AT FOUR A.M., my eyes flip open as a thud sounds against my door. I wait, my mind catching up as my ears listen, waiting for a hint of what is outside. A series of thuds, someone pounding against the solid steel of my door. I stand, moving quickly, at the door before the pounding stops, my eyes recognizing the top of his head, the wheeze of his voice. Simon. Drunk, from the sound of his voice. It’s two days before delivery, and I can pretty much guarantee you he has gone through his supply. The door handle jiggles, a stiff shake as someone twists it the limited space that is allowed. Left. Right. Left. Right.
I am fully awake, my hands flexing without thought. This will be so easy. He will open it for me. All I have to do is tell him that I have more. I have pills, and I will give them to him if he opens the door. I move quickly, yanking open my kitchen drawer, my eyes dancing over the rows of knives. They are all dull, butter knives—the only type I will allow myself to use. The rest of the knives—stilettos, switchblades, butcher knives, and the like—I keep locked up, my daytime sanity composed enough to make times like this cumbersome and slow. My hope, when I locked up the knives, is that by the time I finally get to them, I will have calmed my demons enough to step away—return to bed—literally put my demons to rest.
I hop over boxes, squeezing between two tall stacks, and shove aside books and packaged paper towels until I get to the safe. The combination chants through my mind, giddiness fueling its excitement as I hear a kick at the door. My door bangs slightly, words muffled as the knob jiggles again. Simon. I will slice his gut—shoving my knife in and dragging it sideways, slicing organs and tissue as I stare into his eyes and watch the pain. My hands tremble over the combination dial, and my first attempt misses, the handle doing nothing when I tug. I slow my movements, hearing the click of tumblers as I roll right to 62, left to 37, right to 95. Clunk. The handle pulls downward and the door swings open, my eyes feasting on metal, silver, and cash, my hand reaching in and moving excitedly over handles and sheaths until I find the one I want.
“Jessica…” A whine from the door, a weak thud of something that is probably a fist. I grip the knife handle, yank it from its leather sheath, and move back through the boxes, vaguely aware that I am naked as I reach the door and put my eyes to the peephole.
A peephole gives a distorted view of the world. It turns attractive people ugly, thin people fat, a short hallway rounded and curved. Simon’s eye, pressed to the hole, is perfectly in focus—a hazel pupil surrounded by bloodshot eyes.
“Simon…” I speak clearly, my voice raised so he can hear me through the heavy door. My door is different from all of the others. Everyone else in this shithole has a pressed-particle door that one swift kick will break. I’ve sat at this peephole and watched angry exes, drunks, and up-and-coming burglars break through, hitting the door hard on the side by the knob, the door saying fuck it in one easy concession. Splinter. Entry granted. Early on, I had mine replaced. Paid $700 for the super to order a steel one and swap mine out. It was a rare situation that required human interaction, the superintendent’s beady eyes too interested, my hand shaking as I handed over the ridiculous amount. He probably thought it was nerves. If only he knew what had really been going through my mind. His blood. His death.
Simon’s head snaps back at my voice, then his eye gets closer. His words tumble out fast, tripping over themselves in their haste to be said. “Jessica. Look, I know it’s Monday. I know it’s Monday and the delivery doesn’t come till Wednesday. It’s actually Tuesday now. It’s four a.m. Four a.m. on Tuesday, which is only one day before Wednesday. And I’m in pain, Jessica. Really, really fucking bad pain. And I thought you might have something, anything, I need something really bad. And the delivery doesn’t come till Wednesday. It’s Tuesday.”
“I have pills, Simon.”
He moans against the door, his eye closing, his hands fisting and pounding on the metal, the sounds dull on my side. “You gotta give ’em to me. Please open the door and give them to me.”
Idiot. “I can’t open the door, Simon. It’s locked.” I speak clearly, my hand sweating as I grip the knife. I roll it in my palm, reintroducing myself to its feel, welcoming an old friend with open arms. “I need you to unlock the door, Simon. You have the key.”
He shakes his head, his jaw moving rapidly back and forth, back and forth, sawing the air and making him look, through my warped window, deranged. “No. I don’t have it. Open the door. I need something, Jess. Anything, please.”
“Simon. Go to your apartment, and get your keys. On your key ring, you have a key to this door. Go get it.”
He moans, bending over in what looks like pain, his face tight and pinched. “No… No, I don’t have my keys. That bitch Rita took them because I was drunk.”
I inhale, anger burning through my veins, my mind racing with panic. “Simon, I gave you two keys. Do you remember? Two years ago, I gave you two keys. Where is the second key?”
“Two keys?” He closes his eyes tightly. “You gave me two keys?”
Fuck. “Yes,” I say shortly. “Two fucking keys. Where is the other one?”
He looks toward his apartment. “It’s Tuesday. I can’t make it to Wednesday. It must be in my apartment. You got pills in there?”
I exhale, trying to calm my heart, trying to keep my voice calm. “Yes. Go get the key.”
He moves, his feet slapping the thin carpet, and a moment later I hear the bang of his door as it slams shut. I stand, poised and ready, the knife tight in my hand, my mind counting the seconds, waiting for what is coming. The click of my lock, the swing of my door, the stab of my knife, the gasp of his breath. Finally. Blood spurting, covering my hands. Pain in his eyes, control in my grip. A life in my hands. 72 seconds.
124 seconds.
648 seconds. I slide to the floor, rolling my wrists as I watch the knife flash in the darkness.
793 seconds. I press my ear to the door, straining for some sound, some clue as to what is happening.
921 seconds.
1,122 seconds. My knife falls to the ground and I feel tears drip down my cheeks.
1,400 seconds. I fall asleep, my bare skin curled against the door, my head drooping at an uncomfortable angle.