The Evolution of Normal

Chapter 6

I spend the next morning and afternoon sorting, organizing and putting away all my stuff. I now have a bed, dresser, a few sets of clothes, a new pair of shoes, bathroom supplies, cooking supplies, and even a desk. With everything put away and in its place, I realize I really like this apartment. It fits me well, and the neighbors downstairs aren't as bad as I thought they would be. They probably couldn't say the same of me, but they shouldn't have to see me very often. I can tell already I won't use the stairs much. I prefer the rusty fire escape outside my window. It leads up to the roof as well. Last night I fell asleep up there watching the stars.

It's about six o'clock, and I'm ravenous. I went to the store earlier to get groceries, bought a chicken breast and a few vegetables to cook the old fashioned way. I have yet to use the stove. Walking over to it, I see it's ancient, gas powered. No fancy buttons to tell it exactly how to cook my food for me. But that's okay, thanks to my mom I know how to use this thing. The knobs don't look like they've been touched in ages, though. They might not even work. After deciphering which knob goes to which burner, I try and turn the left one. It snaps off, and it won't go back on. After multiple tries to reattach it, I give up and throw it behind me with anger fueled might. It busts through the window across the living room. I hear a distant thump.

"Damn it," I mutter. Now I need to fix the stove and the window.

With much more caution, I try the right burner. This one works. With some fiddling I get it to the right temperature and put the pan on. Soon it's hot enough to cook, so I get started.

By about seven o'clock I'm sitting on the couch, eating huge portions of dinner. It's a perfect meal for my tastes, and reminds me of my mom. I'm glad she taught me how to cook my own food. I scowl as I can't help but recall the terrible things she said about me.

With a full belly, I feel the need to do something, to go somewhere. I walk into my room and get dressed, deciding to go on a run around the area before I head to work. I slip my things into my backpack, don my coat, and leave through the fire escape. I bound down three flights of steep stairs and start running.

When I run, I tend to lose myself, lose track of time. I've been running for a while, down different streets, across different parks. I've gone in a few loops. With a start, I realize it's been dark for quite a while. I'm late for work—again—and I'm pretty far from the cemetery. Anger seeps into my bones. Fire ants crawl on my skin. I'm so stupid. How could I let this happen again? I hit my head against my fist. I scream and stomp my feet in frustration. It's eight thirty, and I'm at least an hour from the cemetery. Rand will be mad. Getting my bearings, I know two ways to get to the cemetery, but the way I should go—the safe way—will take much too long. I look at my phone again, and decide to take the fastest route: through the shadiest part of the city. The way I shouldn't go. After swearing profusely, I pick up my run again, set into a fast rhythm, and hope I won't be too late. The heat crawling through me recedes some as I begin to run. The blocks blur by. The streetlights pass left and right. In the flurry of my running I notice I've entered the slums, but I keep running, heedless. I check the time.

8:47

I curse and keep running. Rand is going to kill me. Worse, he's going to fire me. I told him I'd never let it happen again. I promised him, and I let him down. The heat warms the sinews of my legs, and I start running faster. I have to get there on time. I have to make it. Egging myself on, I pick up the pace once more, almost sprinting.

But I'm distracted. I'm not paying attention. In the rush to get where I'm going, I forget where I am: in the slums. And I remember too late. As I take a corner, I stop dead. Standing there, as if waiting for me, is the boss man and his posse. The ones I encountered just two nights before. Immediately, caustic fire burns in my spine, simmering anger consumes my intestines.