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I loiter in the doorway, unable to break the hold of stagnancy. This place has had me in an iron grip since I arrived. There’s something so very comforting about never changing. It’s so comfortable, in fact – I wonder why people ever do it at all.

If I could, I think I’d stay the same forever.

I check the apartment once more, for anything I may have left, for any reason I might stay the same a few moments longer.

This was my dream. This was our dream. The prospect of absolution feels even further away now. A little bit of sadness pools in the corners of my eyes and runs for cover down my cheek to splash against the collar of my shirt. I wipe my cheek on the back of my palm.

I suppose everyone has to wake up at some point. And there’s certainly no chance at sleep with the racket beneath my feet pounding all hours of the night and day. A laugh bubbles up and out from my lips, and a twin set of tears fall. I wipe my eyes on the back of my shirt sleeve and stamp three times.

‘Bye, you lot!’ I call down beneath me.

They either don’t hear me or don’t care. That’s okay. I get teary at goodbyes, and my face doesn’t need to be any more wet than it already is. The bass goes on. Life goes on. And I’m suddenly glad I’m able to leave a little piece of me behind. A small stake in the city, to an otherwise overlooked existence. No doubt, this too should be overlooked. But I know, I was here. I’ve left some of me behind. I wonder – not for the first time – if it’s enough.

Chapter Two

The House

I’ve decided to broaden my horizons and give pessimism a go. Turns out, it’s not all that hard. I see why people like it.

Destiny Lane. More like Destiny Lame. This house sucks. This house looks like a place that’s trying to look like a place, lived in. Newsflash – it does not make the cut.

I’ve only just breached the entry and I can find a plethora of grievances to complain about. I drop my shoulder holding my bags and let them fall to the floor.

The interior and layout of this place makes little, if not, any sense at all.

First: the lounge.

One couch faces the TV, while the other couch faces the first couch.

Cuck chair.

There is no television; there is, however, a pornographic mural depicting a man doing some questionable things to a triangle. At least he’s semi-clothed.

Engaging the house further, I take a sip of my juice and feel a jitter in my fingers. I quickly shake it out.

There are two sets of staircases. One that leads nowhere, the other I’m yet to work up the courage to reconnoitre.

Pictureless frames glued to the wall; mirror ceilings throughout; a fireplace with no chimney; and the pièce de résistance – what kind of monster installs shag rug everywhere? Kitchen and bathroom not excluded.

And don’t even get me started on the exterior. The place is jet-black from top to bottom and looks like a reconstituted den of depravity. I think I saw a couple of gargoyles sitting sentinel to the second storey. Adding to its overall freakishness is of course the fact that it’s at the very end of its very own street, further segregated from society. I moved here to be closer to my own kind. The only thing I’m close to is the Bantom Forest.

The forest is a well-known hotspot for supernatural behaviour and other less savoury proclivities. This, coupled with the fact that it’s overrun with possessed chickens, makes it only slightly less than idyllic.

I finish my complimentary beat juice from the bus. Crazy – they were just handing these things out for free. Most of the commuters didn’t want any on account of the fact it makes you break into spontaneous song and dance. So I got an extra six!

Wait – I’m meant to be doing the pessimism.

Now I need to pee. Mad face.

This place is a fucking nightmare and one I fear not short to end. As I walk further into my new dwellings, I try not to give attention to the long dark shadows I see writhing in my periphery. An overactive imagination is something I’ve always bragged about.

I find a third staircase, hidden behind a door set on hinges rusted enough to quake when moved. The stairs are a spiral that ascends into darkness. If I were superstitious, I’d say I could feel something staring back at me from the gothic hellscape, but I’m not superstitious, so I do what any rational adult would do. I slam the door shut, before moving a dressing table in front of it so I never have to face it again.

If the toilet was up those stairs I’d rather piss myself.

Clapping my hands together to remove the excess dust and finishing with a nod of approval, I continue on my way through this broken dream I call a life.

Speaking of nightmares, the trip here was the crash course from hell on how to die a premature death from stress alone. Where in the depthless universe that bus-driver got his license will forever remain a mystery to me. I’ve seen infants with more spatial awareness than that guy. I should’ve known. Never trust a crackfairy to drive a commercial vehicle. As they are, generally, under the influence of crack.