Safe
(7315) (Justin Lo)
Joseph
scaled the steps to his apartment, the pale city lights flickering in and out
from the windows at every other platform.
It was far past midnight again and he knew it, but there was no way of
getting around it – his job was simply abominable, and he had to wander the
streets and bars just to keep himself sane.
At least he had friends there who were a world apart from his antisocial
officemates, half of which he swore were psychopaths, and the rest being those
who were eternally ill.
The apartment was rather dull, and it had been completely empty when he began renting it from the previous tenant, an elderly gentleman who had retired and decided to move to Florida – completely empty except for the safe in the coat closet. It was cubical, a little over a foot on each side, and locked with some sort of combination. It never was a disturbance or an obstacle, so Joe just left it alone. He had called the man but the latter steadfastedly denied its existence. Joe figured the man was probably just missing a few memories, but he supposed it wasn’t such a big deal if it were completely forgotten like that.
The
safe had a slight metallic sheen, but you could barely tell that something was
in the closet when you turned on that incandescent hallway light on the
ceiling. Then, at best, you knew there
was some square surface. But you had to
stroke it to know just what its extent was and to know just how frigid it
felt. It was unusually cold, even for
sheltered metal.
But
Joe didn’t care. He was tired,
half-drunk, and angry at the entire world.
Again. He didn’t bother to turn
on the lights, instead just taking off his shirt and pants and flopping down
onto his bed in his striped boxers.
In
the middle of the night, he heard a clacking noise in the room over – his
work-desk at home. He tried to
investigate, walking over to see what the source of the noise was. But all he saw was the keyboard being
depressed, slowly and methodically.
Tip-toeing, he scuttled over to see what was on the screen, but the more
he craned his neck, the more the screen
seemed to turn, although every time he tried to orient himself, the screen
always appeared to be in the same direction it had always been – facing the keyboard
and the window. He attempted again and
again to view the screen, but it was impossible. Exhausted, he gave up and felt a warmth around him that just hit
the spot. It was …
…
his blanket, and he opened his eyes lazily.
Just a dream. He pulled open his
blinds and let in a bit of light, stretching his hands as if grasping the
entire world. Then, he rolled out of
bed, dressing for work. On the way out,
he stole a glance at his computer’s screen.
It was off, just as he had left it the night before. He shrugged, adjusted his tie, and commenced
his daily commute.
That
evening, he went to the Shamrock Tavern for a drink, and he spotted a
lonely-looking brunette staring into her glass. He figured they were sharing the same poison of the city routine
that ate you down like acid rain.
“Hello,”
he said, extending his hand.
She
raised an eyebrow at him, and gave a crooked smile. She was half-pretty, her long face outlined by slightly wavy
hair.
“Hi,”
she said, without raising her own hand.
Joe sat down, letting his arm fall awkwardly.
He
ordered a beer and started contemplating his dream.
“An
intellectual one, are you?” the woman asked, sipping her own drink. “Thinking too much’s what got everyone in
here, I think.”
“Nah,
not thinking,” replied Joe. “Just had a
weird dream last night that bugs me. It
was creepy as hell.”
The
woman laughed roughly, a strange combination of a witch’s cackle and a
schoolgirl’s giggle. “Were you alone?”
“Yeah,”
he answered.
“Well,
living alone in one of those buildings can do that to you. It did it for me, for sure.”
“You
dream a lot?”
“No,”
corrected the woman. “I just have
nothing better to talk about than things like dreams and cauliflower and
getting drunk.”
Joe
winced lightly but decided he liked the woman’s sharp tongue. “My name’s Joe,” he offered.
“Flora,”
she answered with robotic precision. “I
have to be going now, but here’s my number.
You’re the only one who has kept on checking me out after they found out
how cynical I was. I like that.”
She
casually handed him a slip of paper and headed out of the bar.
There
were no dreams for a few nights, and Joe met the woman every night at the
Shamrock. One day she couldn’t stand it
anymore and just blurted out, “Let’s cut to the chase already. You think I’m hot. I have a thing for your ties.
Let’s get out of this hellhole of a bar and go to your place.”
“Why
not yours?” asked Joe keenly.
“I
have a roommate. Unless you’re into
that kind of thing.”
Joe
shook his head. He was desperate, but
not quite that insane as of yet. He
walked her in the pale moonlight over to his building, which was drab gray with
dribbles of unknown material down the sides.
The only presentable portion was a flower bed some four feet by one that
housed daffodils and golden tulips.
“You
certainly live in style,” said Flora, clinging to Joe’s arm more out of
security on the streets than out of love.
She hadn’t felt love for years, and she didn’t expect to feel it any
time soon.
“Oh,”
she said, stopping Joe as he was about to slide the key into place. She slid a slim cigarette out of her
purse. “I don’t want to stink up your
place, but I’m really craving a drag right now. Could you wait a few minutes?”
He
nodded and cupped the tip of the cigarette with his hand. Flora gazed indifferently out at the expanse
of buildings and sighed, exhaling the smoke that had a slightly intoxicating
effect on Joe. He used to smoke, too,
but he couldn’t afford it anymore after the last pay cut, so he had to make do
without them.
“Oh,
this was inconsiderate of me,” she said suddenly, holding a smoke out to
Joe. “Do you smoke?”
“Used
to,” he said. “I could use one right
now, for sure.” She smiled and laid it
within his lips.
“Fifty
years from now we’ll still be standing here, staring at this damn buildings,
but I won’t have a mouth to be witty anymore since it’ll shrink to a prune from
these cancer sticks.” She lit his
cigarette with a touch of hesitation.
“I don’t want to drag you back down.
The factories and the cigarettes are all the same. All evil things meant to keep us doing the
same things over and over again ad infinitum.”
“Don’t
worry, I won’t make a habit out of this.”
They leaned against the wall, watching a few cars pass by, their radio
basses the only things penetrating the stillness of a wretched conglomeration
of people who no longer had nothing to say.
Flora
took one last drag and stamped out her lipstick-tinged cigarette with her
heel. Joe followed suit, and the two
moved into the apartment. She didn’t
notice the safe as she hung up her coat in the closet, and the two disappeared
into his room.
The
clacking was furious. Flora
disentangled herself from Joe’s nude body and threw on her shirt before trying
to figure out what it was. She realized
that it was his computer, and she looked back to realize that Joe was no longer
there on the bed.
“The
hell?” she thought. She cautiously put
on the rest of her clothes, grabbing some shoes as projectiles just in case
something went wrong.
She
moved into the other room and saw the keyboard moving. But despite her fright, she could not help
but try to see what was on the screen.
In a flash, she suddenly was right in front of the monitor, as if she
were sitting in front of the computer, and she saw an e-mail client open.
And
then the mouse clicked “send,” sending a chill through Flora’s body for a
reason she could not comprehend.
When
Joe woke up, there was no sign of Flora, though her pants were still lying on
his chair. He called out her name, but
got no response.
Lazily,
he got out of bed and found her sitting on the window sill, staring out the
window, a cigarette in hand.
“Something
on your mind or something?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Sorry,
needed to calm down. That dream really
freaked me out.”
Joe
froze and stared at her. “Tell him where it is?” he quoted.
Flora’s
eyes widened and she quickly sucked on her cigarette. “Shit!” she finally exclaimed.
“We have to check your mailbox, Joe.
What if that were really sent?”
“Did
you see who it was sent to?”
“No,”
said Flora, shaking her head, snubbing her cigarette out on a small, dusty
glass ashtray Joe had brought out for her.
“But we might be able to trace it and find out what’s going on.”
“You’re
acting as if this really happened. But
we’re not disillusioned with reality enough to believe that keyboards can type
themselves, right?”
Flora
put her hands around her head, as if she wanted to squeeze her head in until it
imploded. Joe sat down at his computer
and checked his mailbox’s sent messages folder.
“There’s
nothing here,” he said with a sigh of relief.
Flora, though, was far more tense.
She shifted around uncomfortably, jumping off the window sill and then
perching herself back on it again.
After a minute or so, she relaxed and asked a question that she thought
could lead them to answers.
“Joe,
where was I in your dream?”
“You
were there, and then you were … not.”
“But
you saw the e-mail as if you had been typing it, right?” Flora said, trying to
confirm that the symmetry, and therefore nonsense, of their dreams.
But
Joe couldn’t reassure her. “No,” he
whispered. “Someone was in front of me,
typing it, but he was a silhouette, even with the light from the screen.”
“Joe,”
said Flora. “What if … what if I were
the one who typed that?”
Unable
to stand it anymore, Flora hopped into the chair and quickly logged into her
mailbox. And there it was, with no
subject and just those five words.
“Oh,
God!” she screamed. “Please, let’s get
out of here. Please. But not to work, not after this.”
Joe
nodded and told her to finish getting dressed.
The two phoned in sick and promptly rushed out of the apartment, taking
the train far, far away.
The
fun and escape of their impromptu honeymoon of sorts at a hotel near the beach
wore down much more quickly than it should have. Perhaps it was because they were scarcely strangers a few weeks
prior, or because they were going broke, or because they were somehow attached
to the inner city, even if they couldn’t stand it. But most likely, it was this nagging voice that admittedly
affected Flora more than her boyfriend.
All
day and all night – even when she was eating or strolling or making love – she
wondered if her recipient would ever reply.
She did not know why she had sent that message in the middle of the
night, but the more she pondered it, the more she started to wonder if,
perhaps, Joe was hiding something from her.
Something within the apartment.
Maybe even something proving his guilt for a crime.
She
briefly bashed herself over the head for not running a background check on Joe
before becoming intimate. She knew it
was dumb, but she was also desperate.
It had been at least a year since her fiancé abruptly broke things off
for another woman, who was a complete bitch who only knew how to dance and buy
distasteful clothing.
She
turned her mind away from those thoughts out of anger and remorse. But what if Joe were the same? She didn’t care to marry him or to even
settle down with him, but she sure didn’t want to be involved with a criminal,
in any capacity.
So
on the third day of their outing, while Joe was in the shower, she gathered her
scattered belongings, leaving, out of respect, the towels and toiletries that
she had been borrowing from Joe, and hopped on the train back home, writing
only a short note explaining that she had some thinking to do, and that she
would call him soon.
Back
in her apartment, she first frantically checked her e-mail. There was no reply, but a strange wave
overcame her.
“I
have to know.”
She
wrote e-mail after e-mail to the recipient, about whom she knew nothing but the
address that went to a Yahoo account.
It could have been a defunct account for all she knew. But something told her that there was more
to it than that. It wouldn’t hurt. She had a right to know.
After
the tenth e-mail, her burning desire subsided, and she undressed for bed, not
noticing that she had accumulated several messages on her voicemail. For once, she looked forward to working
again. Anything was preferable to that
sorry excuse for a vacation. Joe always
came too quickly in bed, she noted with disdain.
Joe
called Flora at two in the morning, but she was hardly in the mood for a
conversation.
“Ugh,
don’t call so frickin’ late,” she moaned.
“I’ll meet you for lunch tomorrow okay?
Brightsford Square, one o’clock sharp.
… Yes, I won’t forget. … Nono, you have nothing to be sorry about. I just felt like we were moving too quickly.
… I’m glad you understand. … Uh-huh,
bye.”
She
hung up the phone with a lazy drop of the hand and fell fast asleep.
She
arrived at work fifteen minutes early the next morning. She was a secretary of sorts at the
headquarters of a local financial services company. And there was someone sitting at her desk.
“Excuse
me,” Flora said. “I believe this is my
desk.”
“Oh,”
said the girl apathetically, adjusting her tailored suit that sharply
contrasted with Flora’s own half-formal garb.
“Sorry, didn’t you get the message?”
“What
message?”
“On
your voicemail.”
“What
was it about?” asked Flora.
“Re-location?”
“No,
you’re fired for taking three days off for a sickness that we all know isn’t
real. Sorry, babe, you have to go
somewhere else.”
Flora
was beside herself with fury. “I worked
so damn hard every single day this year!
Aren’t I allowed to take time off for a honeymoon?!”
“Newlywed
or not, doesn’t matter. And plus you
look so sloppy every day. I bet you got
fired for having hangovers at work and taking too many smoking breaks.” The new girl gave a toothy smile, adjusting
her spiffy glasses.
“The
fuck,” muttered Flora as she moved to talk to her former boss. For all she knew, this stupid girl could be
lying her ass off. But the way the boss
glared at Flora, she realized it would be best to back away and never come
back.
“I
hate men,” she concluded, storming out of the building and flicking off Joe at
long distance.
Joe
knew he was done for the moment he came out of the shower at the hotel. Groaning at his ill fortune, and wondering
what went wrong with Flora, he gathered up his belongings and returned to his
apartment, which was exactly how he had left it. Nothing creepy, just home.
But
it was so empty without Flora. Even if
she wasn’t a stellar woman, even if she had abandoned him, he still had some
residual feeling for her. He had long
given up hopes of a longlasting marriage, and he just wanted someone to be
there with him.
He
called Flora that evening but she was cold, if not bitter. About what, he could not fathom. But he soon forgot about his grievances with
Flora because the next day, he received some spam that had a bit of an eerie
touch to it.
Dear Joseph,
I have lied and my
conscience has destroyed me for it.
There is money in that apartment.
Money that I should not have had.
Scratch the wall next to the kitchen.
Scratch it! Scratch it! I just called to turn myself over to the
police. I take responsibility for that
safe, all of it, even though I know there were more involved. And you must know that, too. But the others must be with you, to destroy
me. I will die a noble man! I will die
noble and absolved!!!
Cordially,
Nathaniel Stephens
And
that was the end of it. Joe went to
Brightford Square looking visibly disturbed.
Not that the sight of Flora sitting next to a pile of cigarette butts
was any improvement.
“Flora,
what’s going on? Do you smoke
proportionally to your level of stress?” he joked.
“Shut
up,” she spat. She gestured for him to
sit down. “Sit down, Joe.
“I
lost my job.”
“You
what?”
“Do
you need me to repeat it so that I can feel twice as bad, you son of a bitch?!”
she exclaimed, her voice breaking and fingers shaking so hard that she dropped
her cigarette. “Damn it, why do men
always do this to me!”
“Listen,
Flora, I’m so sorry. I will give you
all I can, please. I’ll pay your rent.”
“With
what, your money in the bank? I’m sure
you save up a bunch by living in that abominable building,” Flora said
sarcastically.
“I
do save it up,” replied Joe evenly, “But I don’t believe in banks – I know how
corrupt they are. I keep it all hidden
in my house. That’s why I know I can get it to you right away.”
“Haha,
why would I want to be dependent on you, Mister ‘I live in a haunted
apartment. Let’s have sex and then type
freaky e-mails to strangers.’” Flora
lit another cigarette, but Joe knocked it out of her mouth.
“Cut
it out. Giving yourself lung cancer
isn’t going to help at all.”
In
response, she chucked the open box at him, showering him with the little rolls
of tobacco. “Fine! I quit that as well! I quit life! You do nothing but take and take and take.”
“Flora,
I know this isn’t an opportune time, but I got an e-mail.”
“Feh,”
said Flora, smoking an imaginary cigarette and smoothing out her sweater.
“I
know where the combination is.”
“What
combination?”
“For
the safe.”
“What
safe?” Flora asked. Then it dawned on her that that was what she
had been after the entire time. The
exact thing that he had been hiding from her.
“Why did you hide this … safe from me?”
“Because
it isn’t mine.”
“Then
whose is it?”
“Some
old geezer who lived in the apartment before me,” explained Joe. “Do you want to find out what’s in it or
not?”
Flora
considered it for awhile and then lowered her head. “Shit, just bring me to the Shamrock. I need a few drinks.
Treat me to some if you’re a real man.”
Flora
and Joe staggered over to his apartment.
Joe passed out right in front of his door, so Flora reached into his
pocket and took out his key. She laid
him gently into his bed, tucking him in and kissing him on the head. In all her drunken stupor, she revealed a
small side of her heart that had never completely gone. She used to be one of those little girls who
wanted to be a noble princess, who wanted to grow up sweet and well-liked.
Sighing,
she moved over to his computer and saw the e-mail, recognizing the sender’s
address as the one she had been e-mailing incessantly. Finally broke him down, she decided.
She
stumbled into the kitchen and began clawing at the paint, then chipping at it
with some utensils. She had
intelligently let Joe drink far more than her, because she sure didn’t want to
ever be taken advantage of again. The
paint fell bit by bit by bit, until finally a large sheet crashed down. And there it was.
5. 24. 19. 35.
Making
sure that Joe was still out cold, she searched the house obsessively until she
found the safe in its corner in the closet.
There was money in it. Money she
could use desperately, with her job gone and her finances very much in debt,
which had driven her to the tavern in the first place.
No
one would know that she had taken it, as long as she was careful. So she took Joe’s oven mitts and entered in
the combination. The door swung open,
releasing a cloud of faintly sparkling dust that seemed to converge on her
body. And Flora gave a bloodcurdling
scream.
When
Joe woke up, he realized how neatly he had been tucked in bed. But his hangover was way too strong, and he
quickly fell back into a deep sleep.
Meanwhile,
Flora was breathing heavily as she reentered her home, confused and
fuming. Her thoughts leapt from one
supposition to the next: Joe had implicated the old man in front of her, and
had hidden the rest of the message from her.
He had been hiding it all.
He
had done it, then he ganged up with all the other accomplices. He had done it. And he was trying to hide it from her by pretending like it was
all new. But if it were truly new, he
would have checked the wall first before calling her. How could he have known it wasn’t a hoax? How could he have known?
No! He knew all along. And he wanted to show it to her.
Before. Before he did it to
her. And then the old man would take
the blame for everything in the safe!
He was going to do it, but she had outsmarted him.
Flora
changed from her pastel sweater and striped skirt into a red turtleneck and
black jeans and hurried over to tell Joe that she was sorry.
The
doorbell rang, and Joe clamored out of bed, dressing himself. He was shocked that Flora had come back, and
he quickly welcomed her and told her to take a seat because she looked so tired.
She
had on thick, black mascara and bright red lipstick, and her shirt and pants
clung tightly to her body; sleek leather gloves teased her hands. As expected, he was completely distracted by
her blatant sexuality to be any threat to her.
But just in case, she looked at him with a sad, deferent glance, handing
a lone rose to him.
“I’m
so sorry for how I’ve treated you these past few days. Let’s move on.”
“How
…,” trailed off Joseph, still fixated on Flora’s body. She slid towards him and pressed her body
against his, pretending to embrace him while making sure that he could not
reach for anything.
“Using
the money in the safe. It’s just money,
right?”
Joe
froze, realizing that something was amiss.
“We shouldn’t touch that safe,” he said. “There’s something weird about it.”
“Oh,
is there really?” asked Flora innocently.
“And why shouldn’t we touch it?
It’s just that old man’s right?”
“Yes,
but it isn’t ours.”
Flora
made a cute pout outwardly, but was wearing a maniacal grin inside. Of course it wasn’t “ours.” It was only “his.” And he wanted it to stay that way.
“Well,
at least let’s see what’s inside.”
“No!”
cried Joe. He knew that he didn’t want
to see what was inside. That’s why he
let the subject drop in the first place, months ago. “No, we can’t.”
Flora
pouted. “Please? If you do, we can finish what we were going
to do after you showered.”
Joe
conceded, like any weak and brainless man.
Flora whistled happily, skipping over to the safe but always holding
both of Joe’s wrists.
“You
can do it,” said Flora, handing the job over to Joe when they knelt down at the
safe. Joe backed off.
“No
…,” he said, his breaths quickening.
“Why,
are you afraid?” asked Flora. “It goes
like this.”
Joe
didn’t know what to do, but he realized that Flora had him pinned. And yet, the pleasure of the ways she was
discretely touching him made his body reluctant to wholeheartedly resist.
“Five. Twenty-Four.”
“Flora,
please stop. Don’t. I’ll give you all my savings. Just don’t do this. Please.”
“Nineteen.
“Thirty-five. There!
Isn’t it a feast for the eyes?”
… Mr. Nathaniel Stephens turned himself in early last week, admitting to being an accomplice in premeditated murder by decapitation. He gave the location of the body and claimed that the motive was for money …
Flora
smiled as he counted the bills in her hand.
… Although every detail matches Stephens’s description, investigators believe that Stephens did not carry out the actual murder. They have searched the apartment and found an ashtray full of cigarette butts with fingerprints and lipstick smears that are believed to belong to the victim’s girlfriend. Stephens admits to extensive correspondance with an online identity believed to be the same person as the victim’s girlfriend …
She
sighed, frowning slightly.
“I
guess I’ve gotten myself addicted to yet another bad habit,” she mused. She stared out her window at the gray city
that did not shed a single tear, and then took a deep drag from her cigarette.
~
End ~