Neighbours (Chapter 8)

Chapter 8

Neighbours (Chapter 8)

8 AM

I have decided to skip work today. My boss hates me. I was going to get fired anyway. And, who cares? Roy can pay for my unemployed desires, lustful gifts that I could otherwise afford if I had a job. But now I don't. I look around, noticing that I'm not inside my room. I slept on the couch and probably dreamt of him. I'm not really sure of it, but I have a feeling; the kind that sits in your gut, waiting for you to acknowledge it. I get up and wrap my cardigan around my thin frame. I haven't eaten much lately and not because my body doesn't ask for it. In fact, it's like my own mind has been set into oblivion, forgetting to fulfill its basic function— help me survive. My phone has a bunch of messages left unread and one missed call from Anna. I leave the device on the table, unwilling to enter into the realm of social media and the like. I'd rather face my day with no communication at all. She can call the cops if she likes. My boss on the other hand can get hold of a new and more adept person for the job.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, dark and pure, no milk added, just the bitterness of the drink blended with my morning breath. Distasteful to some, yet enjoyable to me. I look through the window and see no movement inside Roy's flat. Where could he be? Perhaps he's hiding the body of that unfortunate girl. I shrug my shoulders and sip once more, the flavour of coffee invading my tongue. I finish my drink and opt for a shower. A nice and long one, warm water falling gracefully on my naked body. I step out, fresh and ready to go. Or, actually, stay inside and wait for my lover to go through the door with a bouquet of dark red roses, my favourite, and a box of chocolates. Cliché, indeed, but I like tradition. I think of all the things I could offer, yet plain black coffee is all I have. Bitter as myself and dark as my life. Funny metaphor. I should see a psychologist. Shame, I probably won't have a job to pay for that. My hair hasn't been washed in a while but that's okay. I don't want to make the impression that I'm trying to impress him, get it?

Choosing what clothes to wear is probably the hardest task and as I open the wardrobe it is clear that I lack a proper outfit, other than the standard white blouse-dark trousers I wear to my office. I don't possess anything remotely nice or attractive for a man. Shaking my head, I grab some joggers and a white shirt. I do not look attractive but what can I do? This is perhaps the truest version of myself: the lazy, unstylish girl who doesn't have any women clothes in her wardrobe. Anna would probably look at my closet in utter disappointment, ranting over the higher ratio of socks over dresses, begging for us to go shopping like the old times. I avoid wearing slippers. I never do. I hate shoes. They are uncomfortable and they make my feet sweat more profusely than any winter boots. My feet tiptoe naked over the wooden floor, as I dance to silence in my living room, incredibly happy of having Roy come over. I decide to sit down and watch some T.V. while anxiously sipping on a glass of water for a change. Suddenly, the doorbell rings and I get up almost immediately, dropping the glass on the floor, little crystals scattering everywhere. My foot accidentally steps on one, blood oozing abundantly from the cut. I go over and check, and surprisingly enough it's Roy. He isn't smiling, doesn't seem as though he is slightly excited. That's fine, I guess since I'm not even dressed for the occasion. I leave the door open and wait for the elevator to come up to my floor, delivering my future lover. I hear the door shut and footsteps, the shuffle of his coat. He doesn't call for anyone and it feels as though he sees this house as his own. I walk toward the hallway, my foot leaving marks as it steps onto the entrance.

psychological
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Eugenia Moreno

I love writing fiction stories, especially thrillers and fiction. Hope you guys like my stories!

See all posts by Eugenia Moreno