12B

12B

Frankly, I don’t know why I came back. I don’t know why I risked my neck crossing the openness of the westside, moving about the colossal shadows of a vacant civilization; a civilization long abandoned and thrust into the pure and absolute chaos of The Collapse.

I stood at the stoop of “Greenway Apts. 1376 Fairway Boulevard.” A calm wind whirled down the street beset by weeds and overgrowth, whisking about leaves and fragments of charred paper that littered the modern world like a sad mockery of ages passed; fallacious snowflakes in a world burnt by the scourge of man.

I retrieved the revolver from the waistline of my tattered jeans and gently released the cylinder to the open position. I inspected the six holes, of which five firmly held brass cartridges, faintly marked, “S&W .38.” I tried to narrow my focus on the five occupied cylinders and not the empty hole that peered to the earth below. Then, in a ritual of habit, I meticulously rotated and positioned the empty cylinder into the last position and closed it with a click. After a moment’s hesitation and steadiness of breath, I climbed the stoop and entered the once familiar foyer of a past life.

The halls were dark and devoid of life. I walked heel over toe and crept my way to the end of the hall. Doors to deserted apartments hung open and reveries of dusty daylight peered through boarded windows and intruded across the corridor in obtuse patterns. Each open room I passed, projected the same bleak exhibit, like little dioramas, displaying the same scene over and over again, with few minute differences. I thought back to my childhood and the “Spot the Difference” puzzle books that I would obsessively scrutinize over for hours on end. Shamefully, I imagined how well these images would fit into the books and how excited I would have been to add it to my quirky collection. Every few steps, I stopped and listened for any signs of danger and after a few heartbeats of confirming silence I would press on.

Suddenly, a loud metallic bang blasted from an encroaching doorway. Without thinking, the revolver snapped to a forward aiming position and I lowered my panicked eyes to the sights and held my breath. A small soup pan rolled across the doorway and a rat the size of a house cat scurried down the hall and out of sight. I realized that my index finger had applied a hesitant pressure on the trigger; a noncommittal pressure. Yet, after the startle and shock subsided I released a long drawn-out breath through pursed lips, lowered the revolver and continued.

Finally I reached 12B. The door was closed but not latched. Gently, I pushed the door in and the hinges groaned with the protest of the many years passed. I crossed the threshold into the apartment that I once called home and stood amidst a scene of an unrecognizable abandonment. The scene reflected the leftovers of rapacious plundering, most likely from the time of The Collapse or shortly thereafter. Furniture lay overturned, drawers removed with heaps of the spilled contents strewn about the apartment and the shelves that once housed my prideful collection of books sat empty. I don’t know what I expected. I knew I was going to be walking into a dismal place; a ravaged home, like everywhere else in the new world. Yet, it was the empty bookshelves that echoed a chilling hollowness through the apartment and myself alike.

I closed my eyes and thought of Sam. I thought of how we used to cuddle up on the couch and read together for hours on end. It was one memory in particular. One memory that seemed to always replay throughout every corner of my mind; a therapeutic mindscape that I could often escape to. I remembered the sky painted a dull gray and plump drops of rain tumbling down panes of clean, amicable glass. Outstretched in my hands was Ernest Hemmingway’s “Old Man and the Sea,” and across my lap, Sam’s head lay; the gentle snores- a subtle melody accenting the final notes to a perfect afternoon.

I caught myself smiling at the blissful memory as it floated to the front of mind. Quickly, the smile reconstructed itself to a painful grimace of realization and I opened my eyes and returned to the distressing scene.

I mulled about the apartment, amazed by all the things I found missing. Things I would not have imagined. Empty spaces filled the walls where pictures and decor once hung. Filing cabinets, desk drawers and anything else that may have housed documents of the old world- purged and plundered.

I sifted through the piles of discarded treasures that held no apparent value to the passing looter. I carelessly cast aside old world junk that had become new world junk, and after a few moments of searching for nothing in particular, I found a relic of immeasurable, painful value. The locket dangled from a golden chain, not real gold, but gold nonetheless. It was heart-shaped and clasped shut. I carefully brought my thumb to the clasp and hesitated.

I better not. I thought to myself. It will only hurt. Not yet. I pocketed the locket into my shirt and continued the disparaged exploration, apathetically kicking aside things I once cherished, now just rubble of a forgotten age.

The pantry was barren and riddled with dust and cobwebs. I retrieved the crank-powered flashlight from my pack, whirled the crank for a good fifteen seconds and then poked my head into the dusty corners of the forgotten cupboard. It was well looted. Whatever had been left behind had given into rot and rats, long ago. I sighed and recoiled from the pantry. There was nothing for me here. Nothing except this. I raised my hand to my chest pocket where the locket lay. Not yet. Too much pain. I moved to the living room.

The couch that I once adored was now a weeping frame of cushion and cloth. I lazily grabbed one of the cushions that lay scattered across the room and tossed it back onto the frame. Weighted down by the exhaustion of a perilous journey down memory lane, I collapsed onto the sofa. The revolver tucked into my waistline, dug into my back and I quickly removed it and set it on the floor, by my feet.

The memories of “Old Man and the Sea” came back to me. I thought of Santiago and his Marlin, the skiff and the shark attack and I thought of Sam and gentle and rhythmic snores that once brought me so much happiness. I laid my head back and closed my eyes again. A tear rolled down my cheek and this time my eyes stayed closed for much longer. I found myself giving way to the overwhelming and seductive embrace of sleep, and I slept.

I woke to the amber light of the twilight sun creeping past the blinds and basking the apartment into a warm autumn glow. Shit. I thought to myself. I stayed too long. I looked out the window and saw the failing light of approaching nightfall. A hopelessness crept down my spine and into the bottom of my gut, where my heart had already sunk. I cannot stay here. I thought. Yet, I can’t go out in the darkness. I reached down for the revolver by my feet and performed my paranoid ritual. Opening the cylinder, inspecting the empty hole, ensuring it's in the last position and closing the cylinder before returning it to my waistline.

I stood to leave and quickly dropped to the floor and out of sight once I heard the voices outside. They were the gruff and outlandish; the foreign dialect of the Outsiders. I flattened myself closer to the dirt-clad carpet and crawled to the bathroom. I cautiously and quietly crawled into the deep, cast-iron bathtub, which was outdated even in its former life, and closed the curtain. My heart was beating out of my chest and my breathing- short and jagged. I needed to be silent. I needed to be calm. I closed my eyes and returned back to the couch with Hemmingway and Sam. The perfect memory brought stillness to my heart and a steadiness to my breathing.

I opened my eyes and found my hand already holding the locket. It may be now or never. Just one look. My thumb gingerly popped the clasp and opened the cheap trinket. The small, hand-cut image was just how I remembered it. Though, in the thick entanglement of the mind it is easy for one to trick themselves into believing a certain memory as merely a bad dream. Now the beauty of that bad dream laid open before my eyes.

The picture was of me; a much younger, softer me. My nose was scrunched and eyes closed with a genuine smile of absolute happiness painted across my face. Next to me was Sam. His tongue raking the side of my cheek, his floppy ears pointed skyward and his wet nose pressed lovingly against the side of my face.

I still could feel that wet nose, pressed against my cheek. I smiled and coughed up an unsupressable, weak cry. It was then that I thought of the revolver. I thought of its weight and of the difference one bullet makes. I thought of my paranoid ritual, the continuous and thoughtful habit of open-adjust-close...open-adjust-close... I thought of the empty cylinder. Lastly, as I lay huddled in the ruined bathtub of my past life, preparing to face the rising uncertainty of nightfall, I thought... I should have never opened the locket.