Someone Cares

The air conditioning had gotten way worse when I came home from work. The 100-degree weather was not making things any better, just like the weather forecast claiming it was the hottest summer this part of the country had seen in decades. The landlord was supposed to get someone to come in and fix it during the day, but apparently, he had ‘forgotten’- more likely, ‘not cared’. I mark it in my head to go by the office before the day ends.

I collapse onto my bed right after changing out of my uniform, the soft fibers sinking under the weight of my body. I lie there for a while, my muscles aching and my vision hazy. The ticking clock by my bedside does not help relax me. I think about lying there forever, in my hot humid apartment. How long would it be before someone worries enough to come looking for me? Who would be the first one, if anyone remembers at all? My boss would probably replace me the very next day. She claims that punctuality is crucial in this ‘profession’. Yeah, like making coffees and smiling at huge donut orders is something of the strictest urgency.

I roll over and grab my phone from the bedside table. Its sharp, luminous glow contrasting with the dark room makes me squint my eyes a bit. I scroll over and check my contacts. The text ‘0 messages’ pops up. I sigh, “Well, what did you expect?”, I think to myself. I drag myself into a sitting position and get ready to go remind Mr. Wallace about my broken AC.

*

The flickering lights in the hallway makes it look eerie as I pass, even though I’ve walked here a hundred times before. There is a low buzz of electricity in the air, making it seem as though there is a swarm of flies in every crack in the wall. Sweat beads up on my forehead, but I wipe it away with the frayed sleeve of my burgundy hoodie, frustrated. The visit with the landlord had not gone too well in the least. It looks like I’m going to have to bear the heat for a few more days, that is, if I’m lucky.

“It’ll be done when it gets done, and that’s the end of it.” He had said, “If ya want it fixed so bad, do it yourself, will ya?” Then he had put his head back on the back of his chair and started snoring as soon as his eyes closed shut. I shook my head at the puddles of liquid and cigarette butts near the empty bottle of whiskey on his desk.

*

When I finally finish climbing the five sets of stairs that lead back to my floor, I make my way over to my flat, which is located at a sharp right turn after you exit the stairwell and head straight, obscuring it from view right away. As I turn with my keys in my hand, anticipating the rusty iron handle and squeaking noises that the door is going to make as I open it, I notice a beam of light emerging from the direction of my apartment. When I look up, I see that it is cracked open an inch, as if someone had tried to push it close right after leaving. Or entering.

I panic, looking around frantically for anyone that could have had access to it. Then I try to remember if I had actually closed it in the first place before leaving for the ground floor. The memory does not surface. I let out a relieved sigh, but there is no one around to hear it.

*

That night, sleep does not come to me as easily as it usually does. The ticking clock seems louder than it ever was before. I wonder if the batteries somehow malfunctioned and put in more power than they were supposed to. I lie awake, staring up at my brown ceiling, webs stuck to every corner.

‘Come on,’ I tell my brain, ‘we need to get up at 5 am tomorrow. Early shift. Just shut yourself down, please.’

A few minutes later, when I am just about to doze off, I wake with a jerk as I hear loud footsteps outside my door. I look at the at the clock. 12:35 am. Who could be outside this late in the night. I expect to hear a doorbell any second now. Why else would anyone walk around on this floor, as I am its only resident right now, and the other rooms are all being repainted. No one comes around this part of the building even in the morning, except the painters, so I’m apprehensive of the person outside. When the clock says its 12:37, and no one has knocked till now, I get up and look through the peephole. The hallways are empty, like I am used to. I pluck up my courage and unlock the door, opening it so there is just a thin sliver of space between the security of my apartment and the uncertainty of the hall. The wave of cool air that hits my legs makes them shudder, despite the warm temperature.

I step outside and peek around the corner on the left. The lights are dim, and there is no one there. The elevator stops on the ground floor. Strange that someone would be taking the elevator. It breaks down and stops more often than not, but it never got fixed. Everyone in the building takes the stairs, having had experience with it before. The only people who are likely to use the elevator, unknowing of its dangers, are visitors. But, who would visit in the middle of the night?

*

I wake up late the next day because I snoozed off my alarm one too many times. I hurry and try to brush my teeth and change into my uniform at the same time. The attempt does not go well. When I grab my keys and unlock the door, the clock reads 7 am. I’m going to be in so much trouble. I shudder at the thought of Gretchen reprimanding me about punctuality in front on all the other employees.

As I leave the building, I trip on my untied shoelaces that I forgot to tie up in the rush, and hit my nose on the back of a green Honda that was parked out front. I feel hot liquid drip onto my lip, and thank the fact that the car wasn’t white. There is no time to wipe it off the car now.

I push open the door to the cafeteria and drop my bag behind the counter.

“Sorry I’m late.” I say as I put on a hairnet and grab a cloth to wipe the tables with.

“Do you seriously expect to get paid because of incompetence?” My boss, Gretchen, yells from her office. “Last chance, or you’re fired. Someone else would be better benefitted from your talent of never doing anything right.”

I mumble a quiet apology and make my way over to the tables to start scrubbing them.

Around midday, I get a strange feeling someone’s watching me – probably because it’s rush hour in the café with people waiting in long lines for brunch, so there isn’t a single free table.

It’s a relatively busy day, but at the very end of it, when my shift is over and I’m packing up, I notice a pair of eyes looking over at me from the furthest table. They quickly glance away, making it seem as though they were never looking directly at me, but the machines and ads in the background. The man that they belong to then looks over his menu slowly. He wears a black baseball cap and a large scarf that conceals his neck. Nothing unusual.

As I leave the café, the scorching heat suddenly encases me, and the comfort of air conditioning protects me no more. I turn right and start walking along the curb. Right then, I notice something peculiar. Sitting on the café’s customer-only parking is a green Honda – just like the one I hit my nose against earlier. Could it be the same one? I shake my head. Stop being so paranoid, I tell myself.

Just as I’m about to turn and start walking again, I make out a dark spot near the trunk of the car. I slowly edge closer to it and realize what it is. This can’t be what I think it is. It’s just by chance.

I don’t believe myself. I’m going mad, I think. There is no way that this is my blood. I take a deep breath, and start walking towards the bus stop.

*

Climbing the stairs in my building calms me down a bit. I enter my room and plop down on my bed. The exhaustion is playing with my head. I make my way to the bathroom, but stop halfway there.

The curtains in my bedroom are drawn open, and the last rays few of sunshine are spilling into the room. I never open the curtain on my own. The last time I looked outside the windows was when I needed the curtains washed. Other than that, I hate looking at the gloomy street or the crowded roads below. I do not remember having opened them this morning, or ever, for that matter.

That’s when I start to panic. This is the last straw. I’ve been ignoring all of these signs, thinking that I’m too imaginative, too immature. Paranoia was not what was blinding me, ignorance was.

I take the stairs back down and start sprinting towards the police station. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s definitely not normal. I’m going to put myself first this time., and I’m actually going to listen to me.

The station is just a few blocks away, a 15-minute stroll. I walk briskly along the sidewalk. The road is empty today – everyone is either at work or has already come home. Since the pavement is full of cracks and open sewers, I walk on the side of the road instead.

I’m halfway there when I see a car speeding up behind me. I move back to the footway to allow it to pass, but it doesn’t go ahead. Then I notice the color. It has a familiar juniper – almost emerald – coat, and an ‘H’ on the front.

I start to run faster than I have ever run before. My muscles burn, and I take in huge gasps of air. I turn a sharp corner and press myself against the wall of a building in a desperate attempt to hide. I carefully take a peek of the other side of the road to see if the car is still following me. At first, there’s silence - it’s empty. I let out a relieved sigh. Then, a loud screeching noise interrupts the tranquility as I see a blurred silhouette hurl itself onto the road in front of me and stop there.

Then I see the driver pull out a long, jagged black object. He points it at me and holds still. In that moment, all I can notice is the tattoo on his hand. Two intersected ‘Z’s with straight lines rather than diagonal ones.

A deafening bang suddenly fills the air, followed by a high-pitched noise. I feel a tight pressure in my gut that turns into a kind of electric shock. It travels across my entire body and up to my neck. I look down to see myself covered in red. And in a second, it’s all over.

*

An annoying beeping sound fills my head. My eyelids are heavy, and I have trouble opening them. The air smells like chlorine and everything around me is white. The bed I’m lying in is stiff and uncomfortable, and my stomach feels hollow. There is someone sitting in the chair next to me. The white lab coat tells me they’re a doctor. I move my fingers and they notice that I’m awake.

“Oh, good. You’re not in a coma after all,” they say. “Hello, I’m Dr. Matthews and you’re in New Cantaleen hospital. You’ve been unresponsive for the last two days, but it seems you’re well and awake now, with stable vitals.”

I try to open my mouth and say something, but a sharp pain erupts in my stomach as soon as I get any noise out.

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Matthews remarks, “You will be unable to talk without mild discomfort for the next few days. Take it easy and stick to nodding, alright.”

I pull my head upwards and drop it down. I don’t feel any tingling, so that’s good news.

“Now, since this was a shooting,” he continues, “I am required to get the police since they will need a statement for you, though its fairly obvious what happened. All you need to do is tell them if they’re correct about all the information that they have, and you can make your official statement in a couple of days, when you’re able to talk and write. Just remember, you’re safe now. We’ll get you meetings with a therapist, physical and psychiatric, as soon as possible.”

With that, he leaves the room to go get the police.

*

I’m in my room with my last suitcase packed when I see the news on the TV. A stalker white supremacist arrested for attempted murder. I bet all the journalists absolutely jumped at that headline. I still can’t walk too much on my own, so my friend, – well, coworker, more accurately – Rachel volunteered to help me. We’ve known each other for two years now, but had never really talked much. She’s absolutely dumbfounded at what happened. Not a single minute passes without her saying something about the event, as if it were a movie she was excited about.

Even though she’s been nothing but kind to me, I’m glad I won’t have to see her anymore. I’m headed over to my parents’ place. They asked me to come home after they heard what happened. All I can hope for is that they’ve changed over the past few years.

I leave at sundown in a yellow cab that takes me over an expansive bridge. I can see the sunset from the window, but it’s not as beautiful as the waves that carry that light over to me and across the horizon. ‘What really matters isn’t always what people see,’ I think, ‘but always who people choose to become’.