Home was an apartment. It was up three flights of unforgiving, weathered stairs – if the lift was broken. His had a single bedroom. Cold in the winter. Hot in the summer. Dark at night, somehow, still dark during the day. No mail in the letterbox. No one sent physical mail anymore. It was too slow. Insects migrated back into the shadows within the letter box after he closed it.
James climbed the poorly maintained steps on the exterior of the building, and looked at the emerald green door. It didn’t gleam. The paint gave way to the underlying timber near the handle, where countless palms and fists had pushed it open over the decades since it was last given attention by a painter’s brush.
He pressed the button for the lift, somewhere, above, a clanking sound indicated that he wouldn’t have to use the building’s stairs to get to the third floor.
The doors opened, he stepped in. The lift barely worked, but it had a screen. The screen worked. Normally, it showed advertising, which had revenue going back to the building owners, but now, A news anchor attempted to extract truth from a politician. A human rights activist completed the triptych on the screen.
The robotic anchor’s voice droned: “Increasing corporate redundancies happening across every sector as automation…” Make a promise for a better tomorrow, James thought, cynically, as the conversation had devolved into political misdirection. James hoped the elevator wouldn’t break down, forcing him to be stuck watching the broadcast. He caught the reflection of his tired eyes in the screen.
Must be the sunshine, he thought, as the sun settled into embrace the horizon, blinding him as the elevator doors opened. He recoiled like a vampire, hissing at the light. He was reassured by his own reflection. Out of the lift, down the hall, round the corner, into the darkest part of the building.
Maybe he was a vampire, sucking the blood out of a niche no one had yet cornered. If only he had that job. He stopped at the door, too lost in thought to pre-emptively extract the key from his pocket. He slid the wrong key into the lock. A ritual. The next one scratched up alongside the keyhole, etching a new patina into the surface. He didn’t see that the lights were on in the otherwise dark apartment, his eyes squinting in the darker hallway.
He yearned to look into the pantry. To look in his fridge. To have something to eat, to sit for a while, then sleep. That was the cheapest way of passing the time.
The key entered. It forced the tumblers out of the way, and he opened the door. He stepped through the door frame, and the door swung closed behind him. He yawned, squinting again. It was bright.
He now noticed that the lights were on. They weren’t meant to be on. He reached for the light switch to turn them off, but the hands of another intercepted his. They were soft, feminine, cold like ceramic. They gripped like steel.
“Quiet.” Quipped a harsh, woman’s voice. She sounded like she was indifferent, like waiting for someone in their home was the last thing they’d do before their shift ended for the day. His mind raced.
For the second time that day, and within the past few moments, he recoiled. The other’s hand held his in place. It turned off the light, then let go. He never saw her completely, but he had the barest flicker of recognition before the room swelled to black.
“Who the fuck are you?” He shouted into the darkness.
“Quiet. Now.” The woman sounded angrier than before. He began to see a little.
Dressed in a black polo shirt with no adornment that he could see. Her cargo pants had pockets straining to contain unknowns. A belt full of various tools along her waist. In the darkness silhouette, was athletic – that of a soldier. She forced him into a skidding, groaning kitchen chair. She restrained him with a knee. Her eyes seemed to glow.
“What are you doing in my…” sticky, uncomfortable, industrial tape descended over his mouth. The hand gripped tighter. He started to struggle.
“Quiet.” Her voice this time was an encouragement, instead of an order.
