By
Updated 4 years ago,March 2, 2021
Shes dead.
That her death would feel real to me.
If anything, the repetition had the opposite effect.
Jessie McCall
Even with the variations, the words quickly lost all meaning.
They were just empty sounds doing nothing to solidify the swirling chaos in my mind.
I remember nothing else about that night and little about the weeks that followed.
I was lost, unable to cope or function.
I stopped showing up for work.
My first appearance following her death ended quickly and disastrously.
I barely ate and slept less.
I couldnt stand the emptiness of the apartment at night.
There was a rat living in my ceiling and I could hear the damned thing scratching and chewing incessantly.
I never actually saw it.
Television and books did nothing to distract me.
Distract me from what?
Eventually, I stopped trying to find solace in these diversions.
The television was nothing but chattering heads, their laughter growing ever more screechy and desperate.
My floor was littered with, among other things, discarded books.
The water turned pink.
I saw her laying there.
I smelled blood and gunpowder and I screamed.
I stared at the paintings hanging on the wall and felt nothing at the sight of once beautiful images.
I stared at nothing.
I stared at my feet.
I paced and I stared and I thought about nothing.
Not handguns clutched loosely in hands submerged in pink water.
Not of a pair of cat-eye glasses found underneath the toilet, snapped in half.
I thought of nothing.
I would have to eat something.
Her parents, her friends, they blamed me.
Of course they did.
I suppose they thought her continued survival was my responsibility.
When she was well they would come around, sure.
When she was sick she became too much to deal with, and they all disappeared.
When she was sick it was up to me to help her, but I didnt have the tools.
I thought I was trying my hardest, but…
I would go out, I decided.
There was nothing worth eating in the apartment.
Nothing worth the effort.
That was the point of such places.
So convenient, you didnt even have to think.
It was February, and it was a cold bastard of a February.
Going out required putting on shoes, a coat, a hat.
Somehow I managed to complete all of those tasks without giving up and sinking further into starvation and despair.
Somehow I managed to leave the house.
I could not immediately recall the last time I had done so.
Weeks, at least.
Snow had piled up against my door, a crystalline wall I kicked through with a grimace.
The mail had piled up too, but that I left where it lay.
The winter storms came again and again and never receded long enough to facilitate a thaw.
You could only fight a losing battle for so long.
I trudged along accompanied only by the constantcrunch, crunch,of my footsteps.
The snow dampened all the ambient sound and transformed the world into a bright and featureless expanse.
I used to think it was beautiful.
I vaguely recalled the morning after a winter storm a couple of years ago.
A heavy rain came and froze overnight.
That morning I was walking and found a fallen tree branch, broken under the weight of the ice.
Under the thick glaze were bright red berries like a Christmas decoration.
The beauty of winter touched me then.
Now it only reminded me of the end of things.
Somehow, I found myself more at peace out in the empty world.
It was a mild comfort, but it soothed my fried nerves.
In the apartment, I was surrounded by memories and for those long weeks, I wallowed in them.
Out here I was numb, and not just because of the subzero temperatures.
I walked on and on seeking no destination at all.
I saw no one else walking the streets and I was glad.
They didnt know the truth, as I did.
I would not let them intrude upon my newfound world.
It was the dog that finally broke the spell.
Her cruel and thoughtless owners left her locked away in a kennel constructed of cyclone fencing.
A crude wooden doghouse buried under snow was her only refuge from the elements.
She sat out in her tiny yard shivering, unable to muster the energy to bark.
She simply gazed at me pathetically, pleading with her eyes for aid.
They had every opportunity to help the dog and instead left her to suffer.
A sin of omission.
I would damn them if I could.
Death was no way to ease its suffering.
Finally, I did nothing, committing a sin of my own.
God knows, it wasnt the first time.
Heartsick and robbed of my moment of peace, I turned back.
In her last days, Emily spoke of a dog.
For a long while, she seemed to be getting better.
It was like that, cyclical.
Sometimes I almost felt successful in the endeavor.
Most of the time it seemed that the only thing that really helped her was time.
The better times always came eventually, though the dark times seemed to grow longer and longer.
Her last dark period ended months before, and her brightness was more brilliant than ever.
She smiled again, she laughed again.
Her interest in sex, once long lost, was renewed with an almost startling vigor.
Her interest in hobbies and creative pursuits were similarly revived.
They were fantastic too, beautiful and rich with emotion and symbolism.
I always thought if she would only display her art for others, success would quickly follow.
That didnt seem to be the goal for her.
To express that effectively seemed to be her only goal.
I respected that, even if it frustrated me at times.
She even began to speak of the future again and in a positive light.
She talked of our relationship, of career, of travel.
She spoke of adventure and excitement, passion and life.
In every aspect, she renewed my faith in the possibility of our shared happiness.
I was happy then.
We were happy then.
Until she started hearing the dog.
I have no idea when it first started, because I never heard the dog myself.
The dog was in her head.
She suffered from hallucinations, had experienced them with all five senses.
She considered touch to be the worst, the most disturbing.
Sound was the most common and normally she dismissed auditory hallucinations easily.
The first time she mentioned it aloud, without thinking I simply said, I dont hear any dog.
This upset her greatly.
It has been barking nonstop, she said, crossly.
Its giving me a headache.
It keeps getting louder.
It must be a hallucination, I said.
Im sorry, honey.
I hope it goes away soon.
That was all I could say.
Empty words that did nothing whatsoever to help.
I wanted so very badly to help her, to ease her suffering.
It wasnt just hallucinations, in fact normally hallucinations were the least of her worries.
When she described the symptoms she experienced, I was frankly astonished.
It blew my mind to think that anyone could even breathe under the weight of it all.
I tried my hardest to help her cope with it all, but I felt so powerless.
There seemed to be so little that I could do.
I couldnt seem to talk her out of the delusions from which she suffered.
Maybe that was true.
Anyway, the dog.
She called it The Black Dog, which I should have taken as a serious red flag.
First of all, as far as I knew, she never saw the dog, only heard it.
How could she have known it was black?
Second, the image of The Black Dog has been seen as a portent of death going back centuries.
I guess I thought it would pass soon, and maybe when it did the better times would resume.
Instead, she grew ever more withdrawn and paranoid.
I kept catching her peeking out the window as if watching for it.
For a while, months before this, she was on a medication meant to treat her symptoms.
If it did so at all I have no idea, because she would spend days just like that.
One night we were laying in bed.
I had just drifted off to sleep when she started screaming bloody murder.
I leaped to a standing position with my heart feeling like it was trying to tear itself in half.
Its right outside the door!
I spent half the night trying to soothe her until finally, I drifted off to sleep.
The next day I spent my entire shift at work haggard and exhausted, physically and mentally.
It seemed quitting time would never arrive until at last, it did.
When I came home that evening, she was dead.
I supposed the mailman must have come and gone while I stared at the dog, seething.
It was addressed to Emily.
I took the box inside, immediately thankful for the relative warmth therein.
Normally she ordered dolls strung, but used dolls occasionally came this way.
Emily collected and customized ball-jointed dolls, typically referred to as BJD.
Every articulated piece of the doll is a separate piece.
There are no fixed joints.
The head attaches the same way.
Because they are intended for adult hobbyists, the dolls are normally anatomically correct and have detailed sculpts.
Their faces can be easily wiped clean and repainted, and the hair and eyes are interchangeable.
Emily was one such hobbyist.
She designed her own doll clothes and lent her painting skills to the art of the face-up.
She was equally skilled at both.
Though I did not share her interest in the hobby, I was in awe of her ability.
She never made enough to support herself entirely, but she still made a respectable income from her efforts.
Who can understand such things?
It frustrated her, and it frustrated me too, but she never stopped trying.
The sheer number of the dolls she possessed was staggering on its own.
As I said, they are for serious hobbyists and collectors.
Admittedly, their staring faces staring down at me from every available shelf space grew powerfully eerie at times.
The way Emily painted their faces, even the most fantastically sculpted doll seemed almost alive, knowing.
I know, its silly.
To be afraid of a doll.
The doll that arrived that day was something different.
I unwrapped the pieces of Emilys posthumous doll one by one and set them on the table.
It was a female doll, I knew that at once.
The first part I unwrapped was the pelvis with its crude slash of a vagina.
That was kind of funny, we discussed that from time to time.
Male BJD tended to have lovingly crafted and detailed genitalia.
Her body was thin and long-limbed.
Her hip and rib bones showed prominently and her breasts were small and pert.
The overall look was one of emaciation.
Her hands were long, thin, and delicate.
Her feet were long but narrow, and flat.
Some dolls came with feet for wearing heels, and others did not.
I unwrapped her head last, and upon revealing her face I grimaced.
The right side of the face was mostly normal, though unpleasant.
Its eye hole was opened to a narrow slit, and the brow furrowed.
The nose was narrow and sharp, the mouth twisted into a thin scowl.
I barely noticed these features, so distracted was I by the left side.
Of the left eye hole, well there was none.
Instead, the doll had a mound of scar tissue, as though the eye had been ripped out.
Worse yet, were the holes.
The left side of the dolls face was peppered with holes of varying sizes, close-set and numerous.
They disgusted me in ways I could scarcely articulate.
They looked like the hive of some diseased species of insect, a colony of disgusting multi-segmented horrors.
God, I hated it.
I ran my finger over the holes and immediately regretted the action.
I gagged as though I had touched something slimy and somehow obscene.
I wiped my hand on the leg of my jeans.
What a horrid thing this doll was!
Why would Emily think to purchase such a creature?
Certainly, the thing fell far outside her usual aesthetic.
She preferred dolls with a beautiful, realistic style.
Male or female, she found comfort in their pleasant countenance.
Now, I should mention, horror dolls did in fact exist in the BJD world.
It was not unheard of.
In fact, I can recall Emily showing me a few that were objectively worse than this one.
Why this one should disgust me so, I am at a loss to articulate.
It was awful, certainly, but it also disturbed me on a perhaps subliminal level.
I found myself growing nauseous the longer I looked upon that pockmarked visage.
Perhaps only to hide that face from my sight, I turned the head around.
Dolls who lacked a makers mark on the foot usually had one stamped into the back of their heads.
This one did not.
I removed the head cap.
BJD either had removable faceplates or removable head caps.
This allowed the collector to change the eyes and remove the head from the body.
The eyes could be affixed with putty, but Emily found that silicone earplugs worked wonderfully for this purpose.
Inside the hollow of the head cap I found the only identifying mark the doll possessed: A name.
Not just any name, but a name that I found immediately significant.
The dolls name was Emma.
That was my pet name for Emily.
I turned the dolls head around and looked again at the unblemished left side of the face.
It had Emilys nickname, and it had her looks too.
I thought it meant something, the name, and the face.
I didnt know what, but I thought perhaps Emily did.
Maybe she wouldnt have wanted the doll to languish in storage forever.
Ive helped Emily string dolls numerous times, though never by myself.
Still, I managed.
It took me close to an hour to get the whole thing right.
In the end, I was actually proud of myself.
It was as perfect as I could ever hope to achieve on my own.
Her arms seemed too long for her body, even considering her thin, rangy legs.
Her neck was long and narrow, delicate.
She was beautiful in a way if one did not consider her grotesque, ruined face.
Upon her dresser was a miniature couch of her own construction, in perfect doll scale.
It was a thing of beauty.
Two of her dolls sat upon the sofa, Sasha and Raynor.
I placed Emma between the two of them, still nude.
After the exertion of stringing the doll, I found little energy to find clothes that might fit her.
Perhaps I had done enough, for one day.
The task complete, I set my compass upon my typical nights destination: to drink and find oblivion.
The drinking was easy, but oblivion always seemed to skate ahead just beyond my reach.
It did not seem like I would ever make peace with what had happened.
The most common motif was my failure to encourage her to seek help in the form of medication.
Im certain now that the right medication would have saved her life.
I mentioned before the drug that left her almost catatonic.
I guess that sort of confirmed prejudices about antipsychotics that I had always subconsciously held.
Thats what I thought.
I realize now what an ignorant and selfish concept it was to which I held so dearly.
She told me she wanted to stop taking the drug and so of course I quickly supported the idea.
The subject was never seriously broached again.
I killed her as surely as if I had held the gun myself.
I never used to smoke inside.
In fact, before she died I rarely smoked at all.
Rarely drank at all.
Sometimes I would play music, somber pieces I never enjoyed before.
Mostly I would just sit in silence trying to will my mind into emptiness.
What I would do when my money ran out, I neither knew nor cared.
I didnt have the headspace for another problem.
My last cigarette smoldered lazily in the ashtray, having failed one more time to set my apartment ablaze.
My mouth tasted of bitter bile, but I hardly noticed.
I finally caught up with oblivion.
Tonight I did not find this to be the case.
I was walking barefoot down some anonymous street in Breckenridge.
All the houses were dark, and this time there was not a single motorist to shatter that image.
Though I was barefoot and treading through a deep snowfall, I did not feel the cold.
I did not feel anything.
I had a destination, though.
I was going to see.
There was something I was meant to witness, I knew that.
I knew it in the way you just know things in dreams.
The fact existed and was inalienable.
Perhaps time itself had stopped.
That was the way it seemed, out there in the frozen world.
I was the only element in the world bringing any observable change.
I turned around and I could see it.
Stretching on to infinity was a double track of footprints.
How long had I been walking?
What mattered was to see.
Before me stretched a hill, impossibly steep.
It seemed to stretch above the clouds.
My destination was at the top.
I immediately began to scale the hill, my heart fluttering with anticipation.
I climbed and climbed, the zenith ever out of sight.
I never tired, and I never felt the cold.
If not for the footprints behind me, I might have been a wandering spirit.
To my left and to my right were a continuous stream of homes, yards, fences.
It was a wonder the occupants did not roll off their beds and out the window as they slept.
Perhaps they were belted in place.
A hand slipped into mine and I was startled out of my reverie.
I turned to my left and saw that Emily was with me.
She smiled at me and gripped my hand tighter.
She spoke, saying, Hurry, were almost to the top.
I have to show you something.
I nodded, unable to speak.
I glanced behind us and saw that she left no tracks, herself.
Suddenly the way ahead was obscured by a thick fog, and I realized we were in the clouds.
The hill grew ever steeper and I wondered how I kept my footing.
Im so sorry, Emma, I said.
She only smiled in a sort of wry way and held a finger to her lips.
I could scarcely see her for all the fog.
The clouds, I mean.
We climbed the rest of the way in silence.
I felt impossibly relieved to find myself in her presence again.
I could even smell her.
The air was so clear up in the clouds.
All at once, the ground seemed to level off again.
The peak was clear, no impossible houses to obscure the view.
We sat together in the snow and waited.
I could sense some feeling of anticipation from Emily.
It was coming, at last.
She held my hand ever tighter.
I turned to her but she just pointed ahead, to the horizon.
I turned, and I saw.
Two moons rose in the night sky, side by side, brilliant and impossibly large.
Something stirred within me at the sight of the twin satellites.
I felt a powerful awe, as if I was seeing something great and rare, impossible.
But as great as was my awe, even greater was my terror.
Immediately I saw what she meant.
There was a shape beyond the luminous orbs, a greater darkness than that of the night sky.
Something so massive that it blocked the stars.
The streets and houses below us cracked and shook, torn asunder by great heaps of moving earth.
She turned to me, her eyes blazing.
She clutched me by the shoulders.
I could smell blood on her breath, and gunpowder.
I asked, bewildered.
Something massive was pulling itself out from a shallow grave measuring miles across.
To what terrible coming was I a witness?
What was the liberated colossus?
I turned to Emily for answers.
Her tone and the set of her face expressed a boundless dread, You cant think about him.
Dont think his name.
He is always listening.
He is always listening.
Thinking about him gives him power.
I cried, Dont think about who?
He can hear us, Emily said, and her face changed.
Her mouth gaped open wider and wider until the flesh ripped at the side of her mouth.
She was becoming the doll, Emma.
I screamed, I screamed and I tried to pull away from her.
I screamed again and the ground slipped out from under me.
I screamed and I fell.
A thunderous crash reverberated through my apartment and I snapped awake, my heart pounding in my chest.
I was sure the sound was my body crashing into the pavement, but it wasnt.
It came from the other room.
They never faded at all.
None of the dreams that followed ever did, either.
In the other room, I could immediately see the source of the sound that woke me.
Raynor lay on the floor, cracked and broken in several places.
I whispered, scooping up the doll and surveying the damage.
His face was cracked, Emilys face-up chipped and scarred.
Several fingers had snapped off and both legs had broken mid-shin.
Waves of guilt and remorse washed over me anew.
She left him and the other dolls in my care.
It was my job to keep them safe and whole.
I should have packed them away safely in their boxes.
She always saved the doll boxes.
I should have put them away, but I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.
Now Raynor was destroyed.
I knew it was my fault, too.
He had been sitting there on the miniature couch for months without a bit of trouble.
I must have bumped him off balance when I placed Emma between him and Sasha.
He must have fallen hard, too.
I wouldnt have been surprised to see the face chipped, but cracked through?
I thought I would have to throw it to the floor for that, not just let it fall.
Every time I entered the room I would be reminded of my carelessness and the havoc it wrought.
The easy tears of a self-pitying burgeoning alcoholic wretch stung at the corner of my eyes.
With the ravaged Raynor securely in place, I thought to check on Sasha.
Sasha was a Steeplehouse doll.
I cant remember the sculpt name.
Her features were realistic and sultry.
Her lips were full and pouty, her eyes intense and alluring.
A beautiful doll, I could not bear to see her meet Raynors ignominious fate.
I confirmed her stability beyond any shadow of a doubt.
She would not fall.
From Sasha my gaze turned to Emma.
She was unquestionably secure in her position, nothing short of an earthquake would unseat her.
Despite my disgust, I couldnt help but study her face yet again.
Thats what I thought it looked like.
Now, in the full light of day, I saw that she did not scowl.
It was a grimace.
Her brow was not furrowed, her eye was not slitted with fury but apparent sorrow.
But that would be ridiculous.
It must have been a trick of the light, of course.
There was my state of mind to think about, too.
My head was not at its clearest when I saw her the first time, I know that.
Hell, it wasnt exactly lucid now.
No, I decided, I was wrong before.
Who would buy a scowling doll, anyway?
None of this really mattered.
I switched off the light and shut the door behind me.
Trudging into the kitchen I rubbed my arms absently and futilely trying ward off the chill.
My apartment was a sectioned off quarter of an old house.
The summers were stuffy and airless, even with the feeble window unit A/C running nonstop.
The overhead lights in the kitchen didnt work because of a water leak from the upstairs apartment.
The toilet flushed only when it wanted to.
So there was an upside to it.
I searched the refrigerator for something edible, something I had somehow missed the last several times I searched.
I didnt feel much like eating anyway.
My head buzzed and ached and I didnt feel up to the prospect of thinking about anything.
I couldnt decide whether or not to turn on the television or some music.
Eventually, I just settled into my chair to stare into space.
Only, once I did, I realized I had to take a leak.
With a sort of surly grunt, I rose back to my feet and staggered into the bathroom.
The toilet water was still clouded with my previous piss and so I tried the handle.
The lever inside the tank just tapped uselessly against the lid.
Scowling, I did my business with the reek of stale piss wafting up at me.
I glanced at the water pitcher sitting on the sink.
It wasnt easy, but I summoned the will to do so.
I glanced to my right and saw I had left the bedroom light on.
I could have sworn…
I muttered to myself, rising yet again to correct the problem.
For once I didnt have to gather the will required to engage in a physical activity.
It was force of habit.
Emily couldnt stand to have the light on in an empty room.
It was just one of those things.
It wasnt the waste of electricity, you see?
We had LED bulbs in the fixtures, they couldnt possibly be that large of a drain.
I switched off the light with a violent slap and slammed the door shut behind me.
I want to make this perfectly clear right now: I felt the door latch.
I heard it latch.
I saw the room go dark.
I am positive of all those things.
And what did I see when I turned to my right?
The light was on and this time the door was standing open.
I thought I would be furious but a different feeling welled up inside of me.
There was someone else in the apartment.
I glanced at the door, and of course, I had left it unlocked the previous night.
Good riddance, I would say.
The car was hardly worth selling for scrap.
My parents didnt feel the same way, of course.
One could imagine what a point of contention this blind spot created between Emily and myself.
She took to checking the locks on a regular basis to police my indiscretion.
I had no one to do that now.
Im a large man, but not a brave one.
I didnt own a gun, nor did I wish to.
I was relatively certain, therefore, that my intruder was stationary.
Surely he was still in the bedroom.
My phone was still on the floor by the bed, nestled on a pile of dirty clothes.
Realistically, I would only end up losing several fingers in the attempt, but it was something.
I swallowed hard and stepped into the bedroom, checking my blind spots first.
It was something I picked up from playing online shooters.
Always check the blind spot.
I didnt see anything, and the room didnt really have a place where a grown man could hide.
It was a bedroom in name only.
No one slept there.
The bedroom was converted into a work room for Emily.
There was the dresser her doll couch sat upon, and a few shelves, but no other furniture.
He must have slipped into the closet.
It was the only answer.
The bedroom walk-in closet was situated in the far corner of the room.
He had to be.
There was nowhere else.
With no small amount of trepidation, I crossed the room and flung launch the closet door.
I found myself feeling stupid, which could only mean the fear was fading.
Of course, there was no intruder, that was idiotic.
Why would an intruder come in here to play a joke on me?
The door was open because of a draft.
I knew this to be so because the house was drafty.
God, who knows.
I supposed it would be more surprising if the house didnothave any electrical problems.
She was leaning over Raynors lap and seemed to be just at the verge of taking her own tumble.
Well,I thought,that settles it.
Those damned dolls are going in their boxes before I break another one.
With the sound of the slamming door still ringing in my ears I blindly caught Emma in midair.
I also dropped the butcher knife, which hit me on the outside of my right foot.
I cried out, dropping to a sitting position to clutch my wounded foot.
I didnt think it was bad, but I was sort of a free bleeder.
I could already feel a warm trickling sensation running through my fingers.
Thank God I never bothered to sharpen the damn thing.
If it wasnt so dull it could have done some real damage.
I would have to see to that.
I didnt want to leave a stain.
I tugged at the door.
Panic began to grip at my lungs and heart.
I tugged harder, twisting the knob violently.
I could feel a puddle of blood forming at my feet.
Let me out of here, dammit!
I shouted at no one in particular, pounding on the door.
The next time I tugged at the handle, the door opened freely, catching me by surprise.
I slipped on the puddle of blood and fell on my ass, shaking the entire apartment.
None of the dolls fell, thankfully.
I was apparently losing mine.
A knock came at the door, causing me to emit a not-altogether-manly yelp.
I stared at the door for a moment, not knowing how to respond.
The knock came again and someone shouted from the other side, Hey Justin, its us.
Can we come in?
Us had to be Christina and Lucas.
They were the only two friends I had left.
I called, Its unlocked.
They let themselves in and gasped at the sight of me, bleeding and bedraggled.
Jesus Christ, Justin!
Christina cried, rushing to my feet, her short blonde hair trailing behind her like a pennant.
He shut the door behind himself and took a moment to survey the room.
It was the first time anyone had stepped inside since Emilys death.
You got a first aid kid, Jus?
Lucas asked, trying to mask his fright by acting nonchalant.
I noticed he was taking great care to look anywhere but my feet.
Theres a kit under the bathroom sink, I told him as Christina dragged me to a chair.
I was momentarily thankful for the cheap linoleum flooring.
If I had carpeting I would never get all the bloodstains out.
Lucas appeared with my first aid kit.
Or- actually it was Emilys first aid kit.
I never thought of things like that.
It was a source of comfort to her to be ultra-prepared for any situation.
Shes the reason I had a fire extinguisher and health insurance, too.
Christina poured peroxide over my wound and I hissed.
She said, Quit being a baby, Justin.
You want to get an infection?
Lucas was standing at my bookshelf, riffling through the paperbacks.
He was notoriously hemophobic.
I have personally witnessed him faint over a paper cut.
I decided to change the subject while Lucas followed her commands with a nod.
How bad is it?
Its not actually that big a wound, but its kind of deep.
What were you doing?
I blushed again, or else I blushed deeper.
Im not sure if the previous blush had abated by that point.
Over the butterflies and a blob of antibiotic ointment, she layered a couple of regular bandages.
That should do it, unless you need me to kiss the boo boo, too.
All I really needed was a hug, I said with a mock-quaver in my voice.
I cried, laughing.
I dont think he did, anyway.
God knows what those guys had on their feet walking around in Birkenstocks all day.
The light kept coming on and…
And you thought there was a burglar stealing your kilowatt hours?
Lucas asked, incredulously.
He was still collecting trash.
I dont know, I thought it must have been someone.
The door opened, too.
In this slanty shanty, Im not surprised, Christina said, settling onto the couch.
I can actually see how far out of level that door frame is.
I said, realizing my prediction was proving true.
I sounded like an idiot.
Nothing left but to see it through to the end.
Yeah, thats pretty much the whole dumb story, I told her.
She was silent for a moment.
The only sound in the apartment was the clink and rustle of Lucas collecting trash.
Are you okay, Justin?
She asked, leaning forward, her brow furrowed.
I said, a little too forcefully, Just paranoid, I guess.
Not that, She said, reaching forward to take my hand, I mean in general.
We didnt come here to bandage your foot, we came here to check in on you.
Nobody has heard from you in weeks, and we care about you.
How are you doing after Emilys… after what happened?
I unloaded everything on the two of them, all of my grief and guilt and everything in between.
I told them I felt totally lost and I had no idea what I was going to do.
Everything felt all fucked up and broken beyond repair.
I rambled on and on, unable to stop the flow once it started.
I even told them about Emilys doll falling on the floor and breaking.
I still felt absolutely wretched about that.
Lucas and Christina, they just listened.
They were good friends.
Theyre the ones who will still come around in the bad times.
The rest just disappear as soon as they see a rain cloud forming.
Finally, I was spent.
After the catharsis I felt embarrassed for having opened up so much.
It wasnt like me.
I was always the stoic one who kept all my own worries bottled away for the sake of others.
I apologized but Christina and Lucas both waved me away.
Dont apologize, man, Lucas said, seeming a little embarrassed, himself.
We all have to let it out sometimes.
Yeah, I managed to say through the lump in my throat.
So, Lucas said, Is there anything else you want to get off your chest?
I almost told them about the new doll, Emma.
Im not sure why I thought I should have, and I dont know why I decided not to.
I suppose it all came down to a feeling.
I could try, but I would just look like a fool.
Thats what I feared.
I guess I should have trusted them more.
I guess not, is what I said, instead.
The two of them sat and shot the breeze with me for almost two hours after that.
We spoke of gossip and movies, everything and nothing.
The only subjects considered by an unspoken consensus were death, grief, loss, and suicide.
I couldnt express to Lucas or Christina how I was so certain of another presence in the apartment.
I couldnt even explain it to myself.
Maybe I should have tried harder.
I can say that now, knowing what would come next.
At the time I was willing to believe that nothing strange or unnatural happened in that apartment.
At the time I had no idea my troubles had only just begun.
