Page 6 of Ciaran

Correction, former home.

The difference between here and there? Here, I can breathe. I’m young and healthy. I’ll cope. It won’t be like this forever. I’ll work hard, live frugally, and bide my time until I can afford somewhere better.

The dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling barely throw out enough light to let me see where I’m going, but I eventually find apartment 1214 about two-thirds down the hallway, where I lean against the wall and check my watch. I’m still a couple of minutes early. With any luck, Stella, the owner of this hideous hovel, won’t be long.

As that thought crosses my mind, the same door I entered through opens. A large, bespectacled woman in her early sixties, with a ruddy complexion and several missing teeth comes lumbering toward me.

“Emilia Frayser?” she says, her hand pressed to her enormous breasts while she tries to catch her breath.

I nod and hold out my hand. “Yes.”

Stella ignores my polite gesture. “I’ve got someone else coming to look at it later today, so if you want it, you’d better act quick.”

She stuffs the key in the lock and turns it to the right. The door doesn’t budge. She kicks at the bottom. When it still stubbornly refuses to open, she boots it again. The old, splintered wood gives way with a groan, and Stella gestures for me to go on ahead of her.

Inside is one large room. The walls had once been a pale cream, but over time, the paint has faded and chipped away. On one wall there’s a small kitchenette, with a two-ring stove and a fridge. A bed is pushed beneath the window. It must double-up as a sofa because there isn’t space for both. The only other door, apart from the one we just walked through, leads to a tiny bathroom. It has all the necessary equipment, although the shower looks like it’s held together with rust, and black mold gathers in the corners where the wall meets the ceiling.

I turn on the faucet. After a few splutters, the water flows clean. Thank goodness.

“So?” Stella rests her hands on her ample hips. “You want it?”

I hesitate. No, I don’t want it, but I have no choice. I step over to the window and glance down into the alley that runs alongside the building. A horrible stench wafts up from a line of overflowing dumpsters. I turn around, trying not to gag.

“I’ll take it.”

I hand over a wad of bills, and when panic settles in my stomach, I stifle a shiver. One month down, plus a month and a half security deposit has made a hell of a dent in my meager funds. I need a job—fast. Once I’m working, I’ll save up like crazy and quit this dump as soon as possible. Whatever it takes, whatever sacrifices I have to make, I cannot let this be my destiny.

Stella stuffs the money in her pocket and scrawls a receipt on a scrappy bit of paper. Not that such a thing will stand up in court, but something is better than nothing. She hands over the one key we entered with.

“My guy will collect rent first of the month,” Stella tells me, wagging her finger in my face. “Don’t even think about messing with him, my girl. You don’t pay in dollars, he’ll use other methods to extract payment from you, if you know what I mean.”

She makes an exaggerated wink, followed by a cackle worthy of a cartoon witch. I swallow past a dry, painful throat. There’s no need for Stella to spell out the details if I don’t follow my end of the bargain.

“I understand. First of the month,” I repeat.

Without another word, she disappears into the hallway, closing the warped wooden door behind her.

I plunk myself on the bed, then quickly leap to my feet. The bed is filthy. Shuddering, I flick the tattered sheets, and a cloud of dust brings on a sneeze. A wave of hopelessness washes over me, despite my best efforts to stay positive. Other people live like this and survive, and so will I. Time to go get my stuff and check out of the seedy hotel to move into the equally seedy apartment.

The fresh air outside is a panacea to my gloomy mood, as are the bustling streets that make me feel a part of something. I have to look on the practical side. Once I secure work, I’ll take any and all overtime, and with any luck, will only have to return to that rancid apartment to sleep. Some fresh sheets on the bed, a good clean, and things won’t seem as bad.

Yeah, sure they won’t.

Gripping my purse tightly to my side, I head back to the hotel, where I pack up my two battered suitcases—not much to show for a decade of struggling—and settle the check, which puts another sizeable dent in my rapidly dwindling savings. On the way back, I call into a kitchen supplies shop and stock up on cleaning products and cloths. By the time I’ve hauled my luggage and stuffed shopping bag up the twelve flights of stairs, my lungs are burning, and my legs feel as though I have a ten-pound weight strapped to each one.

Adopting Stella’s tactic with the door, I give it a hefty kick. Once inside, I make sure it’s locked behind me with the chain in place, then set the suitcases by the bed, and unpack the cleaning stuff.

Gritting my teeth, I set about sanitizing everywhere: floors, walls, doors. I bend over to scour the grime from the bathtub, and a large black spider scurries out of the plughole. I scream and drop the cloth while the eight-legged creature darts from end to end, trying to find an exit.

I reach for the faucet, then hesitate. It isn’t fair to drown the thing. Instead, I run into the kitchen to grab a glass and a sheet of paper towel. I fold it in half, open the window, then return to the bathroom. Placing the glass over the spider, I slide the paper towel underneath to hold the trapped spider in place. Praying I don’t trip and fall, I pick my way across the room and empty the glass outside the window, then shudder.

God, I hate spiders.

I quickly go back to my scrubbing, almost heaving as I clean other people’s filth from the tub. I can do this. I have to do this. Going back to Tanner isn’t an option. That’s far worse than what I’m dealing with here.

Hours later, I collapse onto the bed—now made with crisp, clean sheets—exhausted. I start to drift off, but before I’m properly asleep, my cell buzzes with a message. My eyes spring open as that horrible tingling in my limbs, the rock-hard tightening of my stomach, and the clammy hands that were the mainstay of my existence make an unwelcome return.

Calm down.

---