I wake up on the floor, the shallow cuts on my arm have stopped bleeding and the puddle of blood is drying. It takes me a moment to snap back to reality, where am I? What’s going on? I stand up and see a flashing light down on the street.
Oh right…
I grab an old shirt and wrap it tightly around my arm before rocketing down the rickety stairs. At the front door of my building I peer out at the men in hazmat suits, they’re lifting bodies over their shoulders and dropping them into the back of a truck – on top of which an orange light spins around and around like a silent siren.
I push open the door and see Agnes’ body lying on the street where the man who murdered her had tossed her aside. I feel fresh tears on my face as I push out into the world and run for her. Strong arms reach out to grab hold of me and I hear a voice under the static of the speaker on the front of the man’s suit, “You’re not allowed outside, you know the rules!”
I kick and scream, I remember the sight of Mrs. Macaulay from the night before, “Let me go! I need to see her!” I slither out of the man’s grip and move as fast as I can to Agnes’ side. The blood on her body is cold and sticky, her face is still twisted into an expression of pain and fear, “Oh Agnes, what did I tell you?” I plead with her now deaf ears, I put her head in my lap and stare down at her cold lifeless eyes, “You promised me Aggie, you promised me you’d stay inside.”
Another man steps up to pull me away but I scream even louder than before, I hold on to Agnes and she’s dragged along with me. I feel my hands being prised free of her winkled skin and I cry and kick and punch the air.
“I’m telling you, if you don’t go inside you will be arrested!” The man says and I feel my grip loosen. I allow the man to drag me into my building and he drops me on the worn carpet, “Get to your apartment and I’ll look the other way – this time,” He points a gloved hand at me and I look away.
I ignore his warning and sit in the lobby, watching as the cleanup crew disposes of the bodies, followed by men who hose the blood off the streets, sidewalks and buildings. The day after Murder Day is always the cleanest day of the year, the soot and ash wash down the storm drains along with the blood and loose bits of body tissue. I cry from my position on the floor, remembering the face of the man, imagining what it could look like free of blood, wondering what he does every other day of the year.
Is he a business man? A lawyer or doctor? Or is he just another serf? Drifting through life, scraping to get by, looking for an outlet to release the anger he’s borne all his life.
By noon, the streets surrounding my apartment are clean, the curfew is lifted but people still don’t leave their homes. I’m alone on the curb, staring down at the spot where Agnes fell and blinking tears free. I don’t even care that they’re pouring down my face, It doesn’t faze me that the one thing I’ve avoided all my life is finally happening. I let it without regret, a feeling of release lingers inside of me as the pressure of years’ worth of tears is relieved.
“Remember not to cry dear, it is your birthday after all,” I remember Agnes’ words; they ring in my ears as if she’s here with me. I turn around, almost expecting to see the old woman standing behind me with a candy in each hand but of course she isn’t there. I’ll never see her again, I’ll never listen to another story or paint another portrait of her beautiful wrinkled face. It’s done, she’s done, and life moves on without her.
Mrs. Macaulay leaves her house now, I turn to see her stand over the spot where Mitchell fell. Her husband joins her and she pushes him away, “He was too young Todd…he wasn’t allowed to celebrate…”
“I know he was, but there’s nothing we can do about it,” Mr. Macaulay says as I move to comfort them.
“If we knew who did it…if we could find the person who murdered him we could do something,” Mrs. Macaulay pushes me away and finds comfort in her husband’s arms.
“The inspectors will help,” I say but nobody is listening, “It’s their job.”
Mrs. Macaulay shakes her head and begins to cry again, she pushes her husband aside and runs back into their house. He looks at me and sighs, sadness in his eyes as he – like me – cries for the first time in years.
“They will, they’ll help,” I whisper and he shakes his head at me.
“You’re a fool if you believe that,” He says as he turns away, “They don’t care about us, they don’t care about my son.”
I try not to believe his words, I try to imagine that someone is still interested in doing the right thing, but obviously I know I’m wrong. Had Mitchell been from a different part of town, had he been born to a family of privilege and esteem I know things would play out differently.
“I care,” I say as Mr. Macaulay hesitates at his front door, “We all care.”
“And what good is that going to do?” He says as he turns to stare at me, “Caring just leads to heart break, remember that,” And with that he disappears inside his dark and drafty house, not willing to listen to any more of it, not wanting to hear the pathetic ramblings of a sad sympathetic.
A glimpse through the window reveals Mr. and Mrs. Macaulay sitting silently in their living room, their backs to one another. Neither is speaking, or doing anything for that matter, Mr. Macaulay is fiddling with his wedding band while his wife whispers prayers, a long black rosary twisted around her fingers as she allows her tears to flow freely over her cheeks and neck.
It’s impossible for me to understand their pain, though I’ve lost people close to me it can’t possibly feel the same as losing a child – no matter how disobedient that child may be. Content with allowing them to have time to themselves I turn to go back home.
On my way up the disgusting stairwell, I hesitate at the door to my floor. Without thinking much I continue up the stairs and find myself at Agnes' door, but something's not right. It's open, and I hear sounds from inside.
"Hello?" I ask and slip carefully into the apartment, "Hello?"
The rustling I heard stops and I hear a frantic whisper, I reach out and grab hold of a cane sitting next to the door, Agnes has never used it as far as I can tell but she's always refused to get rid of it. I find myself suddenly thanking her for her stubbornness, something that in life I didn't think I'd ever be able to do.
I reach out with the cane and creak open the bathroom door, there's nobody there but I know someone is here with me somewhere. I check the kitchen, then hear glass breaking in the bedroom. With only three long strides I'm in the room and I see a man trying to slip out of the broken window, but his clothes have become caught on the jagged glass. His face is covered by a black scarf which hides everything but his frightened blue eyes and messy orange bangs. I pull him back into the room and push him to the ground, kicking him in the gut, "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
The man stutters and stumbles over his words, no doubt trying to concoct a believable lie. I hit his ribs with the cane and he yells out in pain, "I'm a nobody! Really, just a low life scavenger." As he speaks, I note that his voice is more delicate than I’d assumed it would be.
"I don't believe you," I say and hit him again. He tries to crawl away and I bring the cane down hard on his spine, "Agnes has only been dead for a couple hours, how did you even know this place would be empty?"
"I'm an avid Murder Day observer, what can I say?" He tries to stand up but I push him down again, I notice something hidden under his jacket and I lower my face to his.
"What's this you've got here?" I say, trying to pull back his coat.
"Nothing of value, I swear!"
With all my might I pry the large album from his hands and peer down at it, "You're a scavenger eh? And yet all you've decided to take is this?"
"Well, it's not like the old bat had anything that was actually worth any credit."
"But why an album? Of all the things you could steal today, why break into an old lady's home to take a photo album?"
The man didn't say anything, and as he lay on the ground staring up to me I hear another person at the door.
"Well, she ain't got much, don't know why you're bothering yourselves with this place first," I can hear the building manager's voice, he's jingling his keys as he speaks, "You know I had a young man two floors down who was murdered last night, sure he's probably got more interesting and valuable things."
The man on the floor scrambles to his feet while I'm distracted and turns to the window, he slips out and I reach for him but he's too quick. Franky finally finds the key to Agnes' door but it swings open on its own.
"Well that's strange, the crazy old bat probably didn't close it before heading out last night...oh…it's you…" I hear his voice trail off as he sees me and I turn with a smile. He's wearing his usual white muscle shirt, stained with years of sweat and grime and stretched to the breaking point over his over sized gut. His left eye stares at the wall, but the right one is pointed directly at me. He breathes through his mouth, but it's laboured, and he waddles closer to me, revealing an Inspector standing in the hallway behind him.
"Uh…hi," I nod in Franky's direction and try not to acknowledge the Inspector, not until he's acknowledged me.
"What the heck are you doing in here?" Franky asks.
"I just…uh…well I was close with Agnes, Franky, I just wanted to see the place as it was even just one last time."
"Yeah, well you know it's breaking and entering right? I could have you arrested, got a Inspector right here you know."
"Relax," The Inspector says as he enters the room, "No sense getting up in arms about a friend visiting the home of a celebrant."
"Agnes wasn't a celebrant," I murmur under my breath.
"Excuse me?" The Inspector says, reaching for a notepad in his long beige trench coat. He's tall, taller than most men, and thin too. He takes off his fedora as he enters the apartment and reveals finely combed blonde hair, "Was she not murdered last night?"
The words sting me, I struggle to find an answer -- one that won't get me into trouble, "Well…she was outside, but I doubt she was celebrating. She's so old, and with her dementia I doubt she understood what was going on…"
"Yes, well, as you know anyone over the age of eighteen can celebrate and if she was on the street -- confused or not -- she was an assumed celebrant."
I bite my tongue, I know there's no use in arguing with and Inspector. Franky approaches me and starts to push me out of the apartment, the smell of his musty sweat and rancid breath make me want to vomit but I hold myself back, "Out then, get out, we've got work to do here."
"Excuse me, what is that in your hands?" The Inspector asks as Franky's 'escorting' me out the door.
"Oh…it's…it's just an old photo album," I finger the fraying spine of the book and look down at its black velvet cover, "You don't mind if I keep it, right? Just…just for sentimental reasons…"
The Inspector rolls his eyes and turns on the rest of the apartment, "I have no interest in old photographs, please, take it. It's one less thing we'll have to deal with."
"Deal with?" I ask and the Inspector leaves the room without answering me. Franky continues to push me into the hallway but I slip out of his grasp and follow the Inspector into Agnes' bedroom, "Excuse me sir, but just what are you interested in? What exactly are you dealing with?"
The Inspector turns to me and I can't read the expression on his face. He sucks his teeth and takes a note on his pad before turning to look at the broken window, "What happened here?"
I don't know how to answer the question, should I be honest? Should I tell the Inspector that a man broke in here before I did? That he was trying to steal the book I now held tight in my hands? As I try to find the right words Franky makes grunting sounds of outrage, I'm not sure if it's about my continued presence or the work he'll have to put into fixing the window, "She probably just needed some air."
"She needed some air, so she broke the window?" The blonde man doesn't look at me while he's speaking now, it seems like he's transcribing our entire conversation in his notebook.
"Yes…well…I nailed the windows shut years ago, you know, for safety reasons."
"You what!?" Franky squeals and moves to look at the bent nails holding the window closed, "Do you have any idea how much work that makes for me?" He mumbles and rolls his eyes, "Might as well just board the thing up, take a couple bucks off the rent for the new tenant."
"Very well, you should leave now," The Inspector says to me and I hesitate. I don't want to leave, I want to know what this Inspector is doing in Agnes' home. It's rare for the government to take interest in the home of a dead celebrant and I know for a fact Agnes didn't have anything to hide…did she?
"I…I…" I stammer and bite my fleshy lower lip as Franky glares at me, "Right, good luck then with…what ever it is you're doing…"
I turn to leave, but stand in the hallway trying to listen to Franky and the Inspector speaking to each other. I strain my ears but can't hear a thing until Franky suddenly swings the door open and stares down his round nose at me, "I believe the Inspector said you should leave."
Feeling helpless, and a little scared, I turn down the hall and head for the stairs. I know there's no sense trying to stick around, interfering with and investigation could get a lowly serf like me landed in prison, or worse. I can't help but wonder what is going on though, the scavenger poking through Agnes' things, the Inspector that followed. As far as I know Agnes hasn't had a single visitor in years other than me, why is her place suddenly such a hot spot after her death?
Making my way back down to my apartment, I drag a chair over to the window and sit in it, staring down at the spot on the curb where I saw Agnes die the night before. As my tears start up again, I prop the photo album on my thighs and start to flip through the pages.
I linger on the photo of Bernard, the familiar face of the ghost of bravery. He's standing with a very young and beautiful looking Agnes, her hair is pulled back into a tight bun and she's laughing like I've never seen her laugh before. It suddenly becomes too much and I slam the book closed, placing it on the table as I start to clean up my mess.
Scrubbing blood off the floor isn't a new task for me, I have very few options when it comes to work and I often times find myself performing jobs that very few people would ever dream of. As I kneel on the floor and feel the pain in my back from being hunched over too long I can smell the metallic scent of blood mixed with vinegar and I'm reminded of the first time I was paid to do such a thing.
A few years back, after losing her oldest son to the celebration, my friend Laura killed herself in her bathtub. She slit her wrists and allowed herself to bleed out in the hot water, which spilled all over the floor.
I cleaned her bathroom after that; her husband paid me to do it. He took the younger kids away for the day and signed over a small portion of his credit to me to have the place spotless before they returned. It was a gruesome job, and one that broke my heart, but even for Laura I couldn't find the strength to cry. The stinging fumes of vinegar in my throat and eyes didn't even force tears down my cheeks, I remained stony and strong throughout the job and when it was done her brother was quite impressed. I'm not sure why, I did tell him that I'd done such a thing before, that it wasn't my first time destroying the evidence of a grizzly scene like that but I guess seeing is believing.
"If ever I know of someone in a similar position, I'll be sure to tell them about you," He said that day. I wasn't sure if I wanted him too, I was as desperate for credit then as I am now but still it seemed somehow like the job just wasn't worth it.
However, I found myself cleaning up after four more suicides since then. Each one paid well enough to support myself for months, though I suppose I don't require much to get by. Since I was eighteen I've been managing on my own with barely anything, though back then I had Agnes' help.
Agnes…
When I’m done cleaning the blood I stand up and catch myself staring again at the place she died. What am I going to do without her? She was everything I had; she was the only person I trusted.
I try to shake it off and head to the living room, picking up the dirty blanket off the floor I fold it neatly and put it back in my nearly empty closet. I rearrange a few things in the small dark space, until I'm convinced that each line is perfectly straight, each fold is immaculate and fit for inspection…by whom I have no idea, but it always feels nice to have even just this small amount of control in a life that seems so chaotic and mean.
Turning away from the closet I set my eyes on the kitchen. I move slowly towards the easel that's still propping up my latest painting. I examine the meaningless forms of rotting wood and take a deep breath. My portrait of Agnes is gone, I'll never be able to sit and stare at her wrinkles, or her friendly brown eyes. Why did I paint over her? I need every reminder of her that I can get now, but she's been covered over by stains and decay.
With a terrible scream I spin around and throw the canvas away. It hits the wall and I hear wood splintering as it falls to the ground. I move quickly toward it and stomp on it, putting my foot through it and kicking it loose only to step on it again. I'm screaming and wailing as I pick up the useless piece of junk and hurl it out my broken window, heaving heavy breaths of sadness and rage, my shoulders rising and falling as I turn to go to bed, wishing to never wake up again.
I grab hold of the album and throw myself down on the rust stained mattress in the corner, flipping through the old pages as my eyes grow heavy. I don't know any of these people, but I know their names by heart. There was Aunt Georgina and her son, cousin Geoffery. Then Penelope Conrad, she was a third cousin from Bernard's side of the family; I've always been a little infatuated with her photos because I think she looks like a super model.
I get to the page that's full of photos of Agnes and Bernard from various stages of their lives together. They look so handsome and dignified, such a fabulous couple. I drift off to sleep with the album in my hands, hoping that they've found each other in death, wishing for Agnes' sake that the pain of missing him has come to an end. My vision fades and I my eyes close, I feel my head falling sideways and my shoulders follow. My face hits the old pillow and the last lingering thoughts I have are of a happily married couple through the ages, I hold the book close to my chest and smell Agnes off of it's fine velvet cover. A sad smile crosses over my face as I slip out of consciousness and drift off to sleep.