Coffee Cups

Sunlight floods my room. At the first break of morning, I let go a sigh of relief. I know my worries are gone for good. Well, except for the mess in the other room, but I can ignore that for now. The scent has never caused anyone in the complex to complain before. I gently tiptoe around my linoleum tile room and dress myself in a light cotton skirt and thin tank top. My nails appear to be clean, but I paint them bright red as an extra measure. What if anyone noticed the blood? 

I can’t remember what I did with last night’s clothes, but surely, I would’ve been careful with them. Did I burn them? Is fire cleansing enough?

The only thing I have to do is avoid the kitchen. I need to leave the apartment first. I can deal with the mess later. Later is always better.

I rush out of my apartment, and I narrowly escape the disaster waiting for me in the kitchen. The usual decorative half-empty coffee mugs were nowhere to be found in my home. This is the most definitive sign he is gone.

I make my way downtown, eager to greet the bodega man. He is always kind, and he is understanding when my clothes are occasionally blood-stained. He is also always excited to show me his freshest oranges. The bodega always makes the world more tangible.

As I graze my fingertips along the oranges, attempting to choose the ripest, I make eye contact with a smiling man sitting at the café table next to the bodega. I look away quickly – surely it isn’t him. As my blood runs cold and my mouth dry, I recall the previous night’s events.

It can’t be him. I know it can’t be him. I saw his blood flood furiously through my kitchen just last night. I put the cold metal to his neck, and I slit him from ear to ear. His corpse looked as if it had a distorted smile. I hid his heart in my floorboards. Its never-ending beat screamed of my guilt.

And yet, here he is. Alive.

And drinking his favorite: black coffee. Whenever he appeared in my life again, he was always accompanied by a black coffee. Sugarless. Tasteless. A drink as dark as the sinister thoughts he whispered in my ear.

I first met him ten years ago, in my early 20s. He was kind, warm, at first. He made sure I knew the realities of the world, and he wanted to protect me. He used to drink his coffee with cream and sugar. I am not sure when he changed, but he is not the same man now.

It can’t be him. I killed him. I have killed him hundreds of times, but I am positive this latest attempt was successful. He never screamed the way he screamed last night.

Hurriedly, I choose an orange, and I make my way to pay. I can barely focus on what the bodega man is saying. The man at the café is walking towards me, and he is whispering. Just as always. He says he only wishes to protect me, and he would never bring me harm. Perhaps I should listen to him – I don’t understand how he could be so different now. I ramble to the bodega man about coffee, and I tell him how it reveals the deepest desires of the soul. I leave – I shouldn’t listen to him. I shouldn’t listen to him. He is not who he used to be.

When I finally arrive at my apartment, I know I am going to have to deal with a mess. His body is still there, lying on the ground, smiling. His blood will have soaked the floor mat by now. My neighbor, Nancy, tries to speak with me as I fiddle with my keys. Nancy is not real. She has never been real. I tell myself this every day, as she always tries to convince me she isn’t like the others.

I am grateful Jim doesn’t look out of his peephole. Jim has kind eyes, and he never drinks coffee of any kind, but I do not trust him. He blares circus music late into the night. He is suspicious of me. I’ve invited him over for tea before, and he always stares at the kitchen floor tiles too intently. He knows what happens in my apartment. Even through the circus music, I am positive he can hear the screams.

After what feels like years of trying to open my door, the knob finally gives way. Much to my shock and dismay, someone has already cleaned up my murder scene. The body is missing. There is no blood. Just once I wish the blood would still be there after I killed him. I do not know who always cleans it up, but surely, I would remember doing such a thing.

I sink into the most comfortable chair I own. There are empty black coffee mugs everywhere I look. I hate the taste of black coffee, but he doesn’t. They weren’t here this morning. He wasn’t here this morning.

He strolls in moments later. Just as he always does, he places a singular chrysanthemum in a glass jar. He cups my face in his hands. “You know,” he starts, “the bodega man wanted to kill you today. That’s why I was there.”

I sigh. Of course, I already knew he would tell me this. I know the bodega man would never hurt me, but he is excellent in making me nervous of the kindest people.

I would rather skip the conversation tonight. There is no reason to hear his thoughts on the strangers in the street who seek to harm me. First, I sniff the chrysanthemum and place it in my breast pocket. I then stumble around my messy kitchen as he babbles, and I find my prized knife.

Just like I have murdered him every single time, I slit his throat. It is comfortably familiar. His bitter, black blood seeps onto my hands. This time, I killed him in the living room. Perhaps the change in venue will yield different results.

After all, they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Maybe tomorrow the blood will be here.