Stories for Serena Delacroix

2 October 2010

Six AM was approaching fast. A good thing too—my car was wrecked, I was wrecked, and it was high time to go home.

Home. A small, bare apartment on the south side, three miles away. Three miles that I would walk, because Astyrian couldn't exactly take the subway; besides, I didn't have any street clothes to change into so that Kylin Wheeler could take the subway instead.

I looked over at my once-beautiful car and sighed. If there's one thing I always fall hopelessly in love with, it's a luxurious car. Mourning the beauty, I ripped out a length of carpet and tore it in half. I stuck the smallest corner into the fuel tank and took a lighter out of my belt. Then I lit the opposite corner of the carpet shred—and ran like hell in the other direction.

My great romance. I left her behind, left her to explode. My heart shattered with her elegant, curved windshield; my soul died with her powerful engine. Bonnie: beloved, beautiful, BMW. I watched her burn from afar until there was nothing left to see. Then I turned heel and slowly limped home, fatigued and starved.

I stared at the sidewalk pass by me with every slow step. More pieces of gum are stuck to sidewalks than I can fathom. There is a chewed-up gob for every person living in this city, and then some. Mostly pink, but all colors are represented, there on the asphalt. Each piece had been jettisoned from a mouth, disregarded, though each piece had once provided pleasure to that mouth. But now, each one, enjoyed and forgotten, had become a dried-up, disgusting wad. A piece of undecaying trash, stuck to the ground, doomed to collect dust and footprints for eternity.

Suddenly, the air became thick, black, and foul-smelling. I searched for the source of the smoke: a funeral home. Just burning someone up. I was breathing a dead person right now. Because that's not strange in the slightest.

I kept walking; slowly, the air cleared up. I continued to observe my surroundings.

A rotten apple core provided a family of ants with a glorious feast, and a chipmunk ran into the bushes, terrified of the oncoming shadowy giant. A homeless man shielded himself with a soiled, empty cardboard pizza box and a young man swept trash out of a pristine diner. Well-dressed businessmen marched out of the fancy lofts, embarrassed to share the streets with those from the crummy apartments next door.

But the tenants of the "crummy apartments" seemed content with their lives. The majority were college students. Energized girls with their iPods, determined to fill their morning running quotas, and slow, lazy couples with their hands in each others' back pockets.

There were plenty of hobos, homeless, and 'bums'. No job, no financial security, no relationship security. No one to turn to except the distasteful public they lived among. The people who would freely give to a charity benefiting those they would never see. The people who would don large sunglasses and pretend to listen to music in order to seem preoccupied, while keeping a tube of mace hidden in their hands.

These are the people I lived with. These are the people who all had a single thing in common: When they saw me, they walked well into the street to avoid me. They all turned down their noses, looking down on me regardless of their height or status. They all hated me.

What for? What had I done to personally affront each of them? What had I ever done to deserve the cruel eyes, the concealed snarls, the furious whispers?

They looked at me and saw an object. In their minds, I wasn't a complex human being—I was an overgeneralized monster who preyed on criminals..for now. I was nothing more than a waiting threat.

I couldn't cross the street—too much oncoming traffic to jaywalk. A man in a fancy suit and glasses stood next to me, looked over, and rolled his eyes.

I suppose I may have been a bit too aggressive. "You got a problem?"

Again, he glanced over. Now, he sniffed distastefully.

"Hey, man. I'm planning to save the world after dinner. What are your plans?"

He finally looked me in the eyes (as best he could), wondering if I was serious. Then he decided that I was some sort of joker not worth acknowledging, and returned to staring at the passing traffic.

I watched my shadow, making sure that no other shadows were following it. To my relief, nobody who was blocking the sun's rays was behind me, not for quite some distance.

Three miles, but they stretched on forever. Sidewalk after sidewalk, block after block, I saw the underbelly of the city, lit by gentle morning. It appeared fresher, more hopeful than at night, but I knew that wasn't so. A different kind of monster took over now. The morning promised me that by tonight, the old monster would be back, stronger than ever. This was the calm before the storm. The rapists and the murderers, they hid during the day, clearing the streets for the innocents while they plotted away, working on their next escapades.

Three miles, of which I only had one left. Up ahead, a congregation of elderly, chatting, laughing, holding their aching backs for support. They saw me and silenced, as one entity, and then parted on their separate ways, asking themselves what a night creature was doing out here, tainting the purity of daylight.

Three miles, and they had been too long. At this point, I didn't have the energy to sneak into my apartment. I didn't care who saw me. My neighbors could think of me as an Astyrian impersonator if they cared enough.

I unlocked the front door. Nobody in the lobby—that was normal. I checked the mail, only to find a single bill—that was normal. I unlocked the second door, walked in, and jabbed the "CALL" button for the elevator—that was abnormal. I usually took the stairs.

The elevator was slow to come. The ancient doors slid open and I entered the cramped, stinking, dinghy compartment, then pressed the button for the third floor a good six or seven times. I then leaned my head against the wall of this horror-movie-worthy contraption, closing my eyes. As long as no ax murderers burst out of the single fluorescent bulb, I would be fine.

The door still hadn't closed. Annoyed, I once again pushed "3", only four times now. Finally, the dilapidated grandfather of an elevator closed the doors and struggled against its own age, weight, and gravity to take me up three floors. Once there, it forgot to open its doors. I sighed—there were no "Door Open" or "Door Closed" buttons, only the absolute basics.

At long last, the elevator groaned and struggled, managing to squeeze its doors open with a creak and a sigh. I stepped into the narrow, dimly-lit hallway, and the sickeningly sweet stench of marijuana wafted over me; I wrinkled my nose. Was my neighbor really smoking at this time in the morning? I walked down to my own door, shaking my head. My last iota of energy was expended in unlocking and opening the rotten, flimsy wooden door.

My stomach growled, reminding me of how empty it was. I slammed the door shut and moaned inwardly.

I had forgotten to buy groceries. I had nothing edible here.

I ripped my mask off. There must be something. In the fridge. In the pantry. Wasn't the kitchen stocked with so much as a bag of chips? A bowl of cereal? A carton of ice cream?

Negative. Just a few spices, some coffee, some sweet creamer. A half-tub of cream cheese and part of a block of regular extra sharp cheddar cheese, which I seized and devoured immediately. A partial jug of milk with today's date stamped onto it, and some wilted, sick-looking lettuce. A full bottle of ketchup, an unopened jar of sweet pickles.

Dear stomach: Calm yourself. You'll be fed soon. Just...not now.

Without changing, I fell headlong onto my rickety bed. My back ached, reminding me that I should invest in a better mattress.

I stuffed a pillow under my back for support and rolled over, forcing myself to leave the world behind and embrace the peace of sleep.