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I
rush through the apartment complex, trying to make my footsteps as silent as I can, in search of Victoria. The grandfather clock on the first floor chimes at 9:00 p.m. She has to know. She has to find out. I feel my thoughts racing a million miles an hour as my sweaty palms try to hold onto the piece of paper.
I had my doubts; I always thought it was strange how she just appeared in our lives and seemed to know precisely what Victoria needed at all times. So many hints; how could I have turned a blind eye all this time? The change in Victoria's behavior, the sudden need for closure, the suspicion, and the obsession with her father's attic all make sense now. I noiselessly pass over the plush carpeted floor onto the stairs.
The piece of paper slips from the palm of my hand as I struggle to hold my chain of thoughts. I bent down to pick it up, and that's when I realized with a start: I was being followed. I pick up the piece of paper and start jumping two stairs at a time. I hear clicking. Click, click, click. The sound of someone running in heels. My fight or flight response kicks in as I throw caution to the wind and begin running up the stairs. The footsteps grow faster and closer. Click, click, click. I hold onto the piece of paper with dear life as I once again dial Victoria's number. "The number you have dialed is powered off. Please try again later."
Pick up, pick up, goddamn it, pick up!
As I run, a blood-chilling thought engulfs my mind: “What if she got to her first?” No, that cannot be possible. She still has use for Victoria; without Victoria, all of her plans come to a standstill. Lost in my thoughts, I fail to take notice of the wet floor sign as I exit the stairs. I clutch the paper close to my chest as I try to stabilize my feet. Click, click, click. She's in a rush: she's panicked. As I turn the corner, I catch a glimpse of her turquoise heels.
I decided to send Victoria a voice message. "Victoria, I found something extremely disturbing. The voicemail limit will not let me explain it. I am rushing to your apartment right now. It may be a life and death situation. Someone is following me right now. I hear the clicking of heels. Please pick up the phone. She.........” It got cut off. She is too close now. I decided not to continue the voice message so I could run faster.
Room number 22. This is it. I desperately knock on the mahogany door. Knock, knock, knock. Click, click, click. I dial Victoria’s number. “The number you have dialed is powered off. Please try again later." Click, click, click. Knock, knock, knock. She isn't home. I hear the echo of the grandfather clock's chime. It's 9:30. She should be home.
I slip the piece of paper under the door. I start running again. I need to get out of here. I need to save myself. I ran towards the rooftop. If I can make it to the rooftop in time, then I can go down the fire escape. "One day, that nosy nature of yours will get you killed." My mother’s words run through my mind as I run. Click, click, click. She’s close. I hear the woosh of a pocketknife opening. I see the steel door. It’s open.
I push open the door and try to shut it as quickly as I can. I feel resistance. I look down and see a turquoise heel blocking the door. Shit! I leave the door and run for the fire escape. I see the ladder going down the back of the cemented roof. As I climb down the first step, I feel a piercing pain go through my right hand. I look up to see it stabbed with a pocketknife.
I ignore the feeling of the warm, sticky blood dripping on my face and try to take another step. I cannot move. I look up to see her pulling me back up. My vision is blurred due to the blood. I feel lightheaded. I feel myself being pulled up. No, this isn't the right direction. I feel myself struggling, pulling away. I feel my feet leaving the unstable steps and landing on the concrete floor.
I once read somewhere that when our pain becomes too much for us, our thoughts detach themselves from reality. I understand it now. It feels like an out-of-body experience, like I am not the one experiencing it but simply an observer. I hear a scream. It's too loud. I realize it's me screaming.
Why am I screaming? The knife is being pulled out of my hand and then pushed into my abdomen. Red on turquoise. There are blood stains on her shoes. I feel a sharp pain in my abdomen and hear groaning. I am the one groaning. Why? She's kicking my abdomen. I try to push her away with all the strength that I can muster. You cannot see the turquoise behind the red anymore. It's no use.
My thoughts go back to my childhood. Maybe I'm dying, so my brain is reliving my life. The screaming gets louder. The knife is being pulled out of the abdomen and pushed into my neck. The smell of my mother's waffles. More screaming. The smell of Victoria's hair. The screaming stops. Click, click, click. The taste of lemon tart. I feel myself losing consciousness. Click, click, click.......
