The Window on 24th Street

I moved into my apartment on the 24th day of June, on a Thursday. Job hunting had not been going well, but I had managed to find a job as a legal clerk nearby, so I rented a small studio apartment on 24th Street. It was very minimalist, but it was enough for me. In the living room, there was a large window that gave view to the street and the buildings directly in front. I loved sitting by that window while I drank my coffee in the mornings. I had been there around a month when I noticed that, every night, one of the apartment lights on the building across the street was always on. The window peered into a living room with a green sofa and a large painting above it. A nice couple lived there, I had met them on my second week there as I headed to work. Some nights, I would read, sitting on a chair that I conveniently propped next to the window. It was on one of those nights when it all started.

It was around 10PM when I noticed that there were shadows casted on the wall of the living room of that apartment. I grew curious so I closed my book and shifted my attention to the window. The shadows were moving freneticall; they mimicked sudden, violent, movements. Then, the couple stumbled into the frame, sending the shadows back to the realm of the illusory. They looked like they were yelling at each other. This went on for a few minutes when, suddenly, the man landed a cross on his partner’s face, dropping her down to the ground. He then mounted her and pummeled her three or four times before getting up and stomping out of the room. The woman followed a few minutes later. This same scene played on a loop almost every night for the following three weeks, all of them witnessed by me.

On the third week, I was getting home late from work. I got to my apartment at around 8:30 PM and, after showering and having dinner, I took my spot next to the window; keen to see what scenes it would play for me that day. Instead, I was met by the flashing blue lights that harbring the presence of emergency service vehicles. The door of the building slammed open and two paramedics rushed out, pushing a stretcher that carried a woman being kept alive by respirators and as still as a wax statue. Following them, I saw the man that resided in that lively apartment I spied almost nightly. His face wore a curious expression which I still remember to this day; somewhere between worry and guilt. The following day, I read in the newspaper that the lady had been declared dead on her way to the hospital. I was curious so I looked all over for more information, but the cause of her death was not disclosed.

The following days, I was met by nothing more than brown window shades when I looked at the apartment. I was a little disappointed since I found entertainment in the plays that I used to see reenacted behind it. Time flew by and, eventually, the shades opened once again revealing the same living room, with the green sofa, but there was something missing. That large painting that hung over the sofa was now a memory that had long left the world of reality. Since the shades opened, I would regularly see the man sitting on the couch, drinking large amounts of liquor and staring into the distance. One time I thought we had made eye contact, so I leaned back on my chair, hiding behind my window frame. I would watch this man drink and zone out for hours at a time. One night, he was sitting on the couch, but he wasn't drinking, or zoning out. He held something in his right hand, something heavy-looking. He raised it slowly to his head and after he let out a desperate cry, a loud bang snapped, leaving a splatter on the wall behind. I saw the man sitting there, dead. I looked down at my hands and they were shaking. Violently. I stood up, picked up the chair and returned it to the kitchen. Then, I closed those blinds which, to this day, have not been opened again.