I wasn’t staying with Mom and Melody for my benefit. They needed me. The three of us needed to be a unit while grieving the loss of Dad, but I preferred to be alone with my thoughts. “I have a lot of work to do, but I appreciate the offer,” I tell her.
“I know you’re mad at the world, Journey, but I still love you.”
I am angry. The world didn’t have to be so cruel. My chest hurts, knowing if I sit here any longer, I will cause Melody’s pain to resurface too. “I love you too,” I tell her. “Now, back away before I run over your feet.”
I shoo my hand at her playfully.
“You’re just so pleasant,” she hollers as I back out of the spot, waving at me because she expects nothing more from me.
It’s not me. It’s the chemical imbalance, I want to tell her. Maybe I’d freely spew those words if I hadn’t been a devoted closet case for the last twelve or so years.
By the time I’m settled at the desk in my apartment, it’s just before eleven, which leaves me plenty of time to get moving on the edits for Marco. After last night, I’d like to tell him where he can put the photos but being professional is the one crappy part about running a business. Not that he was showing off his professionalism. Bastard.
The light from my monitor pulls me in and holds my attention so well I forget to blink until my eyes burn. I sometimes think back to when Mom used to yell at me for sitting too close to the TV or for watching television in the dark and how it would hurt my eyes.
This part of my apartment gets the least amount of sunlight, my screen is twenty-seven inches in width, and I sit less than two feet away for hours most days. Every photographer has their own method of editing. Some have plug-in filters, or auto-adjustments, others go through each photo, one by one and study the lighting, the colors, the contrast, and highlight the focus by altering effects little by little until the picture appears perfect. I’m the type that takes the longer route. I like to inspect my work, study the details and treat each image uniquely.
Even photos of food can capture my attention. This one of the roasted duck breast, perfectly pink with a contrasting red wine reduction which catches the light. The green garnish wasn’t as green as I would like, but a couple of alterations to the vibrancy and saturation, then a little brightening on the white plate, and the rest pops off the screen, making my stomach grumble.
I forgot lunch again, and the sun went down an hour ago, I think. My gaze searches for the time on the top right of my screen. Maybe the sun went down more than an hour ago. It’s seven, which would explain my hunger. I power off my machine and tuck my chair beneath my desk. One thing I never saw myself doing was working past five, but most days I don’t feel like I’m working a job. It never gets old, and it brings me the happiness I need to keep moving every day.
After stepping away from the glow of my monitor, I feel blinded by the darkness as I stumble across the apartment for the light switch, grabbing the remote at the same time. I find the first mindless reality show on Hulu and head to the fridge to see what I grabbed at the grocery store this past weekend. It feels like a month ago even though it’s been three days, but I can’t remember what I bought.
I spot the Perdue breaded chicken next to the bag of mozzarella and thank my Monday self for grabbing ingredients for my favorite cheating chicken parm dinner. Already breaded chicken, already made sauce, and already sliced cheese. I only have to boil water for the pasta and heat the chicken.
Just as I close the chicken into the toaster oven, I hear footsteps outside my front door, but my neighbor is out of town for the week and there are only two units per floor.
I grab the remote and mute the TV, listening for more noise. Amazon and the other delivery services don’t come upstairs in this building. They leave our packages by the main entrance since the front door is supposed to be secured but is usually cracked open because of a faulty spring.
The noise seems to have stopped, but I don’t hear footsteps going down the stairwell either. If only I could see through the door my eyes are burning a hole through, I’d know what’s going on.
My doorknob turns. What the hell. I race to the door and grab the knob. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout, trying to sound tough though I’m convulsing. The doorknob moves within my clenched grip and my heart flutters in my chest. “I’m calling the police,” I follow my unanswered question. This building is so old and not designed for apartments so we don’t have peepholes, which I could desperately use right now.
My door presses against my hand. Whoever is in the hall is trying to make their way in and I’m using all of my weight to keep them out, but I’m on hardwood floors and I’m wearing socks, which means I’m moving with the door.
Brody’s words replay through my mind: “Do you even lock your doors at night?”
Laughter echoes into my apartment and I recognize the damn laugh. I see the sleeve of tattoos first and I have the urge to slam the door on his arm, but I also feel like I might pass out from the cold-blooded fear that just ran through my body. “I bet you’ll start locking your door now, won’t you?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout at Brody as he helps himself into my apartment and closes the door behind him.
“I can ask you the same question. The front door of your building isn’t even secure, Journey. You were followed to your car last night, and that didn’t spark an idea in your head to lock your door?”
I get a grip on my nerves and slap Brody across the face. I’d prefer to punch him, but I don’t want to get accused of being abusive later. The slap didn’t feel good enough. My hand isn’t stinging yet. So, I slap him again.
Brody places his hand over the spot I slapped, forming an o-shape on his lips. “Ouch. You must be pretty pissed to touch my beard like that,” he says through an elongated sigh.
“What if I had a weapon? What if I had a knife on me? I would have just cut your arm off.”
Brody’s in a cuffed black tee shirt, one size too small for his triceps, a backwards baseball cap, and he’s folding his arms across his chest to give me a look, one I assume I’m supposed to understand. “A weapon?”
“Yeah, I have knives,” I tell him.
Brody reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me over to him, giving me a hug without my consent. “You’re shaking, which gives me an inclination that if I was someone trying to break in, you still wouldn’t have had a knife on you.”
“You tried to break in!” I yell, pushing myself away from his chest.
“Well, technically, I broke in.”
