A Little Bit of Revenge

Normally when I'm encountering a member of the male species that I do not like, I pick one of two tactics. One, say monstrous things while wielding a sharp smile, or two, ignore them completely and silently wish death upon them and their family. Two is an excellent technique for exes.

In this case Walker is not an ex. Nor is he an annoying journalist, obsessive fan, or sleazy businessman. That I know of. He is nothing and no one, just a barista. But I know I don't want to see him; I know I wasn't ready to see him. I don't know what to do, and even if I did, my limbs are made of ice and I can't move from the top step, my hand permanently fused to the wall next to me for support. I expect that if I looked down at myself there'd be ice shards crystalized on my body. Frozen.

Mariana's face lifts into a warm smile. "Walker was just dropping off your phone." She holds out the device for me to take, and I somehow find the will to take a step forward and accept it. I realize I almost don't want it back. Phone calls, emails, texts from people I'd rather not talk to. I don't want to look.

"Thanks." My voice is flat. The floor boards under my feet are a worn dark wood covered partially by a narrow maroon checker-board-patterned rug. The silence would be deafening if it weren't for Bram's keyboard clicking downstairs.

"Well, I'd better get back to my desk," Mariana says finally, her voice hesitant. I realize that in this skinny hallway she's going to need me to move so she can get to the stairs. With as much dignity and poise as I can muster, which isn't any at the moment, if I'm honest, I wedge myself into the doorway of a room labeled with a painted emerald and she squeezes past with a few apologies.

The next moments aren't very clear. Keyboard clicks and shoes on stairs blend into whatever Walker has started to say. I can't be bothered to hear it. His jaw is clenching and unclenching. He's wearing the same reddish jacket he was wearing yesterday. I wonder if it's his signature thing, or maybe he's just one of those people that doesn't like to pick out what to wear so he always chooses the same thing. I think, God, what a boring way to live.

He's taken a step towards me. His voice is deep and sounds like it's coming through a concrete tunnel a hundred miles long. I don't like standing in this emerald doorway, and I make a break for it to the Violet Room, just past him. The smell of coffee. He brushes my arm, or it's just the fabric of his jacket. Wood. Carpet. Wind. Water. "--but I'd like to see you again, you should stop by the café--" Why is he still fucking talking, can't he hear the water rushing in?

When I realized what's happening it's too late. I've whirled around, and I know my arms are out in front of me, and Walker is not. Feet, no, shoes, no, wood. The red of his jacket making a scraping noise against the stairs.

Suddenly Bram and Mariana are looking up at me in horror. I find myself standing at the top step, staring down at Walker, who's sprawled on the bottom steps of the stairs with a hand held to his head. Mariana rushes to his side, and Bram is just staring at me. I realize my fists are clenched at my sides, and I suck in a breath like I haven't breathed in ages.

"What are you doing?" Bram's voice is too loud.

I have pushed Walker down the stairs.

"Are you ok, Walker?" Mariana is helping Walker to his feet. He is not dead, just paler than usual, blood trickling down from a cut on his brow.

I look down at my hands. They're shaking. I slowly open them up, spread my fingers. I'm surprised they're not stained red, not even the backs of my hands.

For once I'd like someone to comfort me, Bram maybe--he'd wrap an arm around my shoulder, tuck my head against his chest. But he's still downstairs, and he couldn't come up here if he tried, what with Mariana and the crime scene blocking the stairs.

I don't say 'I'm sorry', but there are words stuck in my throat so I maybe whine instead. And I'm still stranded, everyone else on the floor below me, so I turn on my heel and go into the Violet Room, not even bothering to close the door, just collapsing on the bed.

I make Bram wait outside my door until I’m ready to see him, mostly just to retain some semblance of control. I would fix my eyeliner but can’t find the energy, which is unlike me.

When I finally let him in he doesn’t even say anything, just eyes me up and down and sits down on the small wooden chair in the corner. He doesn’t speak.

I’m still standing, and I end up pacing the room. My eyes keep darting between him and the handmade dusty-purple quilted comforter on the bed. “Well, aren’t you going to lecture me? Masie, why did you push the weird man down the stairs? Masie, this is going to ruin your career! Masie, you’re insane, you need help, remember why I tricked you into coming here in the first place? You're–”

As always, Bram remains calm but firm when he cuts me off. “Just--just hold on. We’re not doing this again.”

I stop walking tiny laps and throw my hands in the air. “Doing what?”

“Blowing up, accusing, putting words in people’s mouths.”

“I never--”

Bram stands and takes a step towards me, and suddenly we’re eye to eye. I grind my teeth together and force myself to stare at him. Ocean blue eyes. He doesn’t ever approach, and suddenly I loose track of the conversation. Bram continues. “I’m going to say a few things, and I’m asking you to listen. And then, if you want, I will leave. Ok?”

Half of my brain is upset that he’s treating me like a child, and the other half is distracted by thinking I’d like to sink into his arms. To have him hold me up while I try and explain what’s happening in my head. It’s a ridiculous image. I draw away from him, sitting heavily on the side of the bed. “Fine.”

He raises an eyebrow, and it’s clear that he didn’t expect this to work. I decide not to call him out on it; I’m tired. “Ok. Masie, your life is your life, and, again, I’m sorry for overstepping when I sent you out here. However, my mistake does not negate the fact that you’re not ok. If you want to talk about it, I’m available. Otherwise, after what just happened out there,” Bram gestures to the closed doorway, and an image of Walker’s body tumbling down the stairs flashes across my vision, “I think you should go home.”

I can't speak. And not because I'm not the type of person that doesn't like crying in front of people--I actually prefer to cry on or around them directly after meeting them, usually while drunk, just to get it out of the way. Once you know that someone's a loud or a doe-eyed or an ugly crier I think you understand a person better. I tend to be a mediocre crier; my face looks fine other than reddened eyes, but my voice goes all squealy. I know for a fact Bram has seen me cry quite a few times. But there's something else--the feeling that I want him to understand, but I know he won't. Understand what exactly, I don't know, which is precisely the problem.

“Masie?” Bram blinks at me, and I realize I've been staring at his ear and not answering for some time now.

“Yeah, fine,” I say. I want to find something to drink. I want to curl up on this bed and not move. I want to write something but I don't have any words or ideas or energy.

He hesitates, then steps towards the door. “Do you want me to get you anything?” I shake my head. “Do you want me to book a flight for you?”

I drag myself to my feet and my eyes catch on an unfamiliar phone sitting on the ground. I grab it and draw myself up. “No, I'll do it myself,” I tell him, brushing what I thought would be imaginary dirt off my skirt, but finding actual dirt instead. The picnic seems like days ago. “Just do me a favor. Get rid of this.”

Bram eyes the phone in my hand suspiciously. “This isn't part of some elaborate crime, correct?”

I actually laugh. “I guarantee I would not have you assist me with a crime. I need you to give it back to Walker.”

“Should I ask why you have it?”

I put the phone in his hand. “Just take it, Bram.”

Bram breathes out a tiny breath from his nose but closes his hand around the phone. With one last look at me, he leaves, shutting the door silently behind him.

Immediately I toss back my head, run a hand through my hair, and tear off my clothes. Something else, I need something else. And something to drink.

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(next chapter)

pt 16: https://www.theprose.com/post/781390/midnight-chess

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(previous chapter)

pt 14: https://www.theprose.com/post/774071/melodic-pressure