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.
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
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.
"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.
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