One floor down, peering in the window, I see a Christmas tree with the lights turned off but the soft glow of a television somewhere in the room. The light keeps shifting as the scenes change, casting eerie shadows on the walls. This one is a no-go.
Next level. I don’t even have to look inside to know this place is occupied. Whoever lives there is really going at it with someone. Not only do I hear a headboard smacking against the wall, they’reunabashedly screaming each other’s names.
“Harder, Rex, harder.”What a cruel name to give a man.
“Oh yeah, Mel. You take it so fucking well.” That is followed up by a slapping sound. I don’t even bother looking in the window as I pass because I don’t want to know what the ass on a guy named Rex looks like.
Another level down, and thankfully there’s no one screaming in this apartment. There also aren’t any lights on. Not even on a Christmas tree which appears to be missing from this scene. And if there’s no Christmas tree, there’s no resident.
Score. Whoever lives here probably didn’t bother with one because they knew they’d be out of town for the holidays. Looks like St. Nick came early this year.
The locks on these old windows are too easy to jimmy open. Flicking my pocket knife open, I slip it under the seam of the frame and start wiggling until I get enough leverage to loosen the lock. It shifts up just enough that I can lift the window and duck inside.
It’s too risky to go back to Frank’s apartment with someone looking for him. She may just go back to her own apartment and not bother with him again. But I can’t run the risk of staying there if she’s the type of concerned neighbor to call authorities.
With the lights off, my eyes have to adjust to the faint glow of the street light filtering in. It’s a woman’s apartment, for sure. I set my backpack beside a small dining area with pastel colored candles in the center. One of those trendy checkered blankets is balled on a white sofa, stylistic art on the wall in muted tones, plants in the corner, and a pink cat tree.
Cat tree. Is the cat here too? I wouldn’t mind a little feline company. Who is it going to tell, anyway.
That’s when the door to what I presume is a bedroom opens and a hot blonde walks out in a matching shorts and tank top pajama set. Barelegs and cleavage on display, bobbed hair tucked behind her ears, and full lips.
Well fuck, Merry Christmas to me.
Chapter Two
Noelle
Ugh. Worst two weeks of my life.
With this being my first full year as a teacher, it’s also the first time I’ve never had to work during Christmas break. Even in college, when everyone else went home, I always took the holidays shifts to cover for people so I’d have something to distract me during the most miserable time of the year.
Why can’t I get two weeks off for Halloween instead? At least I’d be able to have fun with my break.
But no, the American education system values the winter holidays and all the quality time we get with family during this dreadful season. So I’m stuck at home for two weeks wallowing in misery.
I’ve only been on break for three days and I’ve already watched everyHalloweenfranchise movie currently out. I guess I could watchCriminal Mindsfor the millionth time. Maybe my comfort show will boost my mood.
But noCriminal Mindsmarathon is complete without snacks.
It was a risk going to the store with the weather report guaranteeing a foot of snow but I made it back in time with a bag full of candy andfrozen dinners.
A foot of snow my ass.We hit a foot of snow about three feet ago. Ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration. But if I’d gone out any later, there’s no way I would have made it home. The snow plows won’t make it to this part of town until morning.
Thankfully, my quick trip to the store means I’m set for a snowed in, guilt free binge night. Time to watch some wholesome serial killer television.
I change into a cute little matching set with cherries all over it in the hopes it’ll improve my mood. Every girl has a pair in the back of her drawer for nights when she needs to feel extra. When she needs to remember “I am that bitch.”
But all my efforts to make myself feel a little less down are thrust aside when the incessant moans of my upstairs neighbors over powers the volume on my show.
There’s no better way to be reminded how painfully single you are than to listen to your neighbors bang on a regular basis. And just like clockwork, Rex is home from work so he and Mel start going to pound town. Loudly.
Their bedroom is directly above mine in this cookie-cutter apartment complex. Since a fresh coat of paint and a new carpet doesn’t really count as remodeling, I don’t think the infrastructure is up to code. Which means the walls are paper thin and I can hear every moan and squeal coming from above me.
Every. Damn. Time.
Most nights, I just bear it with hostile, passive aggressive rage. But on nights like this when I’m already on edge, I bang the handle of a broom against the ceiling as a not-so-subtle way of telling them to shut the hell up. You’d think the consistent bang of the broom would ruin the mood, right? Wrong! If they’re fucking loud enough, they can’t even hear me.
Regardless, I’m already irritated from being bombarded with Christmasmusic at the store and the anxiousness of being idle for three days that I just want to enjoy my crime show in peace.
