Somewhere Somehow

“Brad Ataman died peacefully at age eighty-seven after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

“Coralline Whitman died peacefully at age twenty-two after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

“Levi Sestinas died peacefully at age twelve after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

The damp newspaper fell onto the ashy coffee table with an echoing smack as the girl, no, woman, no, lady, heaved a heavy breath and tipped backwards to rest her head against the back of the couch.

Outside the sky was a dull blank color, and the few humans visible from the fourth story balcony were hustling around clutching their expensive leather trench-coats to chest, running indoors to where there was heat, warmth, and shelter from the biting wind. There was no heat in this apartment complex.

The lady stretched lethargically and raised an icy hand to her forehead in an effort to massage the throbbing headache away. The creaky, lagging laptop, covered in peeling logos, sat blinking dutifully behind her on the kitchen table, long since drained of battery. Yet another frosty breeze swept through the empty apartment, taking with it any remaining bits of air freshener, the smell of tasteless dollar store tea, or the last drips of steam in the only bathroom from any quick morning showers. Her fingers were frozen beyond the point of agile maneuverability, but the lady didn’t bother, never bothered, closing the windows, no matter how cold. It was just how things were.

Somewhere, a child screamed in fright. Elsewhere, a slap echoed. She didn’t care about the correlation.

The clock in the lobby struck three, and the lady gave a low growl, clambering up unsteadily and shuffling out of the apartment. She grabbed a ratty old pair of fingerless gloves she had long forgotten the color of on the way out, as well as a stack of once-warm-from-the-printer papers. (Somehow, her mind still whispered to her, “The dead. The dead,” but she ignored it.)

Somewhere, a paint-chipped door slammed shut. Elsewhere, old wood groaned at the empty pressure it withheld everyday of its lonely, tiresome, cold existence. She didn’t care about the causation.

The elevator was late as usual, with no music on the ride up to the sixth floor. She shifted from foot to foot as she messed with the heavy pile of papers and mentally prepared herself for the daily jobs.

First would be Miss Aidafield in complex 603. She was an old woman with wispy strands of grey hair, rickety knees, and an immense love for collecting junk. She never answered the door, just crooned out “The door’s open, Evelyn dear!” and continued watching her TV while petting one of her cats in the middle of her room full of collected junk. She would never go inside though. She just left the paper right inside the doorway.

Next door would be Katy, the college student who never slept when the sun wasn’t out. She never opened the door either, so she just left the papers outside. The smell of black coffee, cheap pizza, and staleness from a lack of flowing air would always hang in a heavy cloud around this complex.

Then would be the home of the two boys, Rick and Allen, whose complex always had the sound of violent video games leaking out from behind the door. In 606 was Mr. Steins the uptight engineer, 607 was the snobby Lady Whitman, and 608 was a loud family of four who were constantly angry at each other.

The elevator dinged happily at its own arrival, and she stepped forward as the creaky doors squeaked open like mice being stepped on.

“Get out of my way!”

A sweaty man barreled towards her, face red and blazing. She vaguely stared as crazed eyes pierced her in a frenzy of fear, self-preservation, and rabid craziness. A bag of trashy riches vaguely resembling the collections of Miss Aidafield spilling from a ratty pillow case turned bag is clutched by white knuckles, trembling the way a cornered animal shakes at a predator.

The knuckles are almost as pale as the ones clutching the dull gun. 

 The fingers shake violently, and the nerve wrecked male points, shouting incoherently.

She steps out of the elevator, face blank, and the hand clutches the gun even tighter than before.

Somewhere, there is a scream of horror, but it isn’t from her, for she never had any regrets left to tie her down. It is a scream of the murder of perceived humanity, and it is a scream of losing man.

“Evelyn Walker dies peacefully at age 20 after an unfortunate accident.”

And as the panting man waits for that creaky elevator to finally open the doors to his escape, a voice inside him howls, “how sickening.”