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.
