The Brownstone

The box was set against the door of an old brownstone. Slightly smaller than a shoebox, it was wrapped in brown paper and prudently tied with twine. It had been set carefully in front of the dark red door to keep it out of the freshly falling snow.

When the woman arrived home that night, it was late. She was wearing a long red coat over black tights and impossibly high heels. Her gloved hands helped secure her purse on her shoulder, and she wore large sunglasses despite the night being black beyond the glow of the street-lamps.

As she walked up the stairs to the dark red door, she spotted the package. She bent down to pick it up and turned it over in her hands. There was no writing on the package, no stamp. No footprints leading to or away from the door. The woman looked up and down the street into the darkness and then back at the package she held in her hands. It was light for its size; so light, in fact, she would have thought it empty had she not given it a little shake and heard shuffling inside.

The woman unlocked the door and stepped inside wordlessly. Setting the package on the entryway table, she turned back and locked the door behind her. Working upwards, first she locked the doorknob, then the deadbolt, and finally the chain. She looked through the peephole for a moment before sliding down the guard.

Next the woman disarmed and rearmed the security system. She then took the package into the kitchen where it sat on the island as she poured herself a glass of red wine. She put her sunglasses and gloves into her purse. She took off her coat and draped it over one of the chairs pulled up to the island. She slipped off her shoes while she took a sip of the wine, and then sat in front of the mysterious package.

The house was quiet, empty. The woman lived alone, had lived alone since she bought the brownstone three years ago. She had a few plants throughout the house, but none that required constant care. She was prepared to leave at any moment, with two fully packed suitcases hidden under the bed in the guest room.

This was temporary, she always knew. He would find her, as he always did. No one at work knew where she lived, and her mail was delivered to a PO Box two subway rides away. She had changed her name again, of course, but none of that mattered. He always found her.

The woman poured her third glass of wine and pulled the package closer. Her fingers played with the twine. She could just throw it out, she knew. She could take it to a police station, or burn it, or throw it in the river. It didn’t matter, though. The package meant he’d found her, had hand-delivered it to her front door.

She slowly pulled the bow on the front of the package. It untied easily. The brown paper was secured with three small pieces of clear tape. The woman used her fingernails to slowly cut open each side. When she pulled back the paper, she saw the black satin box her mother had given her as a child.

Stifling a gasp, the woman quickly finished the wine in her glass. She pulled away the brown paper and picked up the beautiful satin box. She remembered sitting in her mother’s closet as a child, running her hands along all her mother’s beautiful and expensive clothing. She would try on her jewelry and shoes, always making sure to put everything back exactly as she found it. It was her favourite distraction from the yelling and the violence happening on the floor below. She would open the satin box and a striking ballerina would twirl and release sweet music. She would hum along and dance in the closet, wearing too-big shoes and heavy gold jewelry.

One autumn afternoon when the woman was seven years old, her mother left. The woman arrived home from school to find her mother piling the last of her things into a cab. She seemed surprised to see her daughter, must have lost track of the time. Had her mother really intended to leave without her, without even saying goodbye?

“Mama!” she had yelled, dropping her backpack and running to the cab. “Mama!”

Her mother turned around, wiping tears from her face. She knelt down and took her daughter in her arms. “It’s okay, Bug, it’s okay. Don’t worry. Mama will come back for you, Bug. Mama always comes back.” She opened her purse and took out the black satin box. “Take care of this for me, will you, Bug? I know you’ll take good care of it. You’re a good girl. I love you.” She kissed the top of her daughter’s head, and like that – she was gone.

She never saw her mother again. The woman grew up in private schools, home only for the long summers where her father would berate her, blaming her for her mother’s disappearance. Without her mother there, her father’s anger and violence grew. She started her sophomore year of high school with a brand-new nose, after her father had shattered her old one.

She kept that black satin box, though. Through private schools, through universities, through moves around the country, the black satin box with the twirling ballerina was her one constant. She would wind it up every night and listen to the beautiful melody as she fell asleep. It was her symbol of hope that her mother might one day return and save her.

At 24, the woman married. Her husband seemed perfect at first, just as her father had seemed perfect for her mother at first. As time went on, their marriage crumbled to the point where the woman understood everything her mother must have felt in the days, months, even years leading up to her disappearance. She had no children to care for, yet that made it no easier to leave.

At 34, the woman woke up in the hospital for the fifth time in a year. She knew this would be the last time she would wake up in a hospital – the next time, she wouldn’t wake up. She lay in the hospital bed for days; her husband never visited. An acquaintance from work had dropped off some clothes for her, as well as her purse with her wallet and phone. As soon as the woman could stand on her own, she changed into the clothes, took as much money as the ATM would give her, and left.

The first time, it took only three months for him to find her. She hadn’t changed her name, hadn’t realized that he would come after her. He started mailing her postcards from neighbouring cities, each one getting closer. After the fifth postcard, which featured an image of the coffee shop two blocks from her apartment, she once again left everything behind.

This time she changed her name and moved farther away. After eighteen months she started to feel some tranquility. She relaxed, made friends with people at work, and thought she might finally be free. But then a colleague posted a photo on Instagram from their company’s year-end party. The photo featured her co-worker sipping a green cocktail while winking at the camera. The woman could be seen sitting in a booth behind her. Somehow, he found it.

He started mailing her hand-drawn portraits. There was a picture of her in the bath, sipping wine. A picture of the colleague who had posted the photo, laughing and holding a drink, and a silhouette of the woman changing in her apartment window. The woman left again.

The woman had been at this brownstone now for three years, but she knew better than to relax this time. She kept her blonde locks dyed dark brown and never let her cut grow out past her shoulders. She gave up any hope of a social life and instead threw herself into her work. If he did find her again, she wanted to have enough money to get as far away as possible.

The woman took a deep breath and slowly opened the black satin box. The ballerina inside didn’t twirl – she had been broken in half. The music still played, but slowly, distortedly. She tried to turn the pin on the back, but it did nothing to change the speed of the tune.

She reached in and pulled out the contents of the box. There were about a dozen polaroids, which she laid out carefully on the island in front of her. Photos of her, beaten and bloody. Photos of her, tied to a bed and barely conscious. Photographic evidence of the heinous things this man had done to her. The woman felt the hot tears run down her cheeks as she went through each photo. She took a deep breath and told herself that this wasn’t her anymore. This wasn’t her life anymore.

This was her life now. This brownstone, these plants, this city. And now she was going to have to leave it all behind, again. She poured the last of the wine.

When the woman reached the last polaroid, she let out a scream. The wine glass fell to the floor and shattered. She jumped up from her chair and took several steps backwards. This was impossible. Wasn’t it?

The last polaroid was of her husband. Of her husband, sitting on the guest bed upstairs, between her two packed suitcases. The clock on the nightstand read 10:53pm. The woman looked at her watch. It was 3:23am. Was he here, in her house?

The woman stood up and took a deep breath. She walked to the front entrance, holding onto the wall to keep from falling. She stopped just short of the door, just short of the alarm. She turned to the entry table and took off her necklace. At the end of the necklace was a key. She slid it into the drawer of the table, which unlocked easily. She quietly pulled the drawer out and picked up the cold, loaded gun.

It felt heavy in her hands, the cool metal a refreshing sensation against her sweating skin. This was her life now and she wouldn’t leave without defending it. Not that she had much choice, if he was already in the house. There was no way he would let her out alive, not when he had finally gotten this close.

The woman walked slowly up the stairs, clicking off the safety and pointing it as she had been taught by the man who sold it to her. She had never fired it before, but she felt confident – almost peaceful. Each step she took on the stairs felt more solid, more purposeful. She reached the top of the stairs and turned to the door on her right. The guest room.

The woman took one deep breath, and then another. And then, holding the gun with her right hand, she opened the door with her left and came face to face with her husband for the first time in almost five years.

The quiet old brownstone in the quiet old neighbourhood exploded with the sound of a single bullet.