A slam of the flimsy front door sets the bells to jingling, and then it’s just me here in this dump of an apartment. Silas is right about that, at least.
From the dingy brown carpet and cracked linoleum to the sad, peeling wallpaper on the thin walls and the tin foil on the windows, this place is pretty crappy. This entire apartment complex is like New York City in that it never sleeps. Maybe more like the sewer system instead, complete with shifty-eyed rats scurrying about at all hours of the night.
That’s not completely fair, though, to lump all the residents together like that. I’m sure there’s more than one down-on-their-luck person or family here just like me, trying their best to eke out an existence while barely treading water.
Regardless, it’s no place for a baby. The only positive is that we’re on the second floor and don’t have to hear people stomping overhead.
My anger melts away, leaving stress in its place as I pace the short length of the worn carpet. What am I going to do? Silas has been working “part-time” for over a year now, which is why we had to move here in the first place.
If we both held to a strict budget, it’s possible we could live on our limited income, but the man eats like it’s going out of style and drinks even worse. I’m relieved that I hesitated to combine our bank accounts every time he brought up the subject because I have no doubt at all that he’d drain mine to the last penny.
Still, I’m screwed—even with separate accounts—because I have to choose which bills to partially pay at the end of every month since he always comes up short with his portion. Like musical chairs, one of them isn’t going to have anywhere to sit when the music stops, and another will be lucky to have half an ass cheek on the seat.
And adding a baby to the mix? There just aren’t enough chairs in this circle. Silas is either going to have to step up or step out, because I’m not supporting a man-baby along with this one. One baby is definitely more than enough.
I cradle my still-flat stomach, thinking of the newly-forming innocent inside of me. Life is just beginning for Baby Bean, and it’s up to me to make sure it’s a good one. Better than what its parents were given.
A quick perusal in the fridge reminds me that I’ll have to start eating better—oh, and I’ll need prenatal vitamins—but for now, a frozen dinner will have to do. Suspicious mystery meat and macaroni, it is. I watch the seconds count down on the microwave and right before it hits zero, I reach in for the black tray but quickly yank my hand back. “Ouch!”
Stupid steam.
Sticking a kitchen towel under it, I stand at the counter and choke the scalding bites down. Better to eat it while it’s hot so I don’t focus too long on what it is.
Silas. I mentally sigh as I swallow a lump of fake cheese and look at the only picture of us. One where we were young and happy, arms around each other as we ham it up for the camera. Where did those smiles go? And why am I still with him when the relationship is barely hanging by a thread? Hard times bring out the inner person—the real one. Want to know if you truly love someone and want to stick with them through thick and thin? Throw some tough situations at them and see how they respond.
Actions reveal more than words every single time.
As childhood friends, neither of us had the best home environment, thanks to alcoholic parents. But if you can’t claw your filthy, soot-covered, downtrodden soul up from the ashes and forge a new path, then what’s the purpose of living?
Whatever. I can’t fix him or change him, and I no longer have the desire to. Finishing off the last bite, I throw the container in the trash and use it to pack down the mountain of garbage underneath it, the clinking of beer bottles jarring my senses.
It’s a freaking shame how much it costs just to live, so that means if food gets bought, it gets eaten. Trash bags get filled until they can’t possibly take any more, and clothes get worn until they fall apart.
After a quick lukewarm shower—because the water heater is always on the fritz—I dress in my cat pajama onesie and drag a pillow and blanket to the saggy couch. If, and that is abigif, Silas comes home tonight or early in the morning, I don’t want to be in the same bed as him. I just can’t deal with him at the moment, even if it means I’ll be cold with the too-small space heater in the living room.
Ha.The heater. I’m not even going to turn on the one in the bedroom. If he does come home, it’ll serve him right to have to wait for the room to heat up. Of course, that’s assuming he’s sober enough to turn it on.
Fighting a poky couch spring back into its gaping cotton restraint, I grab for the remote. Figures that the cable bill is one of the few he remembers to pay. If it were up to me, I’d get rid of it, if only to push him to get a job. “Dang it,” I mumble. Forgot to turn off the light. With a huffy sigh, I flip the switch and sink into the swampy couch, letting my feet hang off the edge. Usually, no matter the temperature, I can’t stand to have my feet covered. Makes them feel suffocated.
“Ah!” I exclaim in delight when my channel surfing lands on a familiar sight. “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!” Lucky for me that it’s only a few minutes in. Musicals are the absolute best, even if they romanticize love too much.
Love. It’s really not what it’s cracked up to be, from what I’ve experienced in my short twenty-four years of life. It’s going to take a special man to sweep me off of my feet, that’s for sure. A self-made man. One that’s not afraid to get his hands dirty to provide for his family. One that’ll carry me off to his castle and treat me like his queen. If such a man even exists, anymore.
I watch as much as I can, but it’s been a long day at work for me. Soon, my eyes get droopy and start to close as the raucous laughter on the tv mixes with the yelling couple below me. “Attagirl, Millie,” I mumble out before drifting off. “Don’t cast your pearls before swine. You’re better than that.”
Later in the night, the screeching of a chair jolts me awake, shooting adrenaline into my fingertips. Did someone break in? I raise up and feel around for something as a commercial lights up the room. Anything. Maybe I could knock them out in one go with the remote. But when I hear a familiar belch, I wrap my blanket a little more tightly around me and lower my head back down.
No need for alarm. It’s just Silas, drunk again. At least he closed the door this time.
Footsteps trip across the small distance from the kitchen to the couch, and a colorful curse fills my ear when his shin hits the dull corner of the coffee table, scooting it a good foot away. “Roshanna,” he slurs. “I’m home, shweetheart.”
Sweetheart.Meaningless names of affection are only granted from him when he has too much alcohol, so I ignore him and keep my breathing steady. After a few seconds more, he moves away and then I hear the bathroom door shut. At the sound of running water, I pull the blanket to my chin and tune the noise out. I’m still awake when he stumbles out and comes to stand over me, breathing heavily.Don’t do it, Silas. Don’t do it.
He does it. He lies down onto the floor and burrows into the space between the coffee table and the couch, blindly reaching a hand up to pat around. When it finds mine, he sighs and not so gently yanks it down to brush a wet kiss on the top. “M’sorry, baby. So sorry.”
I harden my heart against his apologies because he probably won’t even remember them in the morning. When his breathing evens out and turns into snores, I pull away, wiping off the still-lingering feeling of wetness, and rest my fingers against my belly once again.
I swear, little Butterbean...Momma’s gonna give you the world. Just give me some time.
