by K. A Knight
This time, I turn away and head to my house…her house, without a word, fighting the need to go back and jump into his arms and make it all better.
The door is unlocked when I get there and I step hesitantly inside, unsure what I’ll find. Will their bodies still be waiting here like a macabre greeting party?
I move into my house, her house, the shell of it empty and cold. There’s no music or screams of laughter…it’s silent as a grave. I wonder if they buried her.
Do I care?
My eyes go to the carpet where she died and not even a stain lingers—that feels wrong. There should be traces, proof that she was here, the good and the bad.
I look around, lost about what to do.
As if on autopilot, I head to my bedroom. I toss out my pencils on my desk, too much of a reminder of what happened, and all of my panties—I can’t bear to touch them, never mind wear them. I can buy more.
I pile my stuff on my bed, moving, always moving, until the doorbell rings. I freeze, my heart hammering, but shake it off, knowing it won’t be them. Each step to the front door has my anxiety increasing, and when I peek out, I spot a happy-looking man there and it slowly dissipates.
Is this what my life will be like from now on?
Fear and anxiety?
It seems wrong that one night, mere hours, could change me so fundamentally…but then it feels right at the same time. I should be changed, I shouldn’t be okay after what happened.
I open the door and eye the man warily. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Scarlett,” he replies friendly enough.
I nod and he passes me the device to sign, our fingers accidentally touching, making me gasp and recoil, but if he notices he doesn’t say anything. I sign quickly and he nods, before heading back to his idling truck and carrying up what looks like empty boxes and dropping them on the step.
“Here you go, have a good day,” he calls, before jumping into his truck and pulling away.
I stay there, blankly staring down at them, before I grab them and haul them inside, shutting and locking the door behind me.
I guess I better pack.
My whole life is packed up in four measly boxes.
I don’t take any of the furniture or kitchen supplies, I don’t want the memory they hold. It only took me two hours, and now I don’t know what to do. My body is tiring quickly, and pain is running through me, but I force myself to go on.
Just then another truck pulls up, a moving truck.
The next hour is a whirlwind. I let the two burly men in, cringing at their presence, but they are polite and helpful. They load up my boxes and wait by the truck as I stare at the cold, empty house, saying goodbye.
What am I saying goodbye to?
There is no one left, not even their ghosts.
Shaking my head, I lock the door and head out to the truck.
“Hop in the front, miss, we’ll take you to your new place,” one of them says kindly, holding the door for me. His friend is already in the middle seat, waiting patiently for me. Nodding, I grab the handle to haul myself in, stopping at the last minute, my eyes going to the darkened house next to mine.
Goodbye, Max.
He’s still there, framed by the window, and with one last look, I force myself into the truck, not glancing back as the door shuts with a bang. I jump at the sound as the mover goes around the front and climbs behind the wheel.
The ignition comes on and as we pull away from my neighbourhood, The Killers come on the radio, making me freeze and stare out of the window as tears cloud my vision.
Thirty minutes later, we pull up outside an old, red brick apartment building. Red roses hang in baskets from above the high arched, golden doorway with glass and an elaborately painted 56 on it. Stone steps lead up to the doorway, with a winding, black iron banister on either side, framed by bushes separating it from the next building, which is attached.
Each side is filled with three story houses and apartments, and there is a shop on the corner of the street with lights out front. It feels homey and safe, and I can’t seem to get out of the truck, just staring at the doorway.
A young man and woman, both in suits, leave the building holding hands, laughing and joking with each other as they descend the steps and stroll down the road, my eyes following them. I’m angry at their happiness.
“We’re here,” one of the men states unnecessarily, and they both climb out of the truck. I hear them opening the back as I open my door and hop down, then stand on the pavement and look up.
Balconies cover the top two floors with big oval windows looking down on the street. I should be excited, I’ve wanted this for ages, to move out, have my own space, and knowing Max picked it has me intrigued...but I’m so numb and tired.
So very tired.
“What number are you?” one of the men asks with a grunt, heaving a box higher under his arm, waiting for me.
Pulled from my thoughts, I fumble with my purse and grab the paper and key. I almost drop it with clumsy fingers. “Erm, 3A,” I tell him, and he nods.
“Will you let us in? We’ll do the heavy lifting.” He grins and I nod again, like a robot on repeat. A parrot mimicking human movements.
As if his words force me to, I step onto the first brick step, and then the second and the third. I keep moving as I use my key to unlock the front door and wedge it open. I stop in the entryway and look around.
It’s beautiful.
A big, old, classic building mixed with contemporary style.
To the left are black mailboxes, proudly declaring the number of the apartments. Behind it is a large, winding staircase with a wooden bannister decorated with red and white tiled separators. A red Middle Eastern rug lines the entry like a runner. To the right is a big glass mirror with golden edges.
Next to it is a door with a large sign declaring, “Super.” Past that door is a small corridor, ending with a large tiled mural of a poppy field.
Warm yellow lights hang down unevenly on black strings from the ceiling, illuminating the whole space, and when I step to the right to let the movers in, I spot the silver elevator hidden on the back wall. I head that way, press the button, and watch the old-style arrow slowly tick from the top floor, which looks to be the third, and down to the ground floor where it opens to let us in.
Inside is lined in velvet with another mirror on the back wall. The buttons are gold and old-fashioned. I step in and rest there. It’s a tight squeeze with all three of us, but I curl into myself so we aren’t touching each other, and watch the arrow above the door as we ascend to the third floor.
The door opens and they let me go out first into the beige, carpeted hallway. The walls are the same colour beige with paintings between dark wooden doorways, declaring 3D and 3C. It seems to be counting down. There are doors on the left and right, so I head farther down, searching for mine until I stop in front of the last door on the hall, the only one on the back wall, at a dead end.
Sticking the golden key into the lock, I turn it left and the tumbler unlocks. Twisting the gilded handle, I swing open the dark wooden door and step inside the apartment, my new apartment.
The movers step in after me, dropping the boxes on the hardwood floor before leaving again, and heading back out for the others. They leave me alone as I stand at the edge of the room, just gazing around.
A yellow post-it note catches my eye, stuck to the high-tech looking security system by the front door. Four numbers is all it says in rushed handwriting—undoubtedly for the system. It looks brand new, and when I peer around the open door, I see the chain, two locks, and another chain at the bottom. No doubt courtesy of Max.
Next to the system is what appears to be a telephone and a camera, which when buzzed, shows the front door so I can see who it is. It settles me a bit as a feeling of safety envelops me. Even in this new, strange place, he’s protecting me.
My eyes go back to analysing the apartment. When he said I could decorate it as I wanted, he wasn’t kiddin
g. It’s pretty much bare. Behind me, on the back wall, are floor-to-ceiling dark wood bookshelves. In the corner behind me is space for a chair and maybe a rug. Hiding next to the door is another door, which I open to reveal a cupboard with hooks for coats and a shoe rack. There is a brand new, light blue sofa in the living area, with a small, matching dark wood coffee table before it.
Windows line the other wall behind the sofa, with space for a desk and a chair between them. I’m already imagining how to decorate it, getting excited.
One of the windows has a door with it, and when I peek out, I see that it leads to the balcony, which spans the length of the front of the building.
The apartment is open planned, with a counter making a barrier in the middle to block off the modern kitchen from the living room. A small dining nook is behind it with two chairs facing each other, and a large silver fridge, stove, microwave, kettle, and other appliances are built in and ready to use.
The ceilings are high, really high, typical of an old building, and exposed beams run the length of the ceiling with lights tucked around them, similar to those downstairs.
A hallway leads off near the kitchen, most likely to the bedroom and bathroom, but I don’t explore yet, just waiting as they bring in the rest of the boxes, which is more than I brought with me, making me frown.
“These were bought for you and asked to be delivered when we brought your things,” one of them tells me, and passes over a clipboard for me sign. I do and hand it back. “Good luck in the new place,” they say, and close the door behind them, leaving me alone in the silent space for the first time.
A chill goes over me. I wrap my arms around myself, tugging my cardigan closer as I lock the doors and chains, and engage the security system before exploring the rest of my new place, falling in love with each room and step.
Max picked well.
His name sends a pang through me, but I push it away and focus on the rooms I’m passing. A bathroom is to the right, the door standing slightly open. It’s got a black and white tiled floor with white walls. A shower spans the back wall, with a glass door and a huge shower head, like a rainforest one. To the right is a sink with a mirror above it and lights around it, and there is a toilet hidden back near the door. To the left is a deep white tub. It makes me sigh, I do love a bath. I always wanted one of those deep, golden, clawfoot ones.
Shutting the door behind me, I head to the other door right at the end of the hallway. The walls are a deep grey and blank, which makes it almost dull down here, waiting to be filled with pictures or paintings.
I open the door and it creaks, catching on a soft, white carpet in the bedroom. I step onto it, my feet sinking into the lush fibers as I look around in awe. A big, four-poster bed stands against the back wall with windows framing it on either side. The two bedside tables on each side are the same dark wood, but there are no lamps though, just another low hanging, industrial-looking light.
There is also a built-in wardrobe on the right, big enough for my clothes and someone else’s. That’s all the furniture it has in here. Closing the door, I head back to the boxes, realising I won’t even have bedding to fit the bed. Sighing, I open the new boxes and almost cry, sniffing hard.
There is toilet paper, towels in blue, bedding in blue and yellow, a lamp, my computer, tablet, printer, and everything else he ever bought me. He made sure I wouldn’t want for anything, I just need to buy nonessentials. There are even mugs, and when I take them to the kitchen, one blue and one yellow, I open the fridge and see it’s filled with food.
All my favourites, even Tupperware filled with Max’s homemade meals. That’s what sets me off crying as I sink to the floor and hold myself.
Chapter Thirty-One
Maximus
I watch her go and I know I’ll get her back, but for her to love and choose to love me fully, she needs to walk away…so I’ll give her that, I’ll give Scarlett her freedom, but our lives are entwined forever, she’s my one and only. I’ll make her see that again.
She wanted the real me, no secrets, and she’ll have it.
I’ll give her everything.
There is no Max without Scarlett, not anymore.
No angel or demon, just our twisted love in the grey areas.
My eyes linger on her as she climbs into the moving truck. I track her progress on my phone, watching as she goes into her new apartment building, hoping she likes the place. It was the best I could find, and the safest.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I hear Milo whine as he curls up into a ball next to me—I know the feeling. The house feels so empty, so lost and cold without her laughter.
I force myself to remember why I’m doing this—for her, always for her. My leg twinges and I get up, take my pain reliever, and make the bed, sucking in her scent from where she slept like a fucking crazy person.
Heading downstairs and wincing as the movement tugs on the bullet wound, I make myself a coffee and some breakfast, sit alone at the table, and eat. I had gotten used to her being here, eating with me, and now it just feels wrong.
My heart is cold and it left with her, like I told her. The house feels like it did when I first moved here, when I closed myself off from everyone and everything. I was frigid, distant, and didn’t notice the loneliness. I could do with that now...to be cold and cut off, but instead I replay her words.
Love myself?
How do I do that?
I don’t think I ever have, but she loved me so it must be possible. If this is what it takes to get her back, I will. I’ll do anything.
My phone rings just then and I answer it without looking.
“Maximus, I heard what happened,” comes Donald’s voice.
“Of course you did,” I mutter, and he goes silent for a moment.
“Is she safe?” he asks.
“Yes,” is all I say, staring down at the cold dregs of coffee left behind in my mug, remembering she liked coffee first then tea.
“Good, you’re injured, are you not?” he inquires.
“Only a through and through, I’ll be good as new next week,” I snap, not liking the implication in his tone.
“Take some time to heal. I’ll contact you with a job when I think you’re ready…” I go to protest, but what would be the point? “I’m sorry, Max, I really am. Love is hard. Sometimes the ending is for the best, before you both get too hurt.” His voice is tense, filled with emotion and ghosts.
Did Donald…lose someone? The thought of him caring about anyone is strange, but I guess it’s a possibility. The phone goes dead then and I snort, that’s more like him. I drop it onto the scratched wood surface of the table, playing with the edge of my knife as I go back to obsessing over her words.
Scraping the wood with my blade, I try to think of a plan. Try to think of what to do, not just for her, but for me. I can’t lie to her, she’ll know if I’m faking it. So I need to find myself and love myself, I need to try for her.
Blinking, I stop playing with the knife and look down at the table, realising I have carved an S into the wood. I throw the knife away, watching as it embeds in the wall, and then bury my head in my hands.
“Fuck!” I scream, pulling on my hair, the pain granting me some relief from the chaos inside me.
Forcing myself up before I sit and think in circles, I rush to the front room and start ripping down the Halloween decorations. The whole night was ruined by those two fucking idiots.
An hour later, the house is Halloween free. I pack everything away carefully and put it down below, not wanting it to upset her if she ever comes by. She shouldn’t have to see anything that reminders her of that night.
Once that’s done, I’m sweating, tired, and in pain, so I pop some more pain relievers, grimacing at my bum leg, and collapse on the sofa, which only serves to remind me of all the times she would work curled up in the corner as I worked on this end.
With nothing else to do, my thoughts spin in my head. Was she right? Did I push her away? Only show her par
ts of myself just in case the worse happened and she left?
Did I protect myself, so when the inevitable happened, I wasn’t broken beyond repair? Is that why I kept my secrets?
Maybe last night was the breaking point for her. We all have them, even the strongest of us, and sometimes you have to walk away to be able to survive, to keep moving and living. If that’s the case, I understand, after all, didn’t I do the same to her? Maybe she was right—wrong time, but right people.
Life and fate are fickle bitches. I would give it all up, any secret, any part of me, to have her back in my arms right now.
A wet nose nudges my arm that’s hanging from the sofa, and I look down to a forlorn Milo who lays his head on my chest, staring at me with understanding.
“We’ll get her back, boy, until then, it’s you and me,” I tell him.
With one last thought for Scarlett, I order some food to be delivered to her new apartment, knowing she can’t go out and get any, and I’m betting by the time she unpacks it will be too late to cook. Then I pass out there, the pain meds almost knocking me out completely.
My last thought, as always, is of her.
Her name on my lips.
Scarlett.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Scarlett
That night, with moving boxes surrounding me in an unfamiliar apartment, I cried, sobbed really, curled up on the hardwood floor. I let it all out. Snot ran down my face, my eyes stuck together, and yet I couldn’t catch my breath, not even as my ribs protested the strain.
Have I made a mistake?
For the first time in years, I’m truly alone.
So, I do what any girl would. I crawl to my handbag, the one Max bought me, and dial Nadia.
“I need you.” I rattle off my address, realising then it’s nearly three in the morning.
