Knock, knockMature




Maxxie, thanks for the food and putting up with me for the night, but I really gotta get a move on, or I'll be in for an early cremation.

If you cry, I will come back and haunt you.

Love ya, you poof :)

I look around for somewhere to put the note for a full five minutes before finally sticking it to the mirror in the bathroom - the only place he'll notice it over the mess in his apartment.

And then I'm walking away, out his door, down the stairs into the street where I'm hit by the stink of pollution and smoke. It's mid afternoon, the sun only just beginning to sink in the sky; if I'm quick, Maxxie won't see me on his way home from work.

I make my way back over to my apartment pretty quickly - I have to, the sun stings. I pull my hoodie over as much of me as it will cover and it still tingles uncomfortably. That and the stink of blood in the open street where people push past you so close and everyone's constantly stirring it up... do I really need to keep going?

I've noticed that smells are what bother me the most. My eyes and ears have adapted to the world pretty quickly, but it's taking my nose a long time to catch up. Maybe I should wear one of those surgical masks to block out the smells. Sure I'd look weird, but it would stop me going crazy.

When I reach the apartment, it's hard to keep it from depressing me. I mean really depressing me. If I thought the place felt lifeless before, it definitely feels it now and as I pull my collection of hunting gear out from under the bed, I have a feeling that this is gonna be the last time I see this apartment. Just as well memories live in your head, not just the place those memories were made, eh?

I dump the box I keep them all in on the bed and tip it out, not caring for once that they might tear the sheets or get dust everywhere. I pick out three of my favorites; the Swiss army knife my dad gave me when I was fifteen, the nine inch carbon steel combat knife and a knife that's identical to the one I lost in the apartment - serrated edge on one side, smooth on the other. I pocket the Swiss knife and set about strapping the sheathes for the other two to my wrists.

As I'm doing, this, I can hear voices far off, talking confidently. At first it doesn't really concern me; I can hear a lot of people on this floor. And a lot of people on the floors above and below me too, for that matter.

But these voices bug me, there's something I recognize about them. I pause, barely noticing as I pull the strap too tight because those voices just keep getting closer. I finish with the buckle and stand, wondering who the voices belong to. Closer, closer, closer.

"Ready?" one of them says. Bang. I hear my flimsy apartment door give way almost immediately and I freeze.


The End

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