How he dreaded the daily gauntlet, the elbows, the arms, the handbags, the forced communication, the icy glances, the phoney apologies. There was hate here; he could feel it, burning the back of his neck as he continued to force himself past his fellow bedraggled commuters. At last he cleared the omnibus door and was free, into the air and the night and the enveloping darkness. He sighed; cold relief sweeping over him, making him bristle with contentment.
Then he remembered what he had done, her face, the tears. But he could stand no more. The cloying reliance, the cats, those goddam cats.
Kerger Lipstead shook his head and walked on, even forcing himself to smile.
People break up all the time, he told himself, what he had done was no bad thing. Christ, he was a mess. He was doing her a favour. Women like Dahlia needed strength, devotion, the kind of square jawed old-fashioned love he just couldn’t give her. She would come to realise that, someday.
But his troubles didn’t end with lost love. Stabbing, insistent jabs of memory, perforating his resistance like pins prodded by tiny malevolent elves overwhelmed him. The package still lay unopened on his desk at work where it had lain for days, taunting him like a box of spiteful children. He still couldn’t fathom the slithering sense of dread that stopped him from opening it.
He struggled briefly with the heavy storm door, a daily battle that took a little more effort every day.
Those bastards. How many times had he asked them to fix this thing? He shook his head as the rain began to splatter the landing window. He clambered the stairs, fumbling for his keys when an icy finger seemed to tap his shoulder. He stopped with a start. Just a leak from the ceiling. It dripped again as he gathered himself and continued to strive upwards. The wind blew hard against the window. Memories of the lake suddenly consumed him. He had loved her, once.
“Hey Kerger, d’you take my paper this morning? Did You? Did you take it?” exclaimed Jesse, the guy from across the hall.
“No, I…”
“ ’Cos if you did and I ain’t saying that you did, but that’s the third time this week. That shit is ignant.
“I didn’t…”
“No-one saying you did motherfucker. I just lettin’ you know. This brother ain’t down with no cracker stealing his daily motherfucking news, you dig?”
“I didn’t take it. I read the free paper, the one you get on the bus…”
“Tha’s cool brother, tha’s cool. You say you didn’t, I’m down wit that. We still homey’s. Hey listen, what the fuck is up with yo’ door man?”
“Nothing, what do you mean?”
“There is some fucked up shit on yo’ front door man. Don’t tell me you ain’t seen it?”
“I’ve been at work…”
“Well you have got to see this shit.”
Jesse led him to the end of the hall, to his door, his sanctum, where he hid from the world, and sometimes, himself.
What he saw shook him like a parent would a child when a parent caught a child being really bad, like maybe stealing or putting their hands in a blender.
There, nailed to his door in a macabre menage of mog-u-horror were 21 dead cats arranged to spell out the words “I love you”.
“You ain’t tellin’ me that shit ain’t fucked up,” said Jesse, the last thing Kerger would recall before passing out.
Kerger man, you a’right?” said Jesse, gently slapping his face, trying to bring his neighbour round.
“Oooh wee, this cracker is out for the motherfucking count. I better make a call…” He said, leaving his prostrate neighbour alone on the cold, grey floor.
