It smells like shit.
There's a tinge of piss and alcohol as well, but it's mainly just that same smell of rotten stray that's the first thing my nose picks up when I exit the liquor store. Holding a plastic bag containing milk and eggs, I walk down the cracked sidewalk with music blaring in one of my earbuds. I told Sayuri I had to go out for a bit to do some things, but I remembered on the way walking home that there wasn't any milk in the fridge, and I really can't go the week without milk for my Berry Crisps.
Turning the corner, a gust of wind blows in my direction, fanning dirt and debris in my face. Squinting my eyes, I walk the block until finally reaching the entrance of the apartment complex. It's a big black gate, and unlocking the gate with my keys, I enter the complex and walk up the flight of stone steps. Our complex is a rather small complex compared to the Johnson or Freeman buildings, but considering just how much cheaper the rent is in those complexes, I'd say their landlords' methods of approach are leaning more towards quantity than quality.
The complex is composed of a two-story main building that surrounds a courtyard with two entrances, one in the front and one in the back. The courtyard in the middle is mostly just concrete floor with a fenced tree in the middle. There are about 6 rooms on the bottom floor and 6 on the top one as well. Room 204, the one I'm currently staying in, is on the second floor and almost in the middle of both entrances on the right side of the building. Knocking on a black metal door, the wood door behind it opens, and there she is to greet me.
"Why were you so late?" she asks me nonchalantly, closing both doors as I enter and hold up the plastic bag in response.
"Bought some things we needed," I say, walking into the kitchen and putting the milk and eggs inside the fridge. Putting the bag in the cabinet by the stove, I pull my hood down and plop myself on the mini sofa that's against the wall.
The apartment is somewhat spacious, the kitchen and living room being pretty much the same room. There's a hallway with a bathroom at the end of it, and Sayuri's bedroom is on a door to the left. The paint on the walls is a nice shade of light blue, and the floor is wooden tile so it makes cleaning easy. Overall, it's a nice apartment, only complaint being that it's in a shitty neighborhood. Then again, the same could be said about any residence in Cielos, so it's not really a complaint, per se, but more of a burden that comes with living anywhere here.
From an outsider's perspective, not much can be said about Cielos other than the fact that it's a shithole. Crime is a common occurrence here, not a single day passing by without somebody breaking the law. The police here are overworked to the point where if the crime committed wasn't a murder or involved somebody of importance, then there was no crime to begin with. Every street outside of Monse Circle looks just about the same, their sidewalks littered with trash, all the usable bits already scavenged by the homeless and every road filled with potholes and cracks. It's clear what area is the city's main priority, everything outside of that is left in constant fear and chaos. Cielos is rotten down to it's core, so rotten that everybody here smells like it, and I don't mean that as an exaggeration.
I first noticed it when I was around 5, and ever since then, my life hasn't been the same. It was around then that everything else started to come along too. At first, I couldn't stand the smell, constantly throwing up when I accidentally breathed through my nose. I just thought it was because the streets were dirty and people didn't shower, but it was more than that. I couldn't really describe how it smelt to me when I was little, but over time, I became very familiar with what it was.
Every single person has the same rotting smell to them, like the putrid, rotting flesh of a dead rat. For some, the smell they emitted was unbearable. For others, it was faint and I could breathe through my nostrils. But for both, the way they smell was the same.
They all smell like death...
...Well, everybody but her, that is.
Not once in my 19 years of life have I ever thought that I'd be fond of the smell of Mrs. Sparkle cleaning fluid, but alas, I find myself having an almost instinctual reaction of ecstasy whenever the floor is freshly mopped. As far as I know, inside this apartment is the only place in Cielos (and quite possibly, the entire country) where that smell is nowhere to be found. Even in empty rooms, that smell still lingers around if somebody has been in there recently, and yet, I smell nothing in here. I know girls tend to be cleaner than guys and all that, but even the prettiest and best groomed girls in my high school reeked of old meat.
Why is Sayuri an exception?
The day we met was like godsend. It was pouring that day, a dark and gloomy sky that fit the atmosphere of the events that happened. They had betrayed me that day, betrayed people who I believed they thought were like brothers. They killed everybody, even him, the one person I knew who actually wanted to help me. I ran as far as I could, but they caught me. I was shot three times in the chest inside that alley, beaten and bruised everywhere before that. I was on the brink of death, blood seeping out from wounds and mouth. And as I dragged my lifeless body across the floor, propping myself up against that cold dumpster, I found myself ready to die. I didn't fight off the slow fading of consciousness. My eyes just got heavier and heavier...
"You're not going to eat?"
Opening one eye, I am greeted by her hazel eyes looking down at me, her face upside down.
"I made spaghetti," she says, walking away as she takes off the scrunchie that was holding up her blonde hair, it falling down to her shoulder blades.
"How long was I asleep?" I ask as I rub my eyes and get up, letting out a slight yawn.
"I don't know the exact time, but three Branco episodes have played on the TV since you've fallen asleep."
"Jesus... those things are like an hour each." I sit down at the dining table, Sayuri heating up the spaghetti in the microwave. "What time is it?"
"11:36."
"You should've let me stay asleep and went to sleep yourself," I say while yawning. The microwave beeps, and with an oven mitt, she grabs the plate and places it in front of me.
"You need to eat." She takes a seat across from me, a mug of tea in her hand.
"Yeah, yeah." The spaghetti, like all the foods that she's ever made, tastes delicious. It's not like I'm a picky eater anyways. As long as it's edible, I'd probably be able to gulp down just about anything.
Both of us are quiet the entire time, the silence being almost awkward, and after I'm finished eating, she takes the plate and puts it in the sink. She turns off the light in the kitchen, and walks to the hallway where her room is. "Goodnight."
This is how the majority of my days play out. With nothing to do the entire day, I mainly just laze around watching whatever's on the T.V. She goes to work on most days, usually coming back at around 6 or 7, leaving the apartment empty. I do chores occasionally, but when it comes to doing chores that involve going outside like going to the laundromat, I tend to refrain from doing those unless it's something vital like today's situation. She's off on Saturdays and Sundays, but even on those days, we rarely talk. It's like we're strangers when the both of us are in the same room, making meaningless small talk only to fill the void of silence. I can't say that I want to get closer to her either. Our current relationship as it is now is fine honestly. I get somewhere to stay at no cost, free meals, cable, and I don't have to do much in return. All she's asked me to do in return is give some of my blood to her once a week. Yeah, it sounds weird at first when think about it, but clearly, I'm the one that's winning in this deal, so I really don't care enough to start asking questions. Besides, I already knew something about my blood was odd a while ago. Giving it her is a much better use of it than what I was previously using it for. Far less taxing on my health too. I still have some of the needle wounds on my forearm, actually.
In the morning, I wake up to the rare sight of sunshine peering through the window drapes in front of the dining table. Turning on the news, I pour myself a bowl of cereal. The current story being reported, the death of a popular rap artist while shooting a video in Cielos, is interesting enough to leave on while I eat. It's the 8th of November, almost a month since the last time I've met up with Pook. I guess I should pay him a visit today. Going to the bathroom, I open the mirror cabinet and grab the box of colored contacts. It's annoying putting them in and ten times more annoying taking them out, but my eyes are practically as indistinguishable as my natural hair color when it came to how easily someone could recognize me with them. Luckily, I had just redyed my hair black last week so I don't have to worry about that for a while. Still, I can't really do much about my pitch black eyes unless I had about a couple thousand to spare for surgery, so I have to deal with these blue colored eye contacts for now. Picking up my hoodie from the couch and putting it on, I grab my keys and exit the apartment.
While locking the door, the door of the apartment next to ours swings open, an elderly woman in a black wool sweater walking out of it holding a white and navy blue reusable grocery bag.
"Morning, Marolyn," I say, taking the key out of the doorknob.
She smells of decaying corpse, a smell so unbearable that if I wasn't used to it, I would've thrown up right here on the spot. I found out eventually that the closer to death someone is, the worse they smell, so considering Marolyn is quite the fossil, it's a no-brainer that she fucking smells terrible. I try my best to hide my disgust, but there are moments where I'm afraid I might slip up.
"Ah! Is that you Carson?" she exclaims with a smile on her surprisingly only slightly wrinkly face. Despite her age, she still looks quite young. If I didn't know that she was 68, I would've assumed she was around 50. "How've you been, sugar?"
"Good, thanks for asking. And yourself?" I ask politely. She always gets my name wrong, but since it's Marolyn, I don't bother correcting her.
"Oh, me? I'm alright. Been taking aerobic classes lately, and let me just tell you, they work wonders!" She laughs at her own remark, and there's something about the out of place youthfulness she exudes that makes me laugh along with her.
"I'll have to take your word for it. You heading to the market?" I ask her as we walk down the stairs.
"Yes. Just need a few things for tonight's dinner."
"I'm heading in the same direction so I'll walk you there. It's not safe right now to be walking by yourself, especially for someone your age."
"Why thank you, but you didn't have to say that last bit, you jackass," she says, playfully punching my arm.
"My bad, Marolyn. Just being honest with you is all," I say laughing.
Marolyn is the only old person I know that I don't find annoying. The older generation of people that live in Cielos from my experiences with them are all cranky and depressing. I can't blame them to be honest. I would be angry all the time too if I were over 50 and still in this city. You either accept everything in the city or do everything you can to leave it, and when you're past your peak and old age starts biting you in the ass, neither of those are an option. You're practically stuck in a crime infested town with the only chance of you leaving having passed years ago, and yet Marolyn here being in that same exact situation lives everyday like it's the 80's again. She's a trooper, I'll give her that. Plus, she makes better mac and cheese than Sayuri so that already makes her cool in my book.
Crossing the street, we make it to the entrance of the shopping center.
"Alright Marolyn, this is where we part ways. If I finish what I'm doing quick enough and you're still here, I'll help you carry the bags," I say, walking ahead.
"Alright sugar, take care," she says waving me off.
It being morning still, the roads are busy with cars passing by and the sidewalks with people commuting to work. While the sky is cloudless and the sun is out, it still feels a bit chilly outside, an occasional breeze blowing by. Even with my hoodie up, my head feels cold. With my hands in my pocket, I make my way down the block.
His office is next to a pastry shop on Verdif and Grant. With him owning the entire building, it's safe to say that he earns a lot of money, probably enough for him to quit doing shady business and just retire. Of course, since it's Pook that I'm talking about here, there's no way that any amount of money is going to stop him from doing the things he does. On the surface, he's a defense lawyer, ond most well known throughout Cielos for successfully defending one of the biggest cases in recent millennium: St. God vs. Cielos. Ever since that day, he's been provided protection from, shall we say, 'anonymous sources.' In other words, he's untouchable from both the police and any other criminal groups out there. He was already doing scummy shit on the side while working as a lawyer, but with the freedom to do whatever he wants with no repercussions, he's pretty much forgotten all about his lawyer gig. He owns his own firm, but he practically lets somebody else run it while he does whatever fancies his folly.
Pook is a jack of all trades type of guy, a man who's dipped his toe in all pools of dirty water imaginable. He does it all, from dealing drugs to murder cleanups. If there is one man that you want to be on good terms with, it'd have to be Pook. He can either help you get on your own two feet and walk for yourself, or he can cut your legs off and make sure you never walk again. Most prefer the former.
Walking down Verdif is risky however. If people don't know who you are, you'll automatically be labeled with a big, red target on your back that says 'rob me.' If I was walking here two years ago, then I'd have no problems walking around here like it's my block, but the me now can't do that. The me now isn't supposed to be alive, after all. I'm prey walking into a lion's den at this moment.
I keep my head down as I walk. I can already feel the glares of people, but ignoring them is ten times better than acknowledging them. They're mean looking people, some tattooed all over, all way bigger than me. I can imagine how I look right now walking down the sidewalk, just some tall, lanky boy with his white hoodie up trotting along the street. Easy pickings out for the taking.
"White boy! The fuck you doing round here?" calls out a bald tanned man in a muscle shirt from across the street. Other people around start laughing, all still leering at me. Black pawns maybe, but I can't confirm it until I see one of their tattoos on their backs. Just keep walking. I can't afford to be found out here of all places.
I hear footsteps behind me. Looking at the mirror of a parked car in front of me, I can see the same bald man that called out to me on my tail. Guess he's going to be the dumbass that tries me today.
There's an alleyway a couple of feet ahead of me, and walking into it, my footsteps echo between the walls. Like I expected, he follows me into the alleyway as well. You can never escape prideful ones like him. If you ignore them, they'll get agitated and want to do something to you. If you answer them, they'll still pick on you and probably rob you, only with the backing of everybody else. This one's a dumb one though. He should've came with a group. Even if I'm skinny and look easy to rob, pretty much everybody in Cielos carries some sort of weapon on them for defense. Even Marolyn has a taser on her in case somebody tries her.
"Aye buddy, didn't mommy tell you that it's rude to ignore somebody when they're talking to you?" he says intimidatingly, almost in a whisper.
Turning around, I keep my head down. Walking up to me, he circles around me like I'm prey, eyeing me down. He must think he's hot shit to run up on me by himself. That thought makes me chuckle out loud.
"Huh? What's funny? I wanna laugh too," he says, trying to keep the tough guy act going by tilting his head so that he's looking straight at my face. Digging into his pocket, he pulls out a switchblade, tossing it up and down in his right hand.
Jesus, he's so cliché. I could probably see this scene playing out on a fucking TV show. Even that low hushed whisper of his when he's talking makes me want to puke from how corny it is. I laugh out again, louder than last time, and as I'm laughing, I can tell he's getting angry at how I'm not taking him serious. Grabbing my hoodie, he pins me against the wall, holding the blade against my neck.
"Wanna laugh again, fucker? Take everything out of your pockets!"
All I can do is look him in the eyes. It's sad really, how he got all riled up after he was taken as a joke. His ego is fragile. I can tell it doesn't take much to make him feel worthless. Hell, he probably already does to be robbing people out in broad daylight. How pitiful...
"Say...
...Are you happy?"
"What?" he asks, clearly confused. "The fuck are you asking? You just wanna die, don't you!?"
"I think it's the other way around actually."
He stares at me like I'm crazy. His face is not showing it, but I know he's hesitant to do anything to me now. His grip on my shirt isn't as strong as it was at first, and while his blade is still pointing towards my neck, it's not against it like it was before. He doesn't know what to do...
Good.
He lets me go, folding his switchblade and putting it in his pocket. "I don't wanna deal with crazy," he says, turning around and slowly walking away.
"...You don't have a job, huh?"
He stops. He doesn't turn around, but I know he's listening. I should've just let him go, let him leave so I can be on my way, but what's the fun in that. Besides, he's seen my face. While he might not have recognized me now, somebody else might if he tells them what happened.
"Why are you quiet? It's not that hard of a question," I say, my face expressionless. "You didn't answer my previous question either. I wonder why..."
"Are you making fun of me, you little shit?" he says clenching his teeth as he turns around and rushes towards me.
He tries to punch me with a right hook, but dodging it swiftly, I hold my hands up. "Woah, woah, woah, buddy. Calm down... We're both humans here. We don't need to fight. I assume you're mentally capable of having conversation, right?"
"I'd oughta-"
"Oughta what?"
My face is right next to his ear, my mouth centimeters away. He backs away fearfully, backing up against the alley's wall wiping his ear with hand as if I had put something on it.
"You're a fucking weirdo, man!"
"Hmm, I guess from your perspective you could say I'm weird. It's really more like I'm not acting the way that you had expected me to though. You wanted me to panic and empty out my pockets when you had me up against the wall, right?"He stays quiet. He could run away at moment right now, but he won't.
"Y-yeah, so? What about it?" he mutters out, slowly getting up.
"Don't you hate when things don't go your way? I know I do."
"Yeah... I do." He seems to have calmed down.
"So can you answer me this: are you happy?"
He pauses for a moment, the sounds of chattering and cars passing by outside of the alleyway. There's a long moment of silence between us before he finally speaks. "...No, I'm not," he finally says.
"Thank you for telling me. Not a lot of men are brave enough to admit when they're feeling down. Do you mind if I ask why you're feeling down?"
"I... don't know... Maybe cause Mama died? No... that's not it." His face is now dopey, almost as if he doesn't know where he is.
"What is it then? Why aren't you happy?"
I've been whispering this whole time, but to him, my words were like his inner thoughts. The whole time he's having a conversation with himself, only I'm prompting the questions of discussion. I could leave him here and go to Pook now, but I don't want that anymore.
No... this one's almost at his breaking point...
"Whose fault was it that your mother died?" I ask coldly, a smile on my face.
"Mine! It was mine!" he cries out, only... it's all in his head. "I'm the reason she died! It was all my fault..."
"Whose fault was it that you've gotten to this point in your life where you have to rob people for money?"
"Mine! I'm the one to blame!"
"And who's to blame for your unhappiness?"
"ME! IT'S ALL ME!"
So who should be punished, Edgar?
"Me... I should be punished..."
Grabbing the switchblade that was in his pocket, he flips the blade open. He's sobbing, tears falling down his cheeks (do it) and snot all over his face(do it). His hand and body shaking, he slowly raises the blade (fucking do it) slowly to his chest, the tip presses against his (do it now) heart. His chest is rising and falling heavily, his breaths shaky and erratic. He's bawling his eyes out, snot and tears staining his shirt.
Do it, Edgar. You already reek of death.
Go and visit your mom. Maybe she'll forgive you if you talk things through.
Plunging the blade into his chest, he groans in pain and slowly falls to his knees, sobbing as the life in his eyes slowly faded away. He fell back against the alley's wall, his face losing color and the expression on it blank.
Just like that, I made a man kill himself in broad daylight.
"...Fuck."