Blog 6 - Some social interaction

I knock on the door of Apt. 201. I had found a letter addressed to Stephanie Lovett under a chair in the lobby - it must've been dropped by Bea at some point earlier in the day.
I knock again.
Then, the door comes flying open, accompanied by a "Can I help you?"
"Uh." I stutter. "I found this letter addressed to you in the lobby, I think that maybe you dropped it? I don't know ... I just wanted to return it to you."
The look in her eyes is strange, definitely fearful, possibly suspicious. I watch as she looks me up and down, perhaps trying to judge how threatening I am.
"Ok, well ... thanks, um.", she obviously searches for my name, trying to pretend like she would know who I am.
"Ren. I live on the 8th floor. Don't make it down here that much." I try to crack a smile but at this point I'm sure I just look anxious.
"Oh, okay. Well I'm Stephanie. Nice to meet you." She glances down at my ravaged hangnails. Despite the previous universal intervention, I have not let up on my nail biting. Instead it's only grown worse. I can't seem to control it anymore.
I shove my hands in my pockets and she mutters a "Thank you." before slamming the door again.
Walking towards the elevator I glance in one of the hallway mirrors and remember my recent emergency haircut.
A shoddy buzzcut and bloody fingers, what a great first impression.

Later in the day, I decide to go out to the circus, hopefully to redeem myself from my previous failed attempt to be social. I buy some kettle corn and meander to different attractions. I want to enjoy it, want to lose myself in the excitement of it. But I can't. Every man I see, I jump back to the plaid coat. Every loud conversation in my periphary begs me to remember exactly what was harshly whispered that night. I've realized now that it's impossible for me to enjoy my day-to-day life with these questions unsolved.
It reminds me of my childhood, when my dad first left. I couldn't play on the playground because every time I saw a car drive by, I wondered if it was his. It stunted me. This time, I won't let that happen. I'll get to the bottom of this before it ruins me.

I walk to what seems like an empty cage, only to see a tiger huddled in the back corner. It looks at me, with sad eyes, and then turns away. It's staring at the forest, probably yearning to run through those trees - escape from these people. It's depressing to see an animal with so much supposed power and freedom, trapped here for no good reason. I'm transfixed by this image until I hear a voice in my ear, Bret's.
"We're meeting again, tonight at 11. Meet me at the bridge and we'll walk to the spot."
I turn to look at him, but he's already gone. We wouldn't be meeting if it wasn't an emergency.

Blog 5 - The loss

I reach out and grab Brent's arm as he begins to walk away from the rusty double doors.
"So you really saw Frankie with the knife?" I mumble, as I watch the others walk away into the darkness.
"Yeah, she just stood there with it. Apparently she found it randomly but ... it's hard to get that image out of my head."
"I just don't know what to think anymore." I reach up to scratch my scalp, but my almost nonexistent fingernails do little to relieve the itching.
It's the first piece of credible evidence I've heard so far, but although I don't know Frankie well, I just can't believe that she could be involved. The image of the man in the plaid coat is burned into my memory. I need to find out who he is.

The next morning, I wake up to find the itching unbearable. My inability to scratch properly seems to be God's way of intervening in my constant nail-biting. Running to the bathroom to find the source of my discomfort, my worst fears are confirmed. I part my hair to one side and examine my scalp to find small white demons clinging to my head. I've worked in the clinic for almost two years now, and I know what I have to do, even if it breaks my heart.

Thirty minutes later, standing just outside my shower, I stare at the clumps of hair lying defeated in the basin. Still wearing my protective gloves, I scoop the hair up and place it in a small garbage bag - along with all of my sheets. My walk to the dumpster almost seems like a funeral procession. I may be a loner, but I still want to look normal - seem normal - to people I meet. Imagine what people will think when the guy who lives alone on the 8th floor walks into the lobby with a shaved head. The odds of my instances of social interaction increasing in the near future are about slim to none at the moment.

But I shouldn't be focusing on that now. The events in my life seem almost inconsequential while trying to find out as much as possible about the life (and death) of someone else.

Blog 4 - A good night's sleep

It's almost 2:30 am as I turn the lock on the mini clinic door. People have come in all day complaining of migraines, most likely brought on by the constant assortment of croaks and ribbits our town has been afflicted with. What I find strange however, is the amount of people who came in for anti-nausea medication. I know that migraines are known to bring about slight nausea, but most of these people looked as pale as ghosts, sweating profusely and with blood-shot eyes. Holding the keys in my hands, I look across the street towards the river. We do get most of our water from this one source and, although it's filtered before being sent to people's various faucets, I consider for a moment the possibility of a connection between the frog migration and the recent illness spreading.

I put it out of my mind quickly however, as I walk down the street. There are more pressing matters at hand. Looking through the fog, I find myself half-hoping to see something significant, half-begging not to. Each night I've been unable to sleep, constantly hatching theories only to wake up and realize that they are only the over-thought delusions of a sleep-deprived hermit. At 22, I thought I would have more to my life, maybe a steady job - at least a girlfriend. But here I am, walking down Dakelh Road at 2:45 am, my only company being a surprisingly large toad that seems to be following me. Wait. 

I turn and stop. The toad stares at me. I stare at him. He really is gigantic, almost the size of my head. Then he starts hopping towards me, and I don't know whether to be scared or amazed. With the plethora of frogs in town, I've tried to ignore them as much as possible but this one... is impossible to ignore. He croaks once he gets to my feet and begins to pick up the pace as he continues down the street. Strangely, I'm now running after him, passing The Foxberry and turning down Water Way. When we finally stop, I notice where I am and almost fall to the ground. 

This was it, this is where I was. 

The bench outside O'Callaghans, I was sitting there. I was slightly tipsy and taking a breather before walking home, but I remember them standing across from me. It's imprinted in my memory because I had never seen Mr. Evans argue with someone before. He and the man in the plaid coat were conversing in sharp whispers, and although I couldn't make out their faces, I could recognize his voice. Why were they here? What had the man done to make someone like Mr. Evans angry? I turn to look for the toad but he's seemed to have disappeared into thin air. 

I really am sleep-deprived.

Blog 3 - An unavoidable question

I'm back in my childhood home, the smell of tile cleaner and dog hair floating up around me as I sprawl out in front of the tiny TV. The "living room" was the main room of the trailer, with a small bedroom in the back serving as my mom's room; occasionally mine as well if I woke up from a nightmare. I look over my shoulder to see Elias reading a picture book to my baby brother on the pull-out couch.

I've been here before. 

Not just my home, but this moment.

I maneuver my 10 year old body to a standing position and tell Elias that I want to go check on my mom.

"She's busy now Ren, you know that when she closes the door she needs to be left alone."

I know, but my beating heart reminds me of what lies behind the door, and what I have to do.

While he's distracted, I slowly make my way to the back room of the trailer, and wrap my fingers around the rusty handle.

Turning it and opening the door, the image is solidified forever in my memory. 

My mom on the bed, the voicemail on the machine, the empty bottle in her limp hand, and the note on the dresser. 

Like always, I run to grab the phone. Like always, I can't bring myself to dial the three numbers. 

I stand motionless in the kitchen, fingers wrapped so tightly around the land line that my pudgy knuckles have turned completely white.

I see Elias make his way to the back room, hear his scream, and feel the phone wrenched out of my grasp.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING REN? CALL THE POLICE!", he screams, frantically dialing 9-1-1 "YOU SAW WHAT HAPPENED, YOU COULD'VE HELPED."

Now I'm standing over the casket, except instead of my mother's face, it's Mr. Evans instead.

I sit straight up in bed, sweat covering my upper body, dripping down my neck. Burning tears stream down my face. I've worked so hard to build a new life here, to send money back to my family, to make what friends I could. Until I find out if what I saw that night - walking home from the clinic - was somehow connected to Mr. Evans, these dreams won't stop. When will I bring myself to call the police?

As the sun rises I can hear Christmas music playing through the lobby. I walk out into the cold air. If I can't bring myself to call the police, I need to find the answers myself, and they're in this town somewhere.

Blog 2 - A walk down the street

My heavily bitten nails leave weak scratches on the painted wood as I absent-mindedly pick at the tiny pumpkins covering my door. Evelyn's kids had run around "decorating" the hallways in the days leading up to Halloween, and although I had heard Boots' unencumbered fury roaring through the third floor earlier when he discovered the plethora of stickers, I don't mind them. It's nice to know that there's spirit still left in this place, even with Evans gone. In our few interactions, I could recognize the genuine care that he had for our jumbled community and all its events. I like to think that he would have loved the unofficial redecorating of our building by the kids.

I wish that I still had a similar excitement surrounding the holidays, but my Halloween was relatively uneventful, having spent most of it walking down to Industrial Way for some time to myself. One could argue that I have more than enough time to myself in my secluded home, but you never really notice how oppressive an apartment is until you've spent every night there for three years.

I needed time to think. To think without the interruption of muffled footsteps or voices.

Staring at the old power plant always helps me to think. I've never tried climbing the fence, although I've heard that some kids used to on the weekends a while back to hang out by the riverbed. It's enough for me to simply observe the ruins. Looking at the old factory, I see a painfully accurate symbol of the town. Once valuable and full of promise, now full of memories that no one wishes to recall.

I always wonder why my father had spent so much of my life here, instead of with us. If he had chosen to leave and live somewhere like New York or Chicago - prosperous and lively - I could understand somewhat. But to live just a few miles away, in the same town no less - I still can't make sense of it. It puzzles me why this city center could be anyone's first choice. I ended up here because it was the only opportunity I had ever been offered, and even worse - by someone who I had resented nearly my whole life.

That's what puzzled me so much about Mr. Evans. He was so happy here, so motivated to stay and achieve whatever goals he had. What had he seen in this place? What made it worth it for him to stay?

When I returned to my apartment, I noticed a note left taped among the witches and ghosts that had been added as an apparent tasteful after-thought.

"For Mr. Ren Buchanan - Please call us at your earliest convenience if you have any information regarding the events leading to the death of Mr. Evans. We appreciate your cooperation. - Officer Wilkes"

I had brought it into my apartment and placed it on my cluttered coffee table. Maybe I would call them after my night shift at the clinic.

I never did.

Blog 1 - The day starts with...

The day starts with leaning my still creaking body out the window to light my first cigarette of the morning, my mug of coffee hesitating on my lips as I watch the two women below me argue. One woman flails her arms as the other stands with almost statuesque posture, holding back tears. I awoke this morning to a dull thud, and due to the stream of water presently flowing from a crack in the side of the building on the 2nd floor, I guess (correctly) that yet another broken water pipe had been the catalyst for their public row. The heavy rain earlier must have overwhelmed the old Foxberry.

I often hear people in the elevator complaining about how disgusting and mismanaged our building is, and it's hard to stifle my reflexive chuckle. I grew up on the South Side of this town, in a one-room trailer with my mom and three brothers, sharing a "bed" with at least one other person for 17 years of my life. That was the year that my father came back into my life, urging me to train at the health clinic in town, and paying for this isolated apartment year round. The cigarette smoke curls to graze my eyes, giving me an excuse to let a tear roll down my cheek. It hurts to think about my family left to their own devices, but I know that my work here is the only way to truly help them.

I hear Dorothy's distinctive voice from a few floors down and call out to her from above. 

Her head pops out of the open window while I lay out a plan for us to grab some coffee and biscuits from the diner. Maybe Megan can come too.

She agrees and as I go to shower I think about the possibilities of the day, the interactions bound to occur, and the inevitable and recurring pattern of my life at this point. It may sound morbid, but the death of Mr. Evans has been the only thing grounding me in everyday life recently. Everyone speculating and gossiping, spinning wild stories from a sweater they saw him wear one Sunday; it gives me something else to focus on besides myself. Now that the drama of the incident has mostly subsided, the familiar, calming sense of complacency washes over me as I wait for the water to as well. But it never does. Because the broken pipe downstairs has reduced the water pressure to droplets at a time. Fantastic.