but the imaginary clock hand kept batting his plan away, leaving only the draining pangs of a nervous apprehension he had hoped wouldn’t be present. As far as he was concerned, it was that very feeling that had caused this, that led to this plan being his last and only resort. It wasn’t a welcome sensation, familiar though it was, and he hoped–
The time changed to 11:59.
He gulped, reached down to stop his leg from shaking, and watched the nonexistent clock hand tick and tock away the final, fateful minute. As if it had been waiting for its cue, Mark’s confidence suddenly returned and surged within him, and although it didn’t bring any reminders as to why he had chosen midnight (self-assurance rarely equals knowledge), it at least brought forth his conviction that he could, indeed, pull this off. It had been four years, thirteen and a half months, five weeks, and nine days since he had formed this plan (according to his hasty, anxious calculations) and finally, finally, the moment of fruition had come. Here on this spot, on this futon, he was going to accomplish what he had set out to do so long ago and finally kill–
Mark suddenly frowned and studied the futon beneath him. It would… it would be a shame to stain this, really, he thought. It’s not a… I mean, it’s not perfect, but it’s not a bad– Y’know, who wouldn’t want a good futon –– in this economy? But if I don’t do it here, then… He started to scan the apartment for a better location to… do the deed, so to speak. The main area was just one room; a kitchen with a half-sized refrigerator and a two-burner stove occupied one corner, and in the other was a twin-sized bed, with only the bathroom –– a tiny, chartreuse-tiled alcove near the bed –– providing another space. The scan of his apartment –– an area in which a somewhat substantial portion of his life had passed, where he had grown into the man he was now –– less than five seconds.
As his eyes landed back on the clock, the time changed to midnight, and he leapt to his feet, his mind racing. He had to hurry; if not on the futon, then where? The bathroom? He didn’t want to do it in a bathroom of all places, how belittling. There was the kitchen, but… was that any better than a bathroom? His thoughts became distracted for a bit while he pondered this, but the lights flickered again, and 12:00 flashed on the clock once more and reminded him what needed to be done. It was still waiting for him, as it had been for years, always waiting, inside his dresser, right next to the bed; in the drawer underneath the clock, actually. He could just do it there, in front of the dresser, right? Surely, he didn’t want to ruin his bed either, in case someone wanted it along with the futon, so he could… Well, maybe he could aim more towards the kitchen, since it might be easier to clean the tile. He gulped again, feeling guilty that someone would have to clean up the mess he would leave behind, but…
I’ll tell them sorry, too. Promise. Just… Add them to my list.
He walked over to the dresser and reached for the top drawer, his hand clenched on the recessed handle as he steadied himself for a moment, then jerked it open. Inside were dozens of socks with various designs and shades of white, loose and unorganized, but something rattled as the drawer was opened, and at a certain angle, light glinted off a hidden object: the gun. Mark pushed aside the socks until it was uncovered, then he grabbed it and removed it from the drawer. He knew it weighed less than two pounds, but the cold, uncaring metal in his hand felt very heavy.
“Ok,” he said aloud, gulping once again. Let’s do this. He turned his back towards the kitchen, catching the time in his periphery –– 12:01.
After all this waiting… he had mistimed it. Another failure in his life.
His shoulders slumped, and for the briefest of moments, he considered just waiting until the next midnight and trying again then. But he reasoned that the important part was that he was doing what he had planned to do, not how close he got to the correct time. No one would fault him for being off by a single minute. Only an asshole would. There was a word for someone that needlessly nitpicky, but he couldn’t think of it, and just brushed the thought aside.
Stop wasting time, no more procrastinating, no more waiting, no more… Just no more waiting, stop waiting. Start with– Check the pistol’s loaded, start there. He thumbed the safety off and tried to pull the slide back with one hand, but found it too difficult and had to resort to holding the gun between his knees while he yanked the slide with both hands. It cocked back and a shell flew from the chamber, having already been loaded in; surprised by this, Mark let go of the gun and it landed on the carpet with a metallic thud.
POP!
At first, Mark assumed the weapon had fired upon impact –– an assumption based on the extensive knowledge of firearms he had gained through action movies and mass media –– but, bizarrely, also assumed he had been shot as a result. He fell to the floor with a puny yelp, dramatically grasping at his heart (the most likely target for the bullet, undoubtedly), but didn’t find a gory hole as expected, nor any wound at all; maybe bullet wounds weren’t visible to the naked eye, or took a while to start bleeding and didn’t hurt in the slightest. After a shockingly long period of internal debate, he abashedly concluded that, miraculously (or unfortunately, he wasn’t sure yet) he hadn’t been shot. For once, Mark was glad he was alone, and no one had been around to see his embarrassing reaction to a random noise.
Ok, so then… what was that sound? Did the main breaker finally blow? Did someone else shoot themselves?
He clumsily got to his feet, warily staring at the gun on the floor. Smoke wasn’t wafting from its barrel, the smell of fresh gunpowder couldn’t be detected, and aside from the one Mark had accidentally ejected, there didn’t seem to be any bullet shells on the floor; he could plainly see the lead projectile still in the one he had accidentally ejected, so that hadn’t suddenly fired after landing on the floor, either. The sound had been loud, conceivably the same volume as a pistol firing, but he was too inexperienced to say so confidently; yet, the more he thought about it, he ascertained the noise must have come from out in the hall. His vision darted towards his front door, to the peephole in its center, and he sprinted over and placed an eye against the lens.
A few rats were crawling about, like normal, but unless one of them had suddenly exploded, Mark doubted they had caused the noise; he had no idea how often rats suffered from spontaneous combustion, but supposed there would be blood and guts everywhere if that had been the case, and he didn’t see any, so that was ruled out. Across the hall, his neighbor’s door stood closed, also unlikely of making the sound, but he wondered if maybe it had come from inside her apartment; it’s possible she was even in need of help. He vaguely recalled hearing a woman shrieking right after the sound, muted by the walls (and his own screams, in all likelihood) but wasn’t sure if he just imagined it, or was misremembering. Mavis, or Marla, that was her name, something like that. He reluctantly looked over at the gun on the floor, waiting for him, and gulped yet again.
No, if… if someone needs my help, if Marla needs my help, then I… Mark closed his eyes and sighed, then slowly exhaled. There was a distinct possibility that Mark was only choosing to aid his neighbor as an excuse to back out of his plan; it wouldn’t be the first time he had failed to follow through after becoming “distracted.” He had no reason to suspect any harm had come to Marla; honestly, he actually thought the apartment’s main circuit breaker exploding seemed the most likely of scenarios (incredibly, he failed to notice that was impossible, since the electricity was still on) but had little difficulty in dismissing that in lieu of helping Marla. He did, however, manage to at least keep a mental reminder that once he had helped her and came back, he would…
Though his eyes were closed, the image of the gun laying on the floor, waiting to be picked up, always waiting, was as present and prominent in his sight as if he was staring directly at it; somehow, the vision seemed to bear the same weight as the pistol itself.
But Marla needed his help, which managed to outshine that hefty picture, strangely. His eyes shot open, and he grabbed the doorknob and twisted, and with a self-assurance that had been missing in him for years, Mark swung his door open and stepped out into the hall, then walked over and knocked on Marla’s door.
- ??
Jeremy eyed the cordless phone in his hand, and with his other, absentmindedly plucked the cigarette from his lips, slowly exhaled smoke in a narrow plume, then placed the cigarette back; it dangled there while he watched the phone, the ember and ash twitching with every quiver. He was counting, not aloud, but occasionally his lips moved as they silently mouthed the numbers in his mind. These weren’t numerals of formulas or proofs he was mentally rattling –– he was simply just counting; more specifically, counting to sixty.
“Fifty-eight,” he mumbled, his eyes glued to the phone, “fifty-nine, sixty.” He stared at the phone, confusedly blinking. “Uh… sixty-one, sixty-two–” Finally, on the phone’s display screen, right next to the battery life and signal strength, the time changed to 11:58 PM.
Jeremy snorted, took another drag, then plucked the cigarette from his lips again. Ash scattered everywhere as he blew out the smoke and stared at the phone, then started quietly counting to sixty again; he sped through the first couple, just to catch up.
Although inside his apartment were several semi-functioning devices that still seemed capable of telling time –– the digital clocks of the microwave or coffee pot, for example –– they all garishly flashed midnight in synchronous, neon bursts, all the same shade of pale yellow-green. Knowing the exact time rarely mattered to Jeremy, so he hardly bothered with correcting them anymore. He used to, after one of the complex’s many power surges reset them, but eventually he had simply resorted to using his cordless phone, which always had the correct time. Only an idiot –– a complete moron –– would bother with changing them back after every outage. Besides, other than the intermittent need to verify when the police shifts were changing, the only time that usually concerned Jeremy was whether it was night or not, if it was late enough that most people were asleep in bed, and he certainly didn’t need a clock for that.
Still, it was very important that Jeremy knew the correct time tonight, as he was expecting a call at exactly midnight, thus he stared uneasily at the clock on the phone, nervously chain-smoking all the while. He had been doing this for the past fifteen minutes or so, and had nearly smoked all his cigarettes; he couldn’t remember when he had started counting the seconds down in his head, but it must have been at least nearly five minutes ago. He tried to refrain from saying sixty aloud again as he reached it once more, but he had timed it perfectly and the clock changed to 11:59 right on cue, so he couldn’t stop a “–ty!” before it escaped his lips.
He was almost there, just one more minute to go… and then Asa would call. Numbers flashed in his head again as he counted down that last minute, but moved to the background as he replayed the phone call with Asa he’d had the day before.
“Tomorrow,” Asa had breathed on the other end, and Jeremy had shuddered, the phone pressed against his clammy ear. “Midnight. I’m gonna call you. Answer.”
He could remember becoming worried as to why Asa didn’t say whatever he needed to say then, but Jeremy hadn’t been foolish enough to ask, thankfully, and just hoped his answer didn’t sound as high-pitched to Asa as it did to him.
“Got it, got it, yeah, of course, no problem man, no problem. But uh–” Jeremy cleared his throat, then cleared it again. “I– I just wanna clarify though: tomorrow midnight as in like… tonight at midnight when it becomes tomorrow, or like, when tomorrow it becomes midnight for the next–”
“Tomorrow!” Asa had yelled into the phone, causing Jeremy’s ear to instantly ring. “Not tonight –– tomorrow! Got it?!”
“Yup, mhmm,” Jeremy had mewled in response, cringing in his seat, stammering several affirmations before helplessly finishing with, “Got it. I’ll be there. On the other– on the other end of the phone, I mean. I, uh–” But then Asa had hung up. Jeremy’s mouth had felt incredibly dry afterwards, and he licked his chapped lips as he clicked the cordless phone off and set it back in its cradle, before returning to his seat –– a simple folding chair, rusted beyond folding anymore –– to think about his life, the steps that had led to that moment.
The truck. The package. That fucking guy with the Cajun accent. In this city, of all places, God. The cops. The mob. The cops owned by the mob. And then Asa, and his little ratty Pomeranian, and its beady, black-eyed, soulless thousand-yard stare. (Jeremy had never learned the dog’s name, and was grateful for this; he assumed saying it out loud three times was how one summoned the creature from Hell). And lastly, the call he was expecting at midnight –– Asa’s call. Jeremy had waited by the phone the previous midnight anyway, in case he had misunderstood Asa, but there hadn’t been a call, and he knew that meant it would be this midnight. And so now he sat on his folding chair, watching the phone and waiting for it to ring, signaling either the next step in his life… or the last one.
Jeremy reached sixty early once again, and tossed the cigarette down on the floor amongst the crumpled carcasses of the others he had already smoked, crushed it under the heel of his tattered skate shoe, and lit another while he waited for the time to change. And then finally –– 12:00. He almost choked on the smoke he had just inhaled, then shoved the cigarette between his lips and clutched the phone with both hands, hunched in his seat as he smoked and watched the phone, anxious of the moment when it would ring and the display would at last flash brighter and say: INCOMING CALL
He hadn’t realized a full minute had passed until the phone said 12:01. He frowned and blew another plume of smoke from out the corner of his mouth, then hunched down closer to the phone, tightening his grip on the plastic receiver (it’s unclear whether or not he genuinely thought these actions would help Asa call). But when the time changed to 12:02, he bolted upright in his seat, terrified that maybe he had misheard after all. “Tomorrow at midnight” replayed over and over in his head, and as panic suddenly surged within him, Jeremy began to crazily suspect that midnight meant something different to… whatever Asa’s people were. The man had an accent, that much was clear to Jeremy, and his unibrow was particularly… ethnic was the only word Jeremy could think of on the spot, but he didn’t like the bitter taste it left in his mouth, which now seemed especially dry once again. He grimaced, licking his palate to moisten it as he stared at the phone (and, hopefully, remove the taste of ambiguous racism), waiting for the call from the… Person of a different culture, Jeremy hesitantly finished; he wasn’t sure if that sounded any better.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
But then it became 12:03, and Jeremy excitedly entertained the idea that maybe Asa wasn’t going to call at all. He relaxed a bit in his seat, and started to think that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten out of everything scot free. It’d be a goddamn miracle, nothin’ but pure luck, but… God, I… I’ll take it. His luck hadn’t been that good lately, not like it had once been, in his youth, in his heyday, but he had felt for years that he was due some any day now, and… Well, hot damn –– maybe everything was going to be ok.
POP!
The phone flew from his hand as he dove for cover behind his coffee table (his only piece of furniture other than his folding seat, even his bed was just a futon mattress laying on the dirty hardwood floor), shrieking at a pitch high enough to make dogs whine, and cowered behind its thin faux-wood frame. The table top was at most an inch thick and provided absolutely no protection from the gun-toting intruders that were sure to come barging in at any minute, but Jeremy stayed behind it anyway, his hands white-knuckled on the edge, peering over the top at his front door.
Whatever the sound was had been loud, so it must have been one of Asa’s goons firing a warning shot in the hallway, toying with Jeremy and revealing their presence so he could crap his pants with fright before they executed him, laughing as his brains and blood and shit trickled down the walls, and the life faded from his eyes –– it must have been. But as he listened for the goons to make the next move, he heard a door open and close somewhere down the hall, off to his right, followed by knocking a few moments after on his other neighbor’s door –– the hot neighbor. Well, that just… That just sounds like it’s the old man knockin’ on the hottie’s door, or that other guy, Nate, or somethin’, that idiot. Obviously, no one’s shootin’ him so… Jeremy gulped. So there’s no… There’s no one out there –– no one’s comin’ for me. Huh… My bad. He blinked a couple times, then his brow furrowed. Damn, did the breaker finally blow? Nah, can’t be, power’s still on. Wait, did– Maybe it came from that hottie’s place? Is that why Nate and the old man– Holy shit, did the hottie just blast herself?!
Jeremy had no particular desire to save anyone else’s life but his own, and as he already had a hard enough time just doing that, it was rare that he would choose to actively participate in assisting others –– stealing from them when they weren’t looking, that was more his thing. But he understood that if he did, in fact, avoid yet another pitfall in his path –– if Asa wasn’t going to call, or send hitmen after him, or maybe even had forgiven him –– then perhaps it was fair to… To give back, Jeremy weakly finished, once again displeased with the phrase’s aftertaste. At the very least, his neighbor across the hall was super hot, and if she needed help, that could provide an opportunity for him to slip in and give her a hand –– which he meant in every context. Didn’t I hear her scream after whatever that noise was? Maybe that was a death rattle or somethin’.
Slowly, he let go of the coffee table and rose to his feet, and studied his front door, waiting for one of the culturally-different goons to burst through. But no one did, and the knocking happened yet again, like a literal calling to go out and investigate the hottie’s health –– and other parts –– so Jeremy took a deep breath, let it out in a rush, and walked towards his door. When he reached it, he stared through the peephole across the hall at his neighbor’s apartment; the door was closed, and no one was there. Weird, he thought with a shrug, assuming she had already turned Nate down and he had gone home, like the dejected loser he was; Jeremy decided to go over and check on her anyway. She was hot enough to make it a worthy attempt, and if Nate had been removed as an opponent (not that he ever was one, the mopey little pissant), then Jeremy suspected he still had a decent chance something would come of it.
Without another thought of the terrifying conversation he had potentially avoided with Asa, Jeremy opened his door and stepped out into the hall, failing to notice his phone –– which had fallen to the floor by his bed, set to “mute” as it landed –– flashed INCOMING CALL on its display.
- ??
Maila leaned against the countertop in her kitchen, too tired to stand anymore, too angry to stand anymore. The letter she had received earlier was still in her hand, but had become torn and wrinkled from the many times she had read it, crumpled it, unfolded it, and repeated the process; her eyes would flit side to side as she scanned over the text, which buzzed in her head in the bastard’s voice, before coming to the words she hated most and immediately becoming so furious she would crush the letter into a ball and toss it down on the kitchen tile. At a certain point, reading the letter was no longer even necessary (she had essentially memorized its bold, narcissistic contents), but the entire act was beginning to verge on an unhealthy, compulsory obsession.
It took several minutes for her to calm down enough to pick up the letter and start again, and this cycle had been going on for well over an hour, but she was unaware of this; she hadn’t been paying any attention to the time. (She wore an analog wristwatch of decent quality, and on the wall in her kitchen hung her sole clock: a black Kit-Cat model, with big, bloodshot, goofy eyes that moved in sync with the tail underneath, which swung like a pendulum. She had smartly decided long ago plug-in clocks were worthless in an apartment building with as many power surges as this one) .
If she had looked over at the clock, or at her watch, she would have read 11:55, but she was too distracted –– arguably, justifiably so; a fiery anger had been lit during the last hour, the letter fanning the flames whenever she would pointlessly reread it, and the blaze had nearly consumed her by this point. She felt as if she had been reduced to nothing more than a smoldering pile of ash and regret, the embers still burning hot, but only glowing faintly, blackening then turning gray as they slowly flickered out. Heat still emanated from the coals, warming her hands to an uncomfortable degree, and it was this she blamed for causing her now to once more smooth out the letter, and reread it; she couldn’t explain how the hell that made sense as an excuse, but wasn’t in the mood to care, and just let her thoughts become lost in the letter’s pompous, spiteful words.
“Divorce,” they said, in the first paragraph underneath the imposing, regal letterhead and address of the firm representing the bastard. “Irreconcilable differences.”
It’s not my fault if I disagree that refusing to grow up, and having your head permanently stuck up your ass, counts as a disability. Way to play the victim, again, you damn man-child.
“Suggested mediation,” the letter said on the next page. “With professional guided counseling, couple’s therapy, and recommend court-appointed psychologist.”
Well, I recommend a doctor, probably a full-on surgeon, to perform that Cranial-Rectal Removal you so clearly need. Asshole.
“Suspected drug use,” the letter said a few lines after; it was always here where her anger became especially riled. “Incident at P.D. involving narcotics resulting in the opposing party’s termination. See Subsection C, Section 3 for submitted evidence.”
It really shouldn’t surprise me that if there’s one thing an asshole’s good at, it’s spewing shit. See previous thoughts for my evidence, dickbag.
“Supervised visitation,” the letter said a few pages later, stoking the coals once again, breathing life into the flames until they roared into a raging fire once again, cruelly reaching from her gut to her broken heart, then voraciously lapping at its gaping fissure and cauterizing the wound. This, however, did not heal the tear; her anger –– her scorching wrath –– notwithstanding, she could not ignore that terrible ache in her heart, which again and again tore open and was seared shut. Needless to say, that sorrowful, perpetual agony had exhausted her, as well; as she continued reading, too tired to do so but too angry to not, she stayed leaning against the countertop –– it was the only thing keeping her standing. Further down the same page were the words that were the most painful for her, six words in particular; they were strung together into one line, but their very weight –– and the unbearable hurt they afflicted on her already-shattered heart –– led her to read them in single, devastating sentences.
“Full. Parental. Rights. With. Full. Custody.”
The letter blabbed on for several more pages afterwards, largely regarding the possession of certain items allegedly belonging to the bastard, all of which Maila had noted almost exclusively belonged to her, then concluded with a suggested visitation schedule for her to see her son: “… from 1:55 PM to 3:15 PM, every other Tuesday or Thursday, alternating respectively, excluding holidays.” The process of crumpling the letter in her fist, unfolding then rereading it, began on her first rereading, usually right after the six horrible words she loathed so much; she had only read through the entirety of it that first time. But she was too weary now to crush the letter in her fist anymore, so she continued on this time, and discovered the bastard’s signature at the end, which she hadn’t noticed before.
Dr. Jamison “Jimathy” Lawson, Jr, Sr
Somehow, even through her anger and grief, she was still thoroughly amused by the bastard’s attempt to not only lie about his status as a doctor, but that he also claimed to somehow be both a Senior and a Junior, neither of which were true; she actually managed a chuckle. His “doctorate” was merely a photocopied certificate declaring he was “qualified as a psychic chiropractor in the states of Nevada, Wyoming, and Rhode Island, as well as the territories of Guam and the Virgin Islands” (whatever the hell that meant), which he had simply purchased from an ad; no schooling, or training of any sort, had been required. The additions of “Senior” and “Junior” had even less sturdy support; they were outright lies. Jamison’s father was named Warren, and his son –– their son –– was named… His name…
Maila closed her eyes, and slowly sunk down the counter to the cool, clean tiles of the kitchen floor, and sat there, slumped against her dishwasher while the exhaustion crashed over her in waves; she released her hold of the letter and let it drift away.
“Kya,” she faintly cried, and the tears rode in on the waves and surged into floods.
Sometimes, with perhaps only the luckiest blend of chance and random happenstance, one can experience a love that transcends not only wrath, grief, sorrow, elation –– frankly, any emotion or feeling –– but also any tethers held by the past or future, or even the present. Maila’s love for her son, Kya, had started when she had first sensed his glowing existence in her womb, but in retrospect, she also believed that very love had always existed; any moments of joy from before his birth, instances of euphoria and bliss –– of love itself –– however lasting or fleeting, were simply the rays of Kya’s brilliancy reaching out and everywhere, even then, blessing them with their effervescent touch. Maila assumed all mothers felt this about their children (the good mothers, anyway, and she understandably wasn’t interested in discussing the fathers) but she knew, without any doubt whatsoever, Kya was perfect in every way, and truly exceptional.
The child was devilishly handsome, his toothy grin already disarmingly charming, even with his missing front teeth; he had inherited his mother’s eyes, but she felt his were remarkably more beautiful, and a mischievous gleam flashed in those radiant, emerald green orbs, hiding the confident, kindhearted man she knew was waiting within –– when he laughed, Maila’s heart simultaneously melted and grew a little bigger with each of his heavenly chuckles and chortles. His level of talent was astounding, as well, despite the fact he was only seven; he easily flitted from instrument to instrument, having already learned the basics of drums, guitar, and piano, and wrote short stories which –– although still untrained and childish –– never failed to delight her. During their last visit, he had burst into her apartment and leapt into her arms, then breathlessly began telling her of his latest story.
“It’s the best one yet!” he had gleefully shouted as she smothered him with kisses, squeezing his perfect little form in her arms. He had continued with his tale, unhindered by his mother’s affection, and said in a breathless gasp, “There’s gonna be vampires and a giant and a dragon and a evil wizard and he’s the king and he’s gonna have a huge castle with monsters inside and he’s gonna try to kill the heroes and then take over the kingdom with evil magic but if can they get his crown and bring it back to their king then he can be king of all the kingdoms again and they can kill the evil wizard king and everyone can be happy again but that’s all I have so far. Can I have grilled cheese?” He had then taken a deep breath while she burst into laughter.
Now, sitting on the floor of her kitchen, slouching against her dishwasher, Maila chuckled again, thinking of that moment with her son –– her beautiful, perfect son –– and marveled that she was lucky enough to have him in her life. Religion wasn’t a subject in which Maila placed much faith, or belief, but she couldn’t dispute what she deemed to be an irrefutable fact: Kya’s presence on this Earth was a miracle. It wasn’t a deity to which or whom Maila prayed –– in her heart, there was only Kya. She scanned the kitchen tile for the letter, spotting it on the floor several feet away; suitably, it had landed upside down near her trash can. Even turned over, the six dreaded words lurking within were plainly visible in her mind, and she gritted her teeth, speculating if it was, indeed, possible that a judge would grant Jamison full custody of Kya; if someone would actually get between her and her son.
Although she was inside, and in her own kitchen, Maila grimly spat on the floor next to her, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyeing the letter all the while, and said aloud, “No. Fucking. Way. You. Mother. Fucker.” She spat once again, this time at the letter, and the glob struck it dead-center and shuffled the pages across the tile another foot or so; in some way, she took this as a moment of personal victory.
POP!
Maila hadn’t been a police officer for long, but part of her training was still engrained; she immediately laid face down on the floor after the mysterious explosive sound, her right hand instinctively clawing at her hip for the holstered weapon that was no longer there. Great. What a perfect time to not have my gun anymore.
She watched the front door of her apartment (the kitchen was the first room in the apartment), listening for further noises, waiting for someone to attempt breaking in; at the edge of her periphery, she could see the windows in the adjacent living room, and the fire escape stairs outside, the only other possible entrances into the apartment. She wasn’t sure who would want to break in or who had fired a gun out in the hall, or why, but she supposed that criminals didn’t really need a reason to do their crimes. She risked a glance at the Kit-Cat clock behind her –– it read 11:59 –– deliberating if Jamison had sent someone after her and had possibly told them to kill her at midnight, but quickly dismissed the ridiculous notion; he didn’t have the balls to do something like that. Besides, why the hell would he have chosen midnight?
But as she continued to listen, there was only silence to be heard, and she started to replay the sound in her head; the more she evaluated it, she realized it hadn’t been loud enough to be a gun –– so then, what was that sound? Did a pipe break somewhere? She tensed as a few seconds later a door opened across the hall, followed by shuffling footsteps, then almost screamed as whoever it was knocked on her door. She withheld the urge, however, and let her rational thoughts take over; most likely, it was just one of her neighbors coming over to check on her after that sound. It’s what a “good neighbor” would do, she reasoned. That label, comparing the three from which she had to choose, led her to guess it was the old man Carl or that… that other guy, that guy that always looked sad –– Matt, or Mike or something; those guys weren’t too bad. She had never bothered to learn her third neighbor’s name; they had spoken once –– and only once –– and based on that lone interaction, she simply called him “the Idiot” in her head, which she felt perfectly summarized him in every possible regard.
The knocking happened again, then again a second later, and she slowly inhaled and exhaled, withholding another urge to scream –– this time from irritation –– and brought herself to her feet. She walked over to her door, ignoring the saliva- and mucus-covered letter on the floor teasing her periphery, and looked through the peephole; to her annoyance, no one was there. Pranksters; it had to be. She could hazily recall hearing two small children shrieking in the distance shortly after the sound. “You freaking kids,” she hissed between her teeth, furiously shaking her head, and she twisted the doorknob and ripped the door open, ready to chase the pranksters before they got away. At that exact same time, a door across the hall opened and her other neighbor stepped out –– the Idiot –– and although Maila noticed him, it was only in the furthest edges of her vision, and just served to amplify her terror.
She had been anticipating an empty hall, but Mike stood directly in front of her, wide-eyed with a hand raised in the air, clenched into a fist. Maila screamed at Mike, and he screamed back, and across the hall, the Idiot screamed as well, then all three fell silent and still.
And it is here, as these three neighbors stare at one another, mouths agape, the mutual mistrust and confusion plainly visible on each of their faces, which provides enough time –– again, no pun intended –– to make some things clear.
- ??
Upon close inspection of the stated times at which these three hapless individuals would later recall hearing the POP! in the hallway, or the moments at which they opened their apartment doors, one might notice slight discrepancies in their accounts; however, make no mistake, these are not errors. Although Mark, Jeremy, and Maila did indeed perceive the sound at different instances around midnight, give or take a minute or two, they all had, in fact, actually heard it at the same time –– approximately thirty seconds past 12:00 AM –– and had all exited their respective apartments ten seconds after that; this may sound contradictory or impossible, oxymoronic even, but it is absolutely true. Moreover, it would be unfair to fail noting that none of these three tenants did anything then, or thereafter, out of spite, or with “bad intentions”; it’s unrealistic to think anyone would view these people as “heroes,” but villains they are not. Simply put, Mark clearly needed an escape, Maila required a distraction, and Jeremy…
It’s likely Jeremy just wanted to get laid.
Nevertheless, it cannot be ignored that, like Carl Vellman –– admittedly, to a considerably lesser degree –– Mark, Jeremy, and Maila all played a hand in the events that happened, from this loosely-defined point forward. Whether their participation in said events can be defined as “good” or “bad” is debatable, though later “participants” can possibly make this clearer; undeniably, it’s too early to be certain, at least until the events themselves are expounded. Obviously, the explanations for all of this will be clarified later, in due course, as will everything else (the discrepancies, Carl Vellman, etc.), but for now… Well.
Repetitive though it may be: Now just simply isn’t the time.
Before going any further — back or forward — one must see what happens next.
And that, in itself, will require a lengthy discussion.
Was that any fun to read?