Evelyn

Chapter 18 - A Twenty Year Old Having a Midlife Crisis and A Broken Door

Chapter Song: The Mission Impossible Theme (from any of the movies)

Evelyn
In an individual's life, there's the anticipation of turning sixteen: Driving, a little more freedom in some places, and the opportunity of employment.

The next milestone is turning eighteen: There's being taken a lot more seriously, seeing rated R movies by yourself, and, the most anxiety inducing elephant in the room, being an adult.

(Honorable mention to turning twenty and saying goodbye to one's teenage years. That one hurt.)

After that is the daunting yet milestone that I'm facing: Turning twenty one. At eighteen, and even twenty, it's easy to fool yourself into thinking that you're still a child. But at twenty one, no ones fooling anyone. Everyone turns into a fully fledged member of society and the struggles of adulthood.

There's alcohol because it's legal, so there's that too.

I don't see myself as a huge drinker or anything, maybe just a shot of tequila here and a glass of wine there.

But who knows.

My birthday is in a week, so I think I'll stop thinking about my entrance into adulthood for a little bit longer.

~~~

I might have a small problem.

My door won't open.

Generally, that's not a big problem, seeing as this happens every day, but now it really won't open. "Come on, come on, come on," I pleaded to the door.
Almost as if it was laughing at me, the door creaked in response.

Now I'm pissed.

"Listen here, fucker," I hissed at my door. "If you don't open right now I swear I will remove you from these hinges and watch you burn in a dumpster fire outside."

I violently and continuously pulled at the doorknob and nothing happened.

"Are you alright, dear?"

I whip around to see my neighbor, Mrs. Owens, staring at me in annoyance and judgment, a fake smile on her face.

I fucking hate Mrs. Owens.

She has the most judgy eyes I've ever seen and the personality of moldy bread. Her light brown hair is always done up in an attempt at a braid and she wears the most heinous hats. Every time I look at her I feel a boiling range arise in me."Yes," I reply, my smile equally as fake as hers, "everything is absolutely delightful."

When she walked away, I sighed in defeat. I sat leaning against my shitty door and just stared at the floor. The wood was so distressed and scratched I'm surprised no one has fallen straight through the floor. There were nicks, scratches, nails sticking up in random places, bleach stains, footpr-

Bleach stains. Was someone murdered here? If someone was, then I definitely should've been notified beforehand because now this apartment scares me. There's no way I'm living somewhere where someone was murdered. I don't need that bad energy. Now, if someone was murdered, then someone was incredibly stupid if they decided to get rid of the bloodstains with bleach on hardwood floors. The alleged killer would have to be amateur because the bleach stain is huge. 

If someone was murdered, then someone was incredibly stupid if they decided to get rid of the bloodstains with bleach on hardwood floors. The alleged killer would have to be amateur because the bleach stain is huge.