Page 2 of Levee

Okay.

I moved back into the hall, taking a greedy breath of fresh air. I pulled up some of my long wavy brown hair, giving it a sniff, being glad to find it didn’t reek of smoke.

William’s trash wouldn’t fit in the chute, so I made my way down in the elevator with it, praying it wouldn’t start leaking on the long walk around the building to the dumpsters.

I was just rounding the building when I realized I wasn’t alone.

There, a few yards ahead, standing right near the dumpsters I needed to access, was a trio of men with their backs to me. While a fourth man pulled a man up off the ground by the front of their shirt, and cocked back to punch.

I wouldn’t say I was a particularly brave woman. But I did have a pretty strong sense of fairness in the world. And four against one wasn’t fair. Beating someone when they were already down was also not fair either.

“Hey!” I yelled, staying close to the edge of the building in case I needed to flee.

I might want to help the poor guy being beaten, but I didn’t want to get beaten or assaulted in the process either. I knew all too well the fate of women caught unaware or out at night alone in this neighborhood.

“Fuck,” the men chorused.

One turned back at me, but was quick to turn away. They likely didn’t want to be identified. He slapped one of the others across the chest, and they turned to run.

The one holding the other man up by the shirt dropped him without warning, making my stomach meet my feet as his body slumped to the ground without the support.

The man managed to remember to tuck his chin to his chest before he collided with the concrete, though, letting out a grunt as he landed.

I watched as he rolled onto his side, spitting out bright blood onto the ground, then coughed up some more of it.

Speaking of blood, there was a small river of it running from his nose and off of his chin. More of it was weeping from a nasty gash on his cheek.

The bruises were probably worse than the blood, though. Both of his eyes were getting rings so dark blue they looked black. Another was on his temple. Another still on his jaw.

“Are you okay?” I asked, rushing forward, still holding the stupid bag of garbage in my hand.

“Fine,” he snapped, curling up into a seated position, barely able to bite back a groan of pain as he did so, and I imagined there were other bruises on his midsection that were hidden from sight.

“Do you want me to call for—“

“No,” he snarled, using the hem of his white tee to wipe some of the blood from under his nose. It was futile, though; more replaced it in just a moment.

“You really should have someone look at—“

“Fuck off, lady,” he barked, getting to his feet and glowering at me before storming off.

Okay then.

Twice in one day I tried to do the right thing and got met with annoyance if not outright hostility.

I sighed, glancing around to make sure the group of men were long gone, then tossing the garbage into the bin before making my way back around the building.

Where I walked right past the battered guy in the foyer. He was stopped at the mailbox, his blond hair falling forward enough to hide some of his black eye, as he stuck a key in the lock of his box.

The one directly on top of mine.

My upstairs neighbor, it seemed.

Nice to meet you too, I thought, then forced that bitterness away as I made my way into the elevator, determined to shut myself up in my room and forget all about these two interactions. I was going to throw myself into my work instead. And call these negative interactions a one-time thing.

I probably should have known better.

But I grabbed a paintbrush and canvas and got lost in my art, happy in the blissful ignorance of the future just ahead of me.

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