We Made It

It is the long-awaited end of the year, when the festive holidays have come to a close and the only one left is the bittersweet day of resolution-writing, ball-dropping, and party-attending.

The year has left us all tired and battered, war heroes dragged through a battle, only to be left unsung. To have made it out of the year itself is an impressive feat.

Of course, that can only truly be said of someone who faced the mildew yellow sign plastered onto their door, screaming out “EVICTION NOTICE” for all the passersby to see; though naturally, as if they were fungi after a week of heavy rain, they had begun popping up on every other door along the crumbling hallways.

That can only be said of someone who watched as, one by one, their fellow workers packed up in boxes, heads bent under the pressure of impending losses, severed and cut by the man in the picture frame whose incessant blaming of inflation and rising minimum wage fooled no one.

Someone who was raised in a world that told them that hard work would get them far, only to be faced with positions that required exerting all one had to get there; after years spent acquiring the skills and spending everything to gain them in vain hope, the word “entry” seemed a slap to the face.

It is this day, the glorious end of the year, when porcelain hope balloons through the streets and those lucky janitors begin preparing for the night’s festivities. The masses crowd the streets donning Planet Fitness party hats and noise-makers, the scent of Bud Light and IPA likely following close behind. A homeless man makes way for the party-goers, themselves not far from being in his destitute position. He avoids the spiky barbs that the city implemented recently and settles for lying uncomfortably underneath a bench with a dividing bar.

The sun begins to set, undoubtedly inviting less savory individuals to merge with the unassuming crowd. Crime rates have been on the rise in the past year, and no doubt the liquor-ridden mob—stumbling and swaying already—will be easy targets. No matter how many people the police round up, there will always be more broken souls to replace them. It’s difficult to get rid of desperate people in times like these, as all of the news anchors love to say.

The jumble of voices continues to rise outside.

Quietly, I watch from my apartment window as the crowds fill up Times Square. The neon billboard ads cast rave lights into my cramped apartment, the most enjoyment that musty building has ever seen. The signs used to blind me, but I’ve slowly become used to them, the same way one gets used to a dull, persistent headache.

I gaze at it all. Coca-Cola and Pepsi and Fanta; Ford and Chevy and Lamborghini; Old Navy and Victoria’s Secret and Banana Republic. The names crowd every building, sit in every mind without one knowing, and the lights of the signs cast odd mixtures of color onto the bustling people below.

I exhale. Who knows how long I spent in that stupor, staring as the darkening sky continued to achieve darker colors yet. As always, there are no stars visible in the sky. Scientists warned of the possible repercussions of this years ago, but naturally, nothing much changed. Instead, the night looks muddy—a faded syrup tone mixed with hazy orange lights. The only natural thing that illuminates the night is the pale moon, which is nearly obscured.

Checking the time, it’s a little past 11 o’clock. The crowds have grown louder in the past few hours. I get up from my stool and walk around the small apartment. One bedroom, one kitchen, one living room connecting the two. No hallways. The cracked paint and drywall rises and bubbles in every corner. The large television emits sounds and flashing lights in the background, flickering back and forth between never-ending ads.

I take my time, attempting to experience this place with new eyes, with a sense of wonder instead of dread. Languidly I walk, tracing my hand along the wall, the window frame, the doors that refuse to close completely. On the television stand, a few frames sit, collecting dust. Pictures of a smiling couple, hand-in-hand, along the shore. Pictures of the woman. Pictures of the man. My dark hair gets in the way as I bend down and I’m forced to push it behind my ear. Raw Umber, as he used to call it. I reach a hand out to the photo and lightly brush my thumb along his face.

I remember the last time we spoke, surrounded by the blinding, sterile room. It was a year ago, this day. We had sat together, watching the footage of Times Square. We knew his time was almost up—an old-fashioned clock winding down, tick-tick-ticking to a close. It wasn’t fair. We had been careful, refused to travel when the new strain broke out. Wore our masks, stayed inside. Shopped online. But somehow, maybe in the elevator, maybe at the park, maybe from the delivery person, he had fallen ill.

We sat, him in bed, myself in a chair. I held his hand. Tears dripped from my eyes then, something that I haven’t been able to recreate since. As the countdown started, we joined in. 10 seconds, and at the end, as they all screamed “happy new year!” and couples kissed on the screen, and hope began to rise for a better year, and the people started crying because we had made it, he began coughing. He fell limp. The monitor flatlined.

I don’t remember what happened after that. All I know is that they handed me a bill at some point, and I had to take out a loan to pay for it. Tight deadlines from then on, tighter consequences hanging over my head.

A knot settling in my empty stomach, I stand back up and continue taking my tour around this cramped space. I look into the empty fridge, the empty cupboards. My stomach rumbles.

The time is 11:55.

I pick up my tall stool and slowly walk to my bedroom, one side of the bed lying undisturbed. His paint brushes sit on his nightstand next to a small canvas. Thin plastic is laid along the balcony door, making a makeshift curtain, and it rustles in the wind as I open the door outward. The December night blows through the stagnant room, but I don’t reach for my threadbare jacket. Instead, I pick up the canvas and set the stool down outside.

I sit in the night, long hair billowing. I look down upon the crowds, now reaching farther than I can see. The lights, the people, the hostile architecture. I cling to the canvas, which has a painting of a woman on it. It’s supposed to be me, but I don’t recognize her anymore.

The excitement in the air is coming to a head.

The musicians stop playing. An announcement blares through the square. The masses begin to count down in unison, and the seconds seem to last for minutes.

Ten. The yellow sign had been posted on my door for almost a week. I was given a week to pack up my life and find somewhere else to stay.

Nine. I was laid off from my job to cut costs for my billion-dollar company, in order to give my boss a better salary for the new year.

Eight. The loan sharks began knocking at my door, requesting money that I did not have, time I did not have.

Seven. I pull out a gun from my back pocket, hold it in my chapped hands.

Six. I load a single bullet.

Five. Four. Three. Two. The voices in the crowd swell, the lights pulse brighter, the ball makes its way down.

One. A tear escapes from my eye.

As the crowd screams, “happy new year!” and the couples kiss to fulfill clichés and false hope begins to rise for a better year and the people begin to cry in exhaustion because we made it, I let out a primal cry.

I pull the trigger.

The monitor flatlines.