Her, Them, and Me

Chapter One:

I’m about to tell you a story—or rather, I’ve found someone else to ramble to, right? How amusing. I never imagined I’d still be this boring. Talking to myself, only to end up pouring it all out to you, a stranger.

The sun has set, and a cold wind blows in through the window. That worn-out curtain needs replacing—at least that’s what I think now. Fresh out of prison, I’m still getting used to it.

Yes, I, Amelie, am a criminal. Surprised, huh? A criminal telling you a story—must be a kick, huh?

Not really.

The house is still a mess. Stuff scattered everywhere. The cabinet door is still broken, hanging off its hinges. It just clanged shut, startling me. And the curtains—I told you about them. They’re practically just decoration. That lamp bulb is cold white. Can’t it be warm yellow in this freezing weather? But... I can’t be bothered to go buy one. I’ll just see if there are any spare bulbs left in the attic.

Everything seems the same, yet it isn’t quite. Some things have changed, but I haven’t noticed. How stupid of me. Did five years in prison numb my senses? Something is definitely missing. It’s like sand slipping through my fingers, blown away by the wind—I can’t grasp it. No clue where it drifted off to.

Yet the photo of me and Lilian still sits on the dresser. She’s smiling so brightly, while I’m wearing my usual stern face. That day, I’d just beaten up a bunch of punks. How could I not smile? Her hair was so beautiful, her smile as radiant as summer sunlight. She wore her plain school uniform, ordinary as could be, yet somehow it didn’t look so drab on her.

The photo was dusty now, the once-brown frame turned grayish-black. All this dust—it seemed no one had been here in five years. I was surprised, actually. This neighborhood was rough, full of punks and lowlifes. Yet no one had come to smash my window with rocks, shouting and fighting their way in to loot. Oh right—my place was on the top floor. They couldn’t reach it.

Truthfully, I have no idea why I was released. I was supposed to serve much, much longer. Time in prison flows like an hourglass—just as it nears emptying, someone with wandering hands flips it over, and everything starts anew.

But here I am, out. A woman practically bailed me out. I don’t see it as a blessing—she must have ulterior motives. So I stumbled out into this city full of good and bad memories, with nothing to my name. Sitting in this messy, dimly lit room—the light bulb burned out ages ago. I just used the last of my bank money to pay the water and electricity bills, but so much here is worn out from neglect. I paid the electricity bill, and still no power. Damn it, I should’ve just refused to pay.

Sleepiness washed over me, and I flopped back onto the bed. Staring at the ceiling, I finally noticed the dripping sound coming from the kitchen.

Drip, drip, drip, drip.

Repeating endlessly.

I was sure I’d turned off the faucet when I washed my hands earlier. Looks like that leaky problem still hasn’t been fixed. Five years, and it’s still the same.

Well then... I’ll just fall asleep to the rhythmic sound of the dripping water.

After all, that’s how I’ve always done it.

But my mind never lets me sleep peacefully. It takes on a life of its own, pulling things out one by one—things I’ve done, things that happened—and makes me relive them over and over. My thoughts jump around; you can probably tell from my narrative. Fragments of memories suddenly pop in, but the original context seems long forgotten.

When drowsiness creeps in and my eyelids start to droop, it feels like I’m still in prison—even here, in my own home. I was released on bail a week ago, but my memories remain stuck in that cold prison cot, the constant clamor from the neighboring cell, the curses of my cellmates, the rage of the guards. I can’t recall anything good from that time. Even in prison, I never fit in. Rumors spread that an officer had beaten someone to death, and I was the last to hear about it.

Good night, I suppose. But to whom could I say it? The cellmate who always exchanged good nights with me from the lower bunk was taken away and shot just two days before my release. Damn her luck—so close to getting out, yet framed for three murders. It’s the most absurd thing, but their methods for framing honest folk always seem to work, don’t they?

Why did everything happen so suddenly?

Just like when I killed Marcos back then—so swift.

In an instant, you can feel a life slowly slipping away. Watching it slip away is different from holding it in your hands as it fades. At least, that’s how it feels to me.

...

The dripping is so loud.

I’m not using to it now.

Chapter Two:

The sandwiches at home were gone again.

Bread is a good thing—it keeps hunger at bay for at least a little while after you eat it. But in prison, they won’t even give you that pitiful bread. Instead, it’s some watery soup and all sorts of strange food. You wonder how anyone could possibly eat these things together, but hunger drives you to eat them anyway. Even if others have spit in your food.

But here’s the irony: after they let me out, I couldn’t even afford jam.

Every last penny went to utilities. At least this place is mine—no rent to pay. When the warden suggested I “contact my parents,” I laughed out loud. My voice echoed with sarcasm in that tiny office. “Parents? Them?” I remember saying. “They’d rather never see me again in their lives.”

That much was true, but we’ll get to that later. I even found bread more interesting than them—at least it could fill your stomach. Those two useless people were irrelevant.

I had to go downstairs to buy food. The 24-hour convenience store downstairs must be new, because before I went to prison, this used to be a bar. Who knows what happened in those five years to turn my favorite hangout into the place I dread most.

When I go out, I usually wear a black hoodie that covers me completely, a mask and sunglasses if needed, hands in my pockets, headphones on—though they’re so old they crackle with static. My ears suffer terribly, but I don’t want to engage with the outside world—not even a little bit.

I hate socializing.

These people make me feel so noisy, especially that convenience store owner. She’s always yelling at the top of her lungs, either arguing with a customer or fighting with her husband. Honestly, how did that famous bar end up like this?

“Ten euros total. Card or cash?” Her voice finally yanked me back to reality. I stood at the register with a man behind me in line.

“Do I look like someone who has a bank card?”

Of course I didn’t say that, though it crossed my mind. My insides were screaming.

“Cash.” I said, handing over the ten euros with trembling hands. Then I grabbed the bread and other food and bolted out of the convenience store.

My shoulder slammed into the supermarket door. Fuck, it hurt. It hurt so bad. I sucked in a sharp breath, and inexplicable rage surged up inside me. My mind screamed and roared, as if all my pent-up frustration had been awakened by that single blow.

Why is everything going wrong? Fuck.

I hate this place. The oppressive atmosphere makes it feel like a tiny interrogation room in a prison. I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.

“After being locked up for so long, don’t you miss the cool air outside? The feeling of freedom—isn’t that nice?” I remember the woman who bailed me out asking me that.

“...No.” That was my reply, though my hand in my pocket was clenching the bail slip so hard it nearly crumpled.

Of course it wouldn’t feel good. Everything’s different now. I don’t miss the air here at all. It’s like a garbage dump. Everyone’s rotten to the core, filth seeping into their bones. Even if they were burned, the stench would linger. I don’t like a single person here. Whether they lived in my apartment building or walked the streets, I despised them all.

Because it was this crowd that took my Lillian away.

Seeing them put on their human facades made me want to vomit. Forget fresh air—everyone here was polluted.

I wanted home. Now. Immediately....

Home was still more comfortable, even with the curtains still broken.

I sank back onto the sofa. The lights finally came on today, and the sun was about to set. Sunsets are usually beautiful, and from my penthouse apartment, the little attic I have offers a perfect view. But I couldn’t be bothered to climb up there. To catch that fleeting moment of peace with my eyes, only to be met with endless loneliness, darkness, and pain afterward? No thanks. I’d rather never have had it at all than have it taken away.

I hope there are stars tonight. Not that I’ll pay them any mind. But I just wish the world could be just a tiny bit better in some way.

Is Lilian on one of those stars?

Watching me quietly from the sky, just like she always did—head bowed, golden curls falling down, lollipop in hand, eyes fixed on the book in her lap?

But I’m afraid you’d be disappointed, Lilian. You wouldn’t see a university professor preparing lectures for students. You wouldn’t see me and my husband enjoying dinner with our child. You wouldn’t see what you want to see.

You’d just see me lying in bed like a fool, hair a mess, the room trashed like it was robbed, wallowing in self-pity, right?

“Silly one,” she’d say....