Chapter 12: First Floor Neighbours
The metallic click of my apartment door closing behind me echoed through the empty hallway like a gunshot in the silence. My footsteps felt hollow against the worn carpet as I made my way toward the elevator.
The familiar ding that usually announced the elevator’s arrival never came. I pressed the call button again, harder this time but nothing.
"Of course," I muttered under my breath, the words tasting bitter.
It worked just a moment ago and it had to crash down right when I needed it the most.
The stairwell door groaned on its hinges as I pushed it open, revealing the concrete steps that stretched down into shadows. The air here was stale and thick, carrying the faint scent of mildew and something else I didn’t want to identify. My hand found the cold metal railing, and I began my descent.
With each step down, the emptiness inside my chest seemed to expand. It was a hollow, gnawing sensation that had taken root the moment I’d watched my mother’s eyes go blank, the moment I’d realized the woman who had raised me, protected me, loved me unconditionally, was gone forever. The thing that had taken her place—that shambling, mindless creature—hadn’t been her. It couldn’t have been.
My fingers unconsciously moved to my chest pocket, feeling the sharp edges of the photograph through the fabric. The picture was creased from countless times I’d held it, touched it, drawn strength from it. Me and Mom at the beach last summer, both of us laughing at something I couldn’t even remember now. Her arm around my shoulders, her smile genuine and warm. That was the mother I wanted to remember, not the horror that had replaced her in those final moments.
The thought brought with it a familiar darkness, one I’d hoped I’d left behind years ago. It was always the same pattern, wasn’t it? The good people, the ones who actually mattered, were always the first to fall. Meanwhile, the parasites of the world continued to thrive, living their comfortable lives while better people suffered.
My bastard father was probably holed up somewhere safe with his new family—the woman he’d left us for and another reason behind my mom’s divorce.
I’d bet everything I had that he was still breathing, still laughing, still pretending he was a good man while people like my mother paid the ultimate price.
The rage built slowly, like a fire catching on dry kindling. I could feel my nails digging into my palms as my hands clenched into fists. These thoughts—this poisonous spiral of hatred and despair—I’d thought I’d conquered them. After the divorce, when it was just Mom and me, I’d found peace. She’d shown me that the world could still hold beauty, that there were reasons to hope, to keep fighting. But now that she was gone, that carefully constructed optimism was crumbling, revealing the bitter cynicism that had always lurked beneath.
I paused on the landing between the third and second floors, steadying myself against the concrete wall. The surface was cold and rough against my palm, grounding me in the present moment. I couldn’t afford to lose myself in these thoughts, not now. Not when I needed to stay sharp, stay alive.