Leading Ladies Anthology [FEATURED STORY]

@shalonsims - Leaving my apartment

I took a deep breath, standing before the door to my apartment, the boundary between my pathetic existence and the unknown. I knew I had to open the door, but the act of doing that was easier said than done. I hadn't left my apartment in.... I didn't even know.

I began trying to calculate how long it had been since I'd met Michael. His life had become my time reference, since my own life had ended so many years ago. He had been six, maybe seven when I met him, and now he had to be at least 12 or 13. He was going through puberty; his skin was oily and his voice cracked sometimes.

I thought about going to the kitchen where I kept a rudimentary calendar that tracked the seasons. Then I realised I was procrastinating, so I came up with a nice round number: four years since I'd set foot outside my apartment. I let that nice round number roll around in my head for a few seconds, hoping it would push me to open the door.

Four years. Aren't you ashamed? Four whole years you've not stepped outside. You're a coward. You're a spineless coward!

The mental beating didn't work as I hoped. I stared at the doorknob. I stared at the door. It was actually not a bad door... Michael had taken it from an old liquor store and installed it here to keep me safe from Money's gang downstairs. Not that Money would ever come up here—he was too fat to climb 37 flights of stairs. But I could see him sending up one of his henchmen, one of those young punks who have absolutely no respect for their elders.

I shook myself. Procrastinating again!

I took a deep breath and reached forward and put my hand on the door knob. The round, dented handle felt warm in my hand. I turned it slowly... it creaked slightly under my touch.

But I just couldn't do it. I dropped my hand and turned back around to the kitchen, my heart beat thumping in my ears. I got a glass of water and gulped it down, and gripped the yellow enamel kitchen sink, feeling nauseous and light-headed.

I don't know what I can compare it to, but opening that door would be similar to jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. Right... you probably don't even know what a parachute is. Anyways, the fear was so intense that my entire body was seized up.

I was about to abandon the entire idea, but when I looked out the window I saw the shore, the water lapping at Main and Fifth and I thought about Michael... waiting out there for me. And that man, that asshole, Tom from the Cultural Preservation Taskforce. My anger miraculously turned my watery guts to steal, strengthening my resolve.

I used that anger and let it walk me back to the door to my apartment where I took a deep breath and opened the door just a crack. And then on second thought, in an instant of wild, angry abandon, I threw it open wide. It banged against the wall, which protested with a cloud of plaster and ancient dust and grime. I coughed and covered my mouth. This is bullshit! I have to just suck it up and keep moving. That asshole isn't going to steal all of my books!

Before the fear could imprison me again, I walked boldly over the threshold and into the hallway. I exhaled a big breath of air, realising that I'd made it through the hardest part. My heart was beating and my senses were sharp.

The hallway was just as I remembered it: dark and smelling of ancient, mouldy, piss-stained carpets. At the other end of the hallway was a gaping window with no glass. The sunlight reflected on a narrow path of exposed concrete, where the carpets had worn away over time. I didn't bother looking back inside one last time or locking up; I didn't take anything except the clothes on my body. I blindly followed that long, skinny line of sunlight, and made my way to the door of the stairwell and began my descent.

Down, down down—my bad knee protesting fiercely—down, down, down—my hips aching from my fall in the morning—down, down, down—stepping around years of garbage—down, down, down—clutching onto the grimy, disgusting railing the whole way for support—down, down, down—37 flights of stairs. I wondered how I had ever been able to climb up and down these stairs so frequently, and how, or if, I would ever climb back up them again.