Kevin emerged from the SMARTA station feeling tired as always but refreshed by the time spent with his friends at school that day. After crossing the street and passing a few dimly lit storefronts, Kevin entered Ming-Ming's. He ordered some sesame chicken and rice to go.
Having received the greasy, white paper to-go box, he sauntered out the front door of the restaurant and headed back to Washington Heights. Kevin entered the cramped lobby and started climbing the stairs. On the landing between the first and second floors, his friend Elizabeth Farraday bumped into him as she darted down the stairs.
Great, thought Kevin. The last thing he needed now was a delay. He had work to get to. After deflecting Elizabeth's question to his neighbor, Maria, Elizabeth offered to take Kevin's bag upstairs for him. Kevin gratefully accepted, watching Elizabeth dash back up the stairs.
Upon reaching the ninth floor, Kevin proceeded to his apartment. He waved at Elizabeth and Maria, picking up his bag which lay by his door. Upon entering, Kevin set down his bag by the door as usual and sat back down in the creaky chair in which he ate breakfast. Stretching back with his feet on the table, Kevin began to shovel the sesame chicken and rice in his mouth.
When he had finished eating, he chucked the to-go box in the trash as he headed for the door again. Peering through the eyehole, he saw that Elizabeth and Maria were no longer in the hallway. He cracked the door open and slipped into the corridor. He tiptoed to the apartment next door, #981, and got out his key ring. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside.
The room was frigid. Kevin's every breath formed a small cloud of steam. All around the walls were makeshift shelves. Some held containers of every chemical imaginable. Others held vials of herbs that presumably had magic powers. Along one wall, the shelves held an assembly of electrical wires and mechanical parts. In the center of the room was an industrial-sized stainless steel table. And in the center of that table, bound with chains bolted to the table, was a corpse.
"Hello, Patrick," Kevin said.
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What was I supposed to do now? There was no canned milk. What the hell was I going to do?? I rummaged around one last time behind the canned green beans and peas, hoping against hope, but no. There was nothing I wanted there. I dreaded what I knew had to come now. I had been thinking about it, building myself up for the terrible act that I would have to commit if this situation were to arise. And it had. So I had to do it.
I walked slowly towards to refridgerated aisle, making sure to keep my breathing regular and steady. I paused before turning the corner onto that dreaded aisle, took and exceptionally deep breath, and stepped onto the aisle. There were several people there, including a striking woman in red, but my mind immediately drifted towards the shelves. Oh those terrible shelves. The cartons and jugs glared at me from row upon row of cold metal shelves. Those shelves and their contents often haunted my dreams, and I would wake up, afraid to even breathe. I was going to die. "Hush, Maria," I murmered to myself, glancing around me to see if anyone noticed my somewhat odd behavior. A red basket hung on an arm, filled with shiny glass bottles brimming with various liquids. How I approved of her choices. So neat and clean and contained and safe. I wished that everything came packaged like that.
But the woman with the basket continued to stare at the shelves, assessing which poison she would take home with her. And the people around me eyed the jugs and cartons like pieces of dripping meat straight from the slaughter, picking and choosing as though each one were different, as those the eyes alone could decide which would be best. I was so afraid of making my choice. What if I chose the wrong one? "This is all they have, Maria, so just suck it up. Think of the kitten. Deep breaths, Maria, deep breaths." The woman looked at me questioningly, but I wouldn't meet her eyes. I looked up and down the rows of plastic, thinking how easy it would be to slip something into one, how simple it would be to slide that needle gently through the side above the liquid line and then back out again, unnoticed. I shuddered. Poisons, diseases, other liquids, and then everything would be tainted, destroyed and terrible.
Movement next to me brought me back to my current situation. The woman was stepping back from the shelves and walking away, leaving the cartons and jugs untouched. She must be an intelligent woman to have grasped the truth about them, I thought. I wonder if she always looks at them and then walks away, or does she sometimes take something with her? Does she realize what danger she is in everytime she stands so close to them? "Close, too close," I muttered, and took a quick step back myself. "But I need it." Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. "I need it." Breathe in. "Yes, I do." Breathe out.
I stepped forward and picked up the jug of milk closest to my reaching fingers. One percent. Expiration date still nine days away. The jug looked alright, nothing strange and white and floating in it, no discolorations, no dents in the jug. "You can do this, Maria," I said quitely. I moved the jug to where it hung suspended above my own little basket and took one more breath. I began to lower it into the basket. That was when I saw it, a tiny hole, a pinprick, a needle incision, on the cap.
I tried to tell myself that it wasn't really there, but before I had even gotten through saying the first word of reassurance outloud, I had dropped the jug on the floor, not caring that it split down the middle and milk started to run across the floor. I let my basket slip from my arm, hearing the bottle of olive oil break and the tomato smash. I wrapped my arms around me as tightly as I could and ran. I ran down the aisle and through an open checkout line. I ran out of the store and down the street, jumping the sidewalk and landing in a giant puddle where water was rushing into a drain. I ran even though the rain was pelting down and my umbrella was still neatly packed away in my purse. My scarf slipped from my shoulders, landing in the street like a stray red thread would on a grey carpet, but I didn't stop to pick it up, I just kept running. I ran until I had reached my apartment building, dashed up nine flights of stairs, and run to my very own door.
The nine that I had super glued there this morning (to protect it from certain theft) stared cheerfully out at me, but I would have none of its good humor. I turned my back on the door and slid down the wall until i sat, a dripping mass, in my very own doorway. I shrieked when I looked down at my hands and thought of milk. Ripping open my purse I tossed things out until I found that little bottle of hand sanitizer I had purchased from the conveniant store. I poured the entire contents onto my wet hands and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until there was no more. Then I sighed, leaning back against the door, all the while tears streaming down my face.
A dim shadow flickered over my knees as a figure slipped out of apartment 981. I wondered for a moment at the oddity of it, but then ignored it, another mystery for another time. The weary face looked surprised to see me, but not at all amazed that someone would be sitting on the floor in the dirty hallway, purse contents lying haphazardly around them, crying their eyes out. Kevin came and sat down next to me, back against the wall. He looked across the hallway at his closed door. "So," he said eventually, "Are you going to be alright?"
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