The Voices We Never Hear (Complete)

The Voices We Never Hear

I push my way through the never-ending hordes of passersby, barely avoiding an older woman's sharp handbag-swinging elbow and clumsily skipping out of a six-year-old's ever-changing path.

Five more minutes. Just keep going for five more minutes.

I duck my head and forge onwards. The familiar, dreaded hubbub of rush hour beats at my eardrums, making my steps even more hurried as I push my way through the packed streets. Why did it always seem like everyone was moving against me? So what if my apartment's in the dingiest corner of town? It's not my fault no one wants to go in that direction.

People. I'd give a king's ransom just to get away from them for a little while.

A pudgy, middle-aged man shoves past me with a mumbled "excuse me". I glare at his retreating back, only to lose sight of him behind a group of teenagers.

Three minutes. Just three more minutes, and I can relax in my crummy apartment, blessedly alone.

Finally, the hordes disperse as the neighborhood gets poorer. It's about time.

The sidewalk hasn't been replaced since I moved here, and cracks and loose stones litter it like paper bags. My pace slows as I watch my step to keep from falling over. That said, it's a small miracle there even is a pathway here.

My right foot hits the jagged edge of a sidewalk square and pain shoots up my leg. I stop, steady myself.

Stupid sidewalk.

Every day, like clockwork, I hit my toe in precisely the same place. I've half a mind to storm up to Mr. Harper's lemon colored door and ask him why exactly he hasn't bothered to fix the path within the past couple of decades.

Then again, I did that yesterday and old Mr. Harper is currently juggling the collapse of his woodworking business with his wife's funeral. He could use a small mercy and I'm too exhausted for an argument.

After another two minutes of dilapidated roads and few inhabitants, I reach the worst place in town.

It's four stories high, with a teetering roof about a month away from caving in. The peeling paint is a charming greenish brown that struggles to conceal the building's skeleton and the garden, if you can call it that, is overgrown to the point where it could be mistaken for a forest.

Unfortunately, it's also my home.

I shove open the rickety door, only to regret it when the pitiful slab of wood nearly falls off its hinges. Would it kill Deidre Calloway, the lady who owns this rotting dump, to hire a handyman?

That young kid, Jeremy or Jeffrey, beams at me from behind his customary place at the desk. What was his name again?

"Good evening. How are you today?"

I don't bother to respond. The kid was a young and innocent optimist and every time I saw him I wanted to shake him by the shoulders and make him understand that the world is a harsh, cruel place where hope doesn't belong.

Instead, I just ignore the crushed look on Jeremy/Jeffrey's face at my lack of response and walk past him towards the stairs. Like anything else in this hovel, they're on their last legs. One of these days, they're going to collapse and send some poor tenant hurtling to their doom.

Mrs. Calloway would probably use the death as a publicity stunt.

It's been ten years since Calloway promised to install an elevator. Ten years, and I'm still heaving myself up three flights of stairs while cursing Calloway's worthless name in order to reach my excuse of an apartment.