Apartment 403

Apartment 403 was where it all began.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and we were walking to Benny’s café for a quick bite to eat. The sidewalk was too narrow for two lovers to walk side by side, so I walked behind her. I almost crashed into her as she stopped suddenly, pointing at a for sale sign in front of a quaint apartment complex on the corner of Henwood Avenue. She gushed over how each apartment had a small wrought-iron balcony overlooking the East side river. A month later we moved in, loading the moving truck like we were running from an advancing army; unloading it as if the building would disappear if we weren’t fast enough.

           Nothing has changed since I was last here. The walls are still a dark periwinkle—a colour that she insisted we have because it reminded her of sunsets in her hometown of New Brighton. The couch is still the piece of crap that it was when we first bought it from the flea market. The middle cushion is still torn down the middle; a disintegrating piece of masking tape keeping the dirty fluff from spilling out.

           I inspect the mantle, running my hand along the dusty wood. The remote is still in the same holder that I bought for her. I kept finding it sunk between the couch cushions and I wanted to make her life easier any way I could.  The TV is still a dingy box with wiry ears poking up from its bulbous head. I trail my hand over every object, memorizing each item until I feel nothing but empty space. I glance up and silently curse. Did she even notice what was missing?

           After she’d kicked me out for good, I came back a few days later. She was always very trusting, so I had no trouble finding a way in. The empty space used to be a framed photo of her university graduation, but when I came by a few months ago, the photo frame had been knocked over—she didn’t even have the decency to pick it up. She’s so beautiful. Why would she treat herself like that?

So, I did what a decent man does, and I took it with me. So many memories in one photograph. The way she looked in her cap and gown…my breath was taken away. I watched her hop nervously from foot to foot waiting to walk onto the stage.

I meander into the kitchen helping myself to a plate of chicken wings in the fridge. Honey garlic. Our favourite. The coffee pot still has coffee in it; the sides stained brown with little coffee grounds floating around the bottom. She never was very good at making coffee so I always did it. Every morning before she woke, I’d make her a pot of my finest brew: two scoops of coffee, a pinch of cinnamon, and a dash of nutmeg.

Ah, there’s that feeling again. Sneaking up on me at the most inopportune moments. I grip the countertop tightly and swallow the ball of fury that wants to come out and play. I want to tear everything apart. I glance at the clock, 4:30. I brush my hand through my hair and tiptoe into the bathroom, the floorboards creak under my weight. I need to remain quiet. Quiet as a mouse. Although, I don’t know why I feel the need to do this. This is my home, after all.

           I gently lift the lid of the toilet, feeling my body spasm as a week’s worth of piss sprays out of me. I glance at the bath products lying all over the place. The lavender bar of soap is still in its usual place on the claw foot tub. She took baths fit for a queen. Rose-scented body lotions, eucalyptus shampoos and expensive conditioners (she always said that your hair is worth spending money on). I carefully zip my pants up and flip open the medicine cabinet. Facial products, foot cream, and what is this?

           I grab an orange bottle full of white pills, turning it around in my hand until I find the label. An anti-depressant. Oh, shucks, are you sad, darling? Is this new man that you kicked me out for not who you thought he was? I erupt into a fit of laughter. My chest cavity slams up and down; my face turns bright red, and hot tears spill from my eyes. Bitter and sad. They run down my unshaven face, and a few droplets land on my crumpled dress shirt. Unbloody real.

I toss the pill container back into the medicine cabinet and slam it shut still heaving with laughter as I make my way down the hallway, and into the bedroom. I pause under the doorframe. My airy giggles get popped like a balloon as I notice signs of him everywhere. His large socks hang off her vanity chair, stained brown at the bottom. Disgusting. I walk around to my side of the bed and tug the nightstand drawer open. I want to see if she’s kept any of the gifts I’ve given her over the years. I dump everything onto the bed, sifting through it with my dirty fingers. A clunky watch, a worn credit card holder, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. How old is this guy? Ninety? I roughly throw everything back into the drawer, when I notice a photograph lying face down on her pillow. I read the date on the back and flip it over, instantly wishing that I hadn’t

 It’s a picture of them at a restaurant. She is wearing that small black dress that she wore on our first date. Her long, brown hair is toppled on her head in a mighty bun. Her brown eyes twinkling in the bright glow from the string lights around them. Her lips are painted a deep crimson. God, that dress. I remember sitting as close to her as possible at Bronson’s Restaurant and Grill, drinking her in like a cocktail. I was becoming more and more intoxicated as the night wore on. I hardly drank my beers. I only needed her. And then, at the end of that wonderful evening, I walked her home. Her arm slung through mine, all unblemished skin, and French-manicured nails. She wrapped her arms tightly around my neck and we kissed, falling desperately into one another. I don’t remember going up the stairs or how we got into her old apartment. I kept my eyes closed the whole time, envisioning all her curves under my hands. The breathy moans that escaped her, like a musical ensemble as I pleasured her.

I shake my head back and forth, letting the memory sizzle in my brain. I’d have to pull that one back out later. Back at my new home with its torn drapes that smell of pathetic rot.

Again, fury brands its mark on all those wonderful memories. I look at myself in the mirror and smirk at my dishevelled appearance—heartbreak will do that to a man. The deep, purple bags under my eyes make me look like a poster child for insomnia. My unwashed hair sticks up on my head, richly salted with grainy dandruff.

 I screwed it all up. I had a great woman and a great life, and then she started seeing that Italian, with the hairy arms and wavy dark hair, that piles on his head like oily coils. I start drumming my fingers on the dresser, the heavy mahogany one that had arrived while I was working. Fortunately, I got off early, so I arrived in time to help her carry it up the stairs.

I knew that she was the one. I knew it from the first day I saw her in that little black dress with those black kitten heels. A few months later she had tossed the shoes down the garbage shoot, but I went to retrieve them. Such a good memory, and such good shoes? Why would anyone throw those out?

The grandfather clock begins to go off, that slow, gothic drawl that reminds me of my childhood days, sitting in Grandmother’s house, gently playing the piano, as Grandfather worked on a crossword puzzle.

I beeline down the hallway and glance at the clock on the stove, 5:00. Shit. She’ll be home any minute. I know that I don’t have time to leave. She’ll run into me on the way out and there’s no way I’ll be able to disguise myself.  

Panic grips me. The grandfather clock keeps blaring in my ears. I glare at it, wanting to topple it over and tear its pendulum from its glass casing. I jam my ear against the front door and listen, coaxing the inner child in me for the best place to hide. I hear the elevator coming up, and the sound of heels clicking against the carpeted hall. I spin in circles, desperately eyeing up every nook and cranny. I go back into the bathroom and tear the shower curtain open quickly realizing that this is probably the worst place the hide. I freeze as I hear the jingling of keys just outside the door. I pull the curtain back, fluffing it out to look just as it had before. I run into the bedroom and slither across the floor trying to stuff my lanky frame under the bed, but the bed is too low to the ground, and my feet stick out. I stand clumsily, almost smacking my head on the bedpost. Flakes of dandruff rain on the floor.

The front door opens, its hinges squeal like a scream. I’ve run out of time. I whirl around almost falling over, when I spot the closet door, all frosted wood and pastel colours. I tug it open and slide in behind a row of fur coats stuffed in the back. I gently close the door behind me and try to cover myself up the best I can.

 The faded scent of Shalimar slithers up my nostrils, and the fur from one of the jackets rubs softly against my skin. I just want to put it on and absorb her smell. Absorb every morsel that I can before this new man takes her away from me. I wince as keys slam against the kitchen counter. I hear the clink of her pulling something out from one of the cupboards.

I sink back deeper into her clothes. Lace and frills envelop me and I feel myself becoming intoxicated by the deep scent of vanilla and strawberry that’s attached itself to the fibres.

A few minutes go by, and I strain to hear every single movement. I think she is sitting in the living room now. I can hear a woman with the clear voice of a news broadcaster talking about an abduction in Great Hill Springs.

Then, the phone begins to ring. I jump like a startled cat hitting my head on the metal bar just above me. I stifle a cry with the sleeve of some poor beaver and hold my breath as she runs into the bedroom. I move over slightly to the left, where the crack in the door reveals a bright ray of sunlight seeping in from the setting sun. I just want to see her one last time. As I peer into the crack, I see her flop belly first onto the bed. She pulls the phone up to her ear, the long, pink cord twists around her arms like veins.

“Hello?” Her voice sounds like heaven. Pure and sweet. That voice comforted me many times when I was down. It is the perfect antidote for the blues. I hear the person on the other line begin to speak and know right away that it’s her best friend Stacey. I never did like her—too nosey.

The minutes crawl by. They talk about everything: work, summer wardrobes, new reality TV shows. My eyes roll into the back of my head until she picks up a hairbrush and begins brushing her beautiful locks.

           “So, I know you don’t like talking about this, but I must ask,” Stacey says carefully.

           She tenses, freezing mid-brush.

           “Is that guy still stalking you?” Stacey asks.

           I can’t breathe. Someone is stalking her. Who?

           She drops the brush and wiggles onto the edge of the bed. She glances out the window, and gets up, drawing the curtains closed.

           “I—I don’t know…” she pauses. “I mean, my grad photo that was on the mantle went missing a few weeks ago. Jason is convinced that it fell in behind, but it’s such a pain to move….” She walks over to the bedroom door and closes it. I hear a clicking sound. She’s locked it. She gets back on the bed, sitting cross-legged, and starts twirling her hair in her fingers—a nervous tick, something she’s done since the day I met her. 

           “Well, maybe he’s gone for good…gone to stalk somebody else.” Stacey yawns into the receiver.

I sure as shit hope he moved on. Nothing can take her from me. Nothing.

“So, how are things with Jason?”

           She smiles. I can hardly stand it. My fists curl up into balls. I want to scream. Jason. The man she left me for. He blew into our lives like a tablecloth in a windstorm, wrapping himself over her, promising to love and protect her.

She cradles the phone between her ear and shoulder and begins unbuttoning her shirt. I lick my lips and wipe my brow with a hanging scarf­. This closet is dreadfully hot. I should not have worn a long sleeve today.

           “Jason’s going to be home soon, so I’ll call you tomorrow. Lunch at Barney’s at twelve? Alright, see you there.” She hangs up, placing the phone back on the night table. I’m excited now. Maybe she’ll get undressed fully—something I haven’t seen in a while— what a treat. I place my eyeball right up against the crack in the door not wanting to miss anything. Then, I hear the front door open. I could strangle someone, really, I could. But instead, I lean back against the wall and wipe the rest of the sweat off my face. She jumps off the bed and runs down the hallway. I hear a deep, throaty voice greet her.

           I wait a few minutes as they go back and forth talking about how their days were. I long for those conversations we used to have. Mundane, but perfect. The floorboards creak heavily, and I imagine her pulling him by the hand, barely containing herself from tearing all his clothes off in the hallway.  

It happens so fast. He shrugs his wifebeater off, revealing his black bear of a chest. He lumbers onto her, and she opens her legs widely. I think I might be sick, but I can’t look away. 

As each item of clothing gets flung to the floor, so does my sanity. I clutch onto the scarf and bare my teeth down onto my right knuckle. It hurts, but not as badly as what is playing out in front of my eyes. The irony taste of blood coats my teeth, oozing down my chin. My entire body shakes, and I can feel every vein popping out of my head. I need to protect her.

I kick something gently with my shoe and hear a soft rattle. I gently kick it again—it feels like it has some weight to it. Something made of metal. She’s gently moaning now; their limbs smack together like a seal’s flippers. I crouch down, holding the clothes tightly so that they don’t rustle around. I carefully take the lid off the box and freeze. He finally finishes, grunting like an old man standing from a park bench. He flops down beside her, flipping the bedsheet over his bottom half. She giggles and he wraps his gigantic arms around her, tenderly kissing her forehead. They begin whispering to one another, but I’m too taken with my new toy to hear.

The handle is cold to touch, and I use the fading ray of sunlight to inspect it. I remember when Grandfather taught me how to use one of these. He’d take me out back on Saturdays and we would both have a blast taking down old beer cans.

            “I’ll keep you safe, my darling, my love. My one and only. I won’t let that Italian oaf and this stalker hurt you. You are mine and mine forever.” I whisper, peering through the crack in the door.

***

Night has fallen. The room is dark save the little twinkle of city lights penetrating the thin curtain. An ambulance wails from the street below; a dog barks nearby. Carefully, I open the closet door. My muscles are screaming from being stuffed in such a small space for hours. My left foot has gone numb, and my head is pulsing. I watch them sleeping, their relaxed faces highlighted by the thin sliver of moon hovering in the dark sky. Soundlessly, I tiptoe around her side of the bed, pointing the gun at her head, hovering over her temple.

“Goodnight, my love,” I whisper into her ear. “I will always keep you safe. Nobody is allowed to have you, but me.

The grandfather clock begins to chime, and shadows from the passing traffic dance across the walls. I peer down at her, taking one final look. The strawberry blondness of her hair streaking across her elegant face. Her full lips and long, beautiful lashes fanning out over her veiny eyelids. Blood rushes into my ears; my eyes grow damp and heavy. My lower lip quivers and my finger slips on the trigger. I pull it and heave a sigh of relief. Apartment 403 was where it all ended.