Chai Therapy - Chapter-2

 

Chapter-2

Nick & I

Note: This is continuation to Chapter-1. 

I started my evening routine of soaking myself in the bubble bath, attempting to ignore The Fairy Godmother. The synopsis of what was going on was annoyingly humiliating.

Last summer, I had met Nick at the engagement party of my best friend Nicole, allegedly my conjoint twin since our teenage years. The four of us would occasionally hangout together and we’d always be joking about how I was living the dream with my own version of The Knicks; Nick and Nicole.

By autumn, Nick and I had developed a routine wherein we would catch up after work and he’d join me for a coffee at my condo and we’d spend our evenings together. We would meet up with Nicole or Nick’s friends over the weekend and take trips to mountains in the North or get vibing in clubs of the city.

All of this lasted until the end of autumn when Nick had started to act distant and decided that it was time to end our relationship in the classiest way possible, by having a conversation about wanting to be just friends and nothing more.

The impact of this breakup was making me try everything to restore my life into “living the dream” status. I had pestered him to convince how the relationship was right for the both of us, had issued a general apology for him to forgive me for the mistakes I might have committed that I had no knowledge of and even tried to emotionally blackmail him by asking him to “return me the Nick that belonged to me”. When nothing else worked, I tried to be friends with him by hanging out with his friends and Nicole every time anyone made a plan that involved Nick.

I would deliberately walk in his neighborhood and run into him on occasions; act breezy and insinuate to have a coffee together at my condo. After we were in the unit, I’d try to seduce him, or beg him, or remind him of the times we enjoyed in each other’s company. It would mostly work, and at times, he’d walk away. Every time it worked, his face would turn into his “Look-What-You-Made-Me-Do” expressions and I’d go back into being miserable.

Link to: Chapter-3 

Chai Therapy - Chapter-1

Chapter-1

The Fairy Godmother

It was April and the weather was gradually warming up. I was finally able to have my evening coffee on the balcony of my condo while breathing the spring air and enjoying the colors painted by the sun setting on the horizon of Lake Ontario. I stood there, imagining shapes in the sky that weren’t really there and watching porter planes take-off and land on the runway of Billy Bishop airport.

I was deeply engrossed in the view, except for a portion of my mind, perhaps the most significant one, that wondered what Nick would be up to.

Nick and I used to enjoy our evening coffee together in the balcony of my condo last autumn, when we were still together. I would lean against the parapet of the balcony and he’d lean beside me. He would rest his palm on my neckline and sway my hair on one side using the back of his hand in one swift motion. The crisp fall air touching my neck would make me cold. He’d run his slightly chapped, warm flimsy lips from the edge of my shoulder to my neck, exhaling his scent on me, sliding toward my ear. He’d slowly whisper my name.

“Ana,” I jolted as I almost heard the musical magic his voice would add to my name and scalded my hand by spilling coffee over it. The burn from the coffee brought me back to the realization that Nick was already gone and that I was back to the isolating life of a single woman in her early thirties living in the city.

I raced in from the balcony to my kitchen to hold my hand under running cold water, crossing the tiny living room on my way in. It was decorated with coffee tables on both the sides of a sectional couch. The wall behind the couch donned an oval mirror that was edged with curling leaves. I could always see fragments of different women in that mirror, all the women that I have been ever since I started in the city.

There was a professional who wore blazers and pump heels, and there was a laid back one who wore PJs and her hair in a messy bun. There was a party hostess in a cocktail dress, and there was an athlete in her racquetball attire. And while the fragments of these women paid inconsistent visits, there was one woman who would be constantly present in the mirror, the one I would deliberately ignore, but she’d always make her flamboyant presence felt. She’d be comfortably sitting in her rocking chair, twirling wine in her glass and smiling; wearing a comfortable skirt-blouse and her hair casually untied. I call her, the Fairy Godmother.

I had ignored her for the longest time since I preferred not to empower her with the freedom of speech or being opinionated. However, I realized now, that she had assumed her power over me as I saw her get up from her chair and walk to the front of the mirror while I cooled off my burnt hand under the faucet.

She stood at the edge inside the mirror, still twirling her wine and smiling at me. I walked into the living room for her glances could no longer be ignored.

“Can you give me a synopsis of what’s going on?” She asked.

“The weather is nice,” I blurted out and ran into the bathroom and turned on the faucet in my bathroom to draw myself a bath.

“You are going to be so much more difficult than I thought.” The Fairy Godmother muttered as I headed out from the living room and the voice of Fairy Godmother faded away under the noise of water gushing into the bathtub.

Link to Chapter-2

Art and Family Loyalty

Photo by Shayna Douglas on Unsplash

“Do you think she can hear us?” I heard a voice that sounded like a ten year old girl.

“Of course, she can hear us.” A ten year old boy chuckled in a rude voice, “She can ignore us all she wants, but she can’t avoid us.”

Seated on the office desk and chair that we had setup in our bedroom, I pretentiously focused on my job, reading paper application forms for Bank Accounts and typing the data from the forms into Bank Database. It was this job that helped me monetize my time while my kids were at school. The money that could potentially enable me help my husband pay bills, the money that definitely helped me be self-reliant.

I fastened the hair-tie on my ponytail and continued to frantically type, voluntarily zoning out the voices. The more applications I digitize, the better the remuneration. If I exceeded my target, I could also treat my kids and husband with an exquisite dinner.

“Marina,” the girl called.

“Don’t even bother.” The boy interrupted her. “The Marina you’re looking for is far gone.”

I had evolved to give a cold shoulder to these voices over the past ten years . Yet, today, I was somehow following their conversation.

The voices came from the two tulips that I had hand-painted using acrylic glass paint in the left bottom corner of the mirror on the wardrobe in our bedroom, on the day we found out we were pregnant with our first child, ten years ago. Since we didn’t know the gender, I had painted them blue and pink. And, I was blessed with a son then; and our darling daughter arrived two years after.

Over the past ten years, my life has been devotedly revolving around our family. My number one job has been to ensure everyone has everything they need, from food in their lunch boxes to ironed clothes in their wardrobe and much more. It is this job that I adore the most, to provide for the people that I love the most; my loving husband and my adorable kids. And, since the kids were now nine and seven, I was able to find time when they were at school, which is why I had taken up the work-from-home data entry job.

“It’s a shame,” The boy exasperated. “Marina was a good artist.”

“She still might be,” the girl defended. “We won’t know unless she picks up the brush again. Remember all the accolades she received in her art school? And the countless exhibitions that displayed her paintings? That kind of talent never goes away.”

“That was ten years ago. She’s a mom now,” the boy interfered again. “The only time she really has is when her kids are at school. And, that’s when she needs to work.”

“But she could be a working mother who is also a painter.” The girl still argued.

“Can you, Marina?” The boy tried to poke at me.

I continued glancing through the papers and typing on the computer; tuning out the voices.

I could be a working mother who is also a painter. That thought always crosses my mind. But it is easier said than done. As therapeutic as it might be, painting is also exhausting. It would consume a lot out of me, potentially leaving me no time or energy to spend for my family, and they deserved a hundred percent of my time.

“No one deserves a hundred percent of you,” the boy rudely interrupted my train of thought. “If your husband, your kids, your work and your art are important for you, shouldn’t they all deserve your attention?”

“I agree,” the girl continued, in her calm voice. “If your art is important to you, shouldn’t you pursue it? If you don’t, wouldn’t it impact you? You’re hearing two tulips liaise with you. You may hear from other things too, overtime.”

But, there is no time. I have kids to look after.

“Ahh, the greatest argument of all times. There is never time.” The boy smirked with his rude remarks. “You have nurtured your babies into civilized, independent kids. They can’t practice that self-dependence unless you let them. They needed you all the time when they were babies. While they’ll always be your babies, they don’t need as much from you now as they once did.”

But, moms are supposed to be martyrs.

“Is that what you really want to demonstrate, Marina?” I could sense a comforting smile in the girl’s voice. “If you demonstrate martyrdom, your kids would grow up to be martyrs. But, if you demonstrate creativity, they will grow up to explore their creative side. Is that what you really want? For your kids to believe that motherhood takes away all your pleasure and that once you’re a mother, you can be nothing else?”

But, what if my kids need me?

The boy exhaled in frustration. “Unless, you enjoy being treated as a doormat for them to walk all over you when they’re bored. Shouldn’t they be old enough already to keep themselves entertained for a little while when you’re working on your passion? And, you’d still be here. The good thing about painting is that you can do it from the comfort of your home. If the house is on fire, or one of your kids has an emergency, you’d still be in the house to look after them.”

But, painting takes time and doesn’t make money.

“Art doesn’t need to make money. Don’t you have your job already?” The boy went on, but the girl shushed him.

“We won’t know until you start painting, would we?” She continued persuasion in her pacifying voice. “And, who is to say? You may be able to make money from your art, like how you’d have custom orders during your days at the University.”

She went on,”although, you need to pursue painting because you’re passionate about it, just like when you painted us. Whether it makes money could be secondary. And you don’t need to quit your job. What if you make the time for it outside your working hours? Worth a shot?”

But, I love my family too much to diminish any of my attention towards them.

The girl continued in her soothing voice, “you need to pursue your art so that you can continue to love them. If you don’t, you may grow to despise them. And, when you’re old, you may regret not having followed your passion for the sake of your family. And that would be the worst burden on you as well as them.”

And that would be the worst… I lost track of the conversation with tulips after this, or maybe I didn’t need to. The voices from tulips were right. It may not be in the best interest for any of us if I didn’t attempt to pursue my passion for painting again.

The Curious Case of Natalie

I vividly remember it was raining the day I met her.

I was walking down the streets of Downtown and my jacket could not do justice to keep the precipitation out. I was sprinting on the sidewalk and the raindrops made their way down the glass walls of shops. As the rain gained momentum, I clutched the collar on my jacket and turned the knob on whatever door handle I could find to seek respite from the rain.

The air inside was warm and welcoming, and I realized that I had walked into a bar. To my amazement, I was the only patron there. And, the only other person in the bar was the bartender behind the counter. She seemed to be standing on a step-stool and arranged the bottles in the bar cabinet, so I couldn’t see her face. Her blond hair was tied in a high ponytail revealing her slender body frame. She wore a black tank top and a sky blue denim that accentuated her features.

“What would you like?” She asked, her back towards me.

“Umm, maybe a beer?” I befuddled.

“That’s very generic. Would you like to narrow down?” She asked, turning her head only a little in my direction, revealing her sharp jawline. Her pale color complimented her blond ponytail.

"Do you have any recommendations?” I was still unable to make up my mind, trying to take a glance at her face, but also pretending to look away to avoid staring. I walked to the bar counter.

“If you’re cold, a beer might not be the best choice,” she chuckled. “Also, I’d expect a writer to be a little more creative.”

“Maybe I’m not a good writer, then.” I promptly replied, and then it dawned upon me. “Wait. How did you know that I was a writer?

“I know everything about you,” she said.

“You do?” I sat on one of the barstools near the counter.

“Well, anyone who wears that has got to be a writer,” she giggled, “or wants to be.”

“How do you know I’m not a wannabe?” I asked.

“Is there any such thing as an accomplished artist?” She went on.

“Hmm, I guess not.” I was at lack of words.

She stepped down from the stool, closed the cabinet and turned around, revealing her perfect face. She untied her ponytail and her straight hair fell on either sides of her face, covering her cheeks like golden curtains, not one hair out of place. She tucked them behind her ears.

“Have you decided?” She asked, she smiled a mischievous smile with her glistening straight teeth. Then, she walked around the bar counter, took a seat on a barstool next to me and poured herself a golden brown drink from a bottle. The gorgeous curled eyelashes on her almond eyes danced as she blinked and watched the drink stream into her glass.

“What are your drinking?” I asked.

“Jameson,” she answered.

“Yes?” I replied.

“You said my name, Jameson.” I muttered as she looked at me.

“I know,” she smirked. “I also know that your knowledge of alcohol is extremely limited. So, I thought of having a little fun with it.”

She pointed her index finger towards the glass and then her thumb at me, her fingers in a fist. I nodded, and she pulled another glass from behind the tray and poured Jameson in it. She pulled out two ice cubes from the ice bucket jar, added them in the glasses and slid a glass to me.

“Like what you see?” She asked, as she caught me staring at her.

“I have seen better,” I looked away, my tone unconvinced.

“How much better?”

“Not that much, really,” I confessed. This was the closest I have to come to any beautiful woman, let alone drinking with her.

“I can live with that,” she replied. “So Jameson, what brings you here?” She went on, trying to keep the conversation alive.

“The torrential rain,” I answered.

“You are not the most charming writer, are you?”

“I guess, maybe that’s why I’m not accomplished,” I frowned. “Are you allowed to drink on the job?” I tried to make an effort at the talk and immediately regretted it.

“Don’t you drink on the job?” She replied.

“I do. However, writers are not liable for it.” I argued

“Me neither,” she replied and nodded towards the door. The fact that I was looking at ‘Open’ sign made me realize that the bar was actually ‘Closed’.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologized, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“You seemed to need company,” she chuckled, keeping her hand on my hand that rested on the bar counter. I do not know whether it was her hand that was cold or if it was me that felt the chills.

“Most men would notice the sign before entering the bar,” I confessed.

“Most men would ask my name by now,” she batted her almond eyes and leaned close to me, firming up her grip on my hand. I nudged in the barstool, trying to avoid eye contact.

“What’s your name?”

“Natalie,” she smiled.

“Nice name,” I replied. “Nice to meet you, Ms Natalie.”

“Mrs. Natalie,” she corrected me.

“I can understand, you’re nervous because it’s your first time drinking with a woman in the bar.” She confronted.

“How did you know?” I pulled out my hand from her grip.

“I know everything about you,” she replied.

“So you have said,” I replied, irritation evident in my tone. “You didn’t mention how.”

“Because, I am a psychic, or a ghost, or a spirit,” she went on. “You’re the writer, you decide. I could be anything.”

“You think that’s funny?” I was on the edge of losing composure.

“I think Jameson’s cute,” she crossed her feet and took a sip from her glass.

I involuntarily followed her gesture and sipped on my drink.

“How much cute?” I asked.

“I have seen better,” she rolled her eyes to mock me and giggled.

The clock struck at 3pm with a loud ring.

“Oh, it’s time,” she sprang down from the barstool and walked to the door. I watched her as she walked away. However, got distracted as my cellphone vibrated in my pocket for a text. I stepped down from the stool and fished for my phone in my pocket.

“Can I help you?” A man walked in from the door on the wall besides the cabinet behind bar counter.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I answered. “Mrs. Natalie is taking care of my orders.”

“Are you kidding my friend?” The man gave me a weird look. “My wife died five years ago when this bar caught fire.”

I looked at the door but there was no sign of her. Also, the door was actually locked from inside and the bar was still closed.

“Take care, Jameson.” The text said, “-N.” And there was no number.

The Other Side

Photo by Andres Jasso on Unsplash 

I was seated on a very uncomfortable couch in what appeared to be the waiting area of a clinic; oblivious to my purpose of visit. Across the room was a receptionist behind the counter, preoccupied with paperwork. I considered enquiring why was I here, but dismissed the thought to avoid looking stupid. I was absolutely positive, this was a dream.

I scanned the room to discover what clinic it was but there were no clues. The waiting area lacked any signboards or notices that are usually glued on clinic walls. Neither were there any advertisement posters, nor any certificates for doctor’s credentials. The waiting area was only decorated with indoor plants and incomprehensible paintings of modern art. The curtains on the windows made a futile attempt of keeping out the sun.

“Adrian Mukherjee,” the receptionist called my name. “They’ll see you now.” She gestured toward a door on the right wall.

‘Well, that was quick,’ I thought and walked through the door.

To my amazement, instead of a conventional medical room infrastructure with desk, chairs and a plinth; the door opened into what appeared to be a small living room with a big plasma screen television mounted on one wall and two reclining chairs facing the TV. A glass of water was placed on a coffee table between the recliners.

A tall guy in a white suit sat on one of the chairs tuning up the television.

“Adrian,” he turned to me with a smile when the door shut.

“I am Abraham,” he stood up and offered a handshake that I took involuntarily. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Likewise,” I replied, perplexed.

“You must be wondering what are you here for,” his smile still intact.

‘You think?’ I thought, but only smiled back obligatorily and nodded in affirmation.

He gestured me to sit in the other chair and I immediately followed. “I need you to listen to me very carefully, and know that everything is fine.” He said, his tone creeping me a little. I still nodded.

“Adrian Mukherjee, you have died.” He finally said; his smile still on.

“I, what?” I almost yelled, controlling my emotions to avoid drama. I found it hysterically disturbing.

I realized my face was giving incorrect signals as he said, “You’re smiling.”

“Of course, I’m smiling. I am even more confident now that I am asleep and this is a dream. I’ve had nightmares before, where I’m about to...”

He splashed the freezing cold water from the glass on my face interrupting my sentence.

“Those nightmares were different; you’d wake up before you’d die.” He continued, putting on his smile again. “This is not the same. You’re already dead.”

With the water gimmick startling me, I should have woken up. That was convincing.

“You had an accident on your way to work.” Abraham clarified.

“So? What is this? The afterlife?” I stood up, “Is this heaven? Or am I in hell?”

“Everything is fine, Adrian.” Abraham assured. His tone surprisingly calmed me down.

“Please be seated.” He passed me some paper napkins and I tried to pat myself dry. “We don’t call this any of those names.”

“And… What about my family? Do they know? Are they okay?”

“The paramedics have informed them and they are arranging for your funeral. They’re grieving, but they’ll be fine,” he assured. “Everybody goes through this.”

“So, what am I supposed to do here?” I asked.

“This television will play some memories from your life. You’ll spend the rest of eternity in this room watching how you’ve lived most of your life.”

That brought me some relief. It’d be good to see my family & friends. “You could use this remote to rewind or fast forward.” He handed me the remote.

“Can I meet my people again?” I wondered. “Or maybe I have to wait until they die too?”

“I’m sorry, but it’s just you and your memories for eternity,” Abraham smiled and stood up to exit the room. “You can only see them in your memories on this television.”

“And if you ever need to talk to us, you can see the receptionist outside. We are all here for eternity too.” Abraham closed the door after him, and the television turned on by itself.

“Welcome Adrian” the television displayed in bold letters in an intricate font. I reclined in the chair, geared up to relive my memories; excited to see my friends & family.

To my astonishment, the television only played parts where I was either at my office workstation or commuting to work. I tried fast forwarding, but it was always just me, either on the go or sitting in my cubicle.

On my way, I was listening to tracks from my favorite artists. I always desired to attend their concerts, learn to play guitar and host a show of my own.  At times, I read books or watched movies & series when I rode public transit, hoping to travel to the exotic locations in their stories.

At work, I was always receiving requirements from my superiors that I reluctantly fulfilled. There were times when I was rewarded. With every appreciation, I made plans to celebrate my accolades with family & friends. There were phone calls to my near & dear ones; at times making a plan, at times bailing on them. However there was no presence of my family or friends in the video.

The video restarted from the welcome message after it ended my last working day and played in loop.

After a couple of repetitions, I stepped out to talk to the receptionist.

“I think there has been an error. My memories video only shows me either working in my office chair or commuting to work.” I complained.

“Well, that’s not an error,” she defended. “It only shows you how you spent most of your life.”

“Well, but then there’s so much I should have done more often.” I argued. “The artists I listened to on my commute, I should have attended their concerts. The vacations my wife and kids nagged me for, I should have taken them. The friend’s reunions I kept procrastinating...”

“Sorry Adrian,” the receptionist interrupted me, “but you had forty years to realize that. I apologize, but nothing can be done about it now.”

A Walk to Remember

Photo by Eric Ward on Unsplash

Soon after most of the party had left, Vikram and I decided it was our turn to take off as well. Over the past few hours, we’d danced to peppy party numbers, had some drinks and pretentiously scanned the place for eligible singles for self and one another. I realized I’d drunk more than I could handle when Vikram got protective of me while we grooved on the dance floor. He’d gestured it was time to leave.

“Emily,” he said, patting my shoulder when we reached the exit gate. “Wait here. I’ll get the car from parking.” I wanted to walk with him to the car, but the stilettos that I donned merrily throughout the party were now killing my feet. Also, it would be embarrassing to lose balance and trip in the parking lot. I didn’t want for Vikram to remember me as that drunken girl after tonight.

As he walked away, I tried to maintain my balance, resting my hands over the railing at the exit door. Maybe Vikram was right; perhaps the few drinks I’d had tonight were indeed too many. Vikram vanished into the parking lot in the bright car lights and I stood at the exit as people walked in and out of the venue, more out than in.

The world around you gets amusing when Tequila and vodka are fighting inside you to influence your thoughts. On one side there were boys laughing, besieging another tiny boy, probably bullying. There were few couples, exiting the party; some hand-in-hand, some lip-to-lip. Or maybe not; perhaps they were hand-in-hand too; probably the alcohol made me see them kiss. It was also likely that the group of big boys was singing “happy birthday” to the little guy in the middle and the tiny boy had a straight face out of embarrassment. It was hard to cognize reality.

I caught sight of a human figure run toward me from the parking lot. The bright lights emitting from cars exiting the venue cast shadow of the running man. It took my alcohol infused eyes a few seconds to adjust. When he was close enough, I realized it was Vikram, running breathless; probably he was tipsy too. When he was close enough, I realized he was laughing hysterically. He was trying to suppress his laughter to talk, but ended up palpitating.

“We rode the streetcar to the party, dumbo,” He finally found words, still giggling; and we burst out into erratic laughter. “You recommended taking public transit, remember?” He spoke, in a futile attempt of suppressing his laughter.

“Of course,” I responded, “we don’t have a good reputation in partying sober or driving drunk. We cannot be knocking garbage bins off the street throughout our way again.”

Thus, we rode the streetcar to & fro the party. The ride home was bumpy, but fortunately we’d both drank enough water to keep the alcohol down. We made every attempt possible to stay awake in the streetcar; chatting with each other, and gawking at strangers with ridiculously judgmental comments; but I hadn’t realized when had my head rested on Vikram’s shoulder and nodded off.

Vikram woke me up when it was our stop to get off. The streetcar dropped us at the entrance of our residential lane, just off Vikram’s driveway.

The Evil

Photo by Mikhail Elfimov on Unsplash

It was yet another night in the purgatory of winter, each night more frigid and monotonous than the night before. It was already past 8 PM; one more night when I was spending unnecessarily long & fruitless hours in office. I reside in the condo by myself, across the street from work; so getting home is neither challenging nor rewarding. These late hours in office give me a touch of social life, a pleasant smile with the janitor and a good-night-bye with the night-duty office guard.

As I was drafting one of my several last replies for the night, I noticed an unopened envelope in the notifications tray beside the clock in computer. It was weird I hadn’t noticed a popup in Outlook for a new email. I navigated to my inbox to identify what I had missed. There was 1 unopened email and the subject line & sender’s name grabbed my attention.

“The Evil,” both fields said. The message body only said, ‘The Evil is coming,’ in bold letters.

I was certain; it was either a prank or a scam. However, in the soundless and deserted office, it was spooky enough to raise the hair on back of my neck with fright.

I decided it was best to leave from work sooner than later. I walked to the south end of office building and twisted the shaft on window blinds to check for signs of snow. As slats on the blinds tilted, I scanned out through the slits between them; and the scene I saw in the building across the street startled me.

All the lights in my condo unit were lit. I vividly remember turning them off when I left for work in the morning. The blinds on windows in my condo were still down as I’d left them; hence it was not possible to comprehend if somebody had broken in. I made a call to the security desk of my condo, but there were no visitors on record.

The security guards were already at my door as I rushed to my condo unit from office. We waited at the door, perplexed whether to open the door. We didn’t know if the robbers were still inside and whether they had any ammunition. Also, the condo unit was now an active crime scene, as per the many crime thriller series I binged.

After waiting for a while, the security guard called the cops and they instructed us stay out until their arrival.

I was instructed to insert the key in latch, and unlock the door after the cops arrived. The cops pushed the door open and announced for the suspect to step out with hands where they can be seen.

The condo was still brightly lit, all lamps on. It was eerily silent and lifeless. However, it was evident that someone had broken-in and rummaged my residence. The doors on kitchen cabinets and refrigerator were open, and the groceries were dumped over the kitchen tiles. The dishes & kitchen towels were tossed around, and the cutlery was nowhere to be seen.

The living room was a mess as well. The cushions that usually decorate my couch were thrown on floor. The dining chairs in the den were prostrate on ground and the vase from dining table shattered. The rug under them was drenched from the water in the vase. The flowers were mercilessly torn and petals flung all over.

The television set in the living room was on, it only displayed a blue screen. The words “The Evil is coming!” were engraved in dark color using what appeared to be red lipstick, with a large smiley drawn beside it.

The drawers in my television stand were pulled out; and the robber had rummaged through my stuff in them. All my photo albums from the bottom shelf were lying on coffee table, and the creepiest thing was that the heads from all my photos were cut off.

As we entered the bedroom, my suspicion of the robber being a psychopath confirmed. All my heads cut from the photo albums hung from my bedroom ceiling. I am not the person who makes their bed after getting up; however, it seemed even shabbier than I left.

I pulled the sheets and realized that the cutlery missing from my kitchen was found on my bed. Only, the spoons and forks were thrown everywhere and the chopping knives stuck vertically in the mattress; it was evident that someone had mercilessly stabbed, without a human body in bed.

“Do you share this place with anyone? Does anybody else also have the keys to this unit?” The cop inquired.

“I live by myself. Only I & the management office have the keys.” I answered. The security guard displayed the set of keys from building management.

“Do you have any suspects? Anybody that may have the intentions to harm you?” He asked.

“None that I can think of,” I answered almost immediately. I’ve never been close enough with anyone to give them the intentions to hurt me.

“Although I did have an episode earlier.” I told them about the email from The Evil.

“We wouldn’t recommend you to stay here alone for safety reasons tonight.” He continued, “Do you have anywhere else you could spend the night? Or anyone to keep you company?”

I gave that question a pretentious thought, although I most definitely knew the answer to it. I lived alone in this city; all the inanimate objects in this condo unit were my only companions. The only people I knew were my colleagues, and I was certainly nowhere close to them to ask for company or shelter.

“No,” I nodded.

“Alright,” he turned to the security guard, “We understand your building has CCTV cameras? I need you to monitor the feeds from this unit tonight.”

“Yes sir,” The security guard almost announced his agreement.

“Also, I will need the footage from today for this unit.” The cop talked to security guard as they walked to the door. “You should spend the night elsewhere,” he said to me. “May be a hotel, if you don’t have any friends that would help.” The end of that sentence hurt.

I nodded in agreement. “Stay safe and call us if you notice anything unusual.” The cop walked out the door with security guard.

I walked out with them, “I’ll spend the night at the Inn near Union Station.” I informed them and walked out after.