February gave way to spring, and spring to summer. I got used to John's comings and goings – he kept strange hours, for an actor – but after that extended absence from December to February he was never gone for more than a few days. Maybe things were as slow for him as they were for me. I'd run out of essays to sell, and the few transcription jobs I scrounged up all folded quickly. I kept an anxious eye on the savings account, bought cheaper groceries, cut back on how many cigarettes I smoked.
But I still didn't quit. For one thing, I'd come to enjoy John's company when I went out to the balcony for my smoke breaks.
For another – as June rolled in and the temperatures soared – the balcony was the coolest place I could find. Even with the door propped open during the day (what did I have to steal?), my apartment was still an oven – and my window was still painted shut.
It was really my own fault – I'd established that the window was permanently stuck several weeks beforehand. But the ninety-degree-plus heat must've gotten to me that day, because I decided – in a fit of sudden stupidity – to try again. I tugged, pushed, yanked, levered, cursed, and strained in every way imaginable, not really expecting any positive results . . .
And definitely not expecting the window glass to shatter.
The first thought in my mind, as wicked-looking shards of glass scattered across the floor and flew out into the air outside the window, was that the landlord wasn't gonna be pleased.
The second thought was that at least it was going to be cooler in the apartment now.
The third thought, fleeting and somewhat disconnected, was admiration for the way that the long, jagged splinter of clear glass protruding from my forearm caught the light.
Then the pain kicked in, accompanied by sudden dizziness and queasiness at the sight of my blood welling up. I'm not good with blood at the best of times; having a long, colorless dagger of apartment-window debris lodged in your arm is definitely not "the best of times" by any stretch of the imagination. I made it as far as snatching up a (hopefully) clean t-shirt from the floor and wrapping my arm before my knees buckled and I hit the floor.
I knelt there in shock for what seemed like a very long time (amazing how seconds can become eternities), watching the blood soak into the cloth and wondering what to do next, before I heard footsteps and the door swung all the way open.
John was standing there, concerned frown on his face, cigar still burning between his teeth – apparently he'd been on the balcony, drawn by the sound of the shattering glass or of my hitting the floor.
I blinked at him, looked back at the glimmer of light along the edge of the transparent blade in my arm, and then glanced back up at him dully.
"Um . . . help?"
TBC