The Apartment Upstairs

Sensitive Themes: Suicide / Depression / Mental Health / Self-Harm (somewhat metaphorical)

The Apartment Upstairs 

*** 

Calloused hands clutch the shovel like an anchor, digging the blade into the cracks of the linoleum tiles. My back aches from being hunched over for so long. I look longingly over at my bed, the blankets barely visible through the open door. It’s almost midnight, and I have work at nine in the morning. My fingers itch to drop the shovel, crawl into bed and get the good night’s sleep that I know my body needs and my mind craves.  

Still, I don’t move.  

I’m frozen, standing over the dark hole in my floor. I’ve made progress. It’s deeper than I left it last year. Sometimes I can convince myself that the end is in sight. The barely-there glow of red-hot hell shining on the other side. Even from where I stand now, I can feel heat radiating through the ground: the only barrier between me and fate.  

The warmth does its job, thawing the frost in my fingers enough for me to raise my shovel and drive it down into the hole again. The metal barely makes a scratch in the stone but the scrape squeals, grating against my ears. I ache to stop. Every bone in my body screams in protest, harmonising with the eternal wail in the back of my head.   

At two, I finally sleep. I sink into my bed’s comforting embrace, curling around the hot water bottle that burns a brand into my skin. It will sting in the morning. Ugly red rings and ripples twisting across my stomach, but for now, it helps numb the sharp, icy tempest inside me.  

The alarm rings loud and nauseating at 7:00 a.m. sharp. I glance at the time, my phone background glaring at me. The eyes of my one-year dead dog are sad and knowing. I roll back over, rubbing my hand against the achy marks left on my stomach.  

I should get up.  

Around me, the world is hauntingly silent.   

I really should get up.  

A spider in the corner of my room works hard, carefully weaving a beautiful web. It shines silver in the glow of my fairy lights. As soon as my energy returns, the spider will be dead, its body rotting in a watery grave.  

I need to get up.  

The alarm blares again. 7:30. I squeeze my eyes shut and drag an arm out from beneath the covers, flailing to turn it off. My body aches like I’ve just run a marathon. The smallest movements seem to require the most effort. Exhaustion takes root inside me and cradles my bones like an affectionate mother.  

I try to lift my head, but it’s filled with cement and falls back onto my pillow. The rest of my limbs are similarly heavy, denting the mattress with the intensity of the burden. It takes everything in me to pull myself up. I’m not even standing, just sitting––at the edge of my bed.  

I somehow manage to haul myself up. Everything aches, fire spreading through every inch of my body as I force myself to move. Getting dressed is a gruelling task. The clothes itch as they brush against my skin, settling strangely over my shoulders.   

Work passes slowly, each minute seeming to last hours. By the time I get home, my mouth hurts from smiling and the throbbing pain in my body has worsened.   

My bed welcomes me warmly, wrapping me in a tight hug as I bundle under the covers. Sleep pulls at my conscious, beckoning me closer but never letting me in. My eyes feel heavy, almost painfully so, like boulders binding me to the mattress. Eventually I drift, stuck half-way between sleep and consciousness and the world falls away around me.  

My phone rings, breaking the charade. The sound is shrill and annoying. I stare at it, at the name that pops up on my screen. I know I should answer. It’s the right thing to do. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to my sister, let alone my parents. Somewhere deep inside me, I miss them and that part of me is suffocating.  

I wait until the phone falls silent, and even then, I don’t move. My limbs are stiff, frozen by the ice in my veins. My heart aches in my chest but I can’t bring myself to care. The phone bursts to life again, just as piercing as before. This time, I find myself wanting to move. I focus on my sister’s name, willing my arms to work, my hands to pick up the phone and fingers to answer. But because I have no control over my own body or mind, my hands stay where they are and darkness steals my sister from me again.  

Time passes, the way it always does. It drags, digging claws into my hair and twisting. The pain forces me to be present, pulling me from the depths of sleep before I can fully wrap myself in it.   

I stare at my phone, hoping and silently willing it to ring again. Even though I know nothing’s changed, I won’t be able to answer, I want to see my sister’s face light up the night. My palms are clammy and my throat feels tight as I think about her. I imagine myself hugging her, reaching through the glass even as it digs into my skin, bloody and ugly. Like maybe if I hug her for long enough, I might be able to absorb some of the life I missed out on or leave some of the darkness behind. I don’t want to be her, I tell myself, and I know it’s true. I don’t want to be her; I just want to be less me.  

The heaviness that descends on me seems to come from nowhere. My blankets curl around me, becoming restrictive instead of warm but my bones have been stolen by lead imitations and with them, all the will to fight. Exhaustion bundles me into a false sense of security and finally, finally nothingness overwhelms.  

***  

If there was an amount of desire enough to grant wishes, I would not exist.  

***  

Sunlight peaks through the corners of my curtains, illuminating the walls with a shady yellow haze. Despite that, the room is frigid enough to pull me from my bed. My mattress has melded to my skin, so tight its agony peeling myself away from the itchy sheets. Every step is heavy as I shuffle into the kitchen, squinting my eyes to avoid the brightness pouring through the windows.  

For a long moment I stand in the doorway, staring at the fridge. The food inside is spoiled. It has been for a few days but the very thought of going shopping has my muscles screaming in protest. Instead, my eyes drift towards my shovel. It’s splayed across the floor beside the pit, waiting for me. A small burst of energy spikes in my arms.  

I reach for it, curling my fingers around the familiar wood. Warmth spreads through me at the welcoming touch. I haul my shovel up above my head and bring it down with a hefty strike. There’s a low rumble somewhere beneath me. Renewed drive surges through me at the sound. The clang of metal on stone echoes in my ears with deafening clarity.  

Suddenly, the crack in the pit splinters. Tiny fractures spread throughout the rest of the stone and a mighty roar thunders through my apartment. For the first time in a long time, excitement trills through me. I land on my knees beside the pit, hauling my tattered shovel out of it. I drive it into the middle with fresh strength. The break parts further.  

Again and again, I stab my shovel into the divide. Sweat drips from my forehead and my arms feel like jelly. Sheer willpower is the only thing keeping me going until I’m practically throwing myself against the stone to break through.  

It takes hours but finally, there is a resounding crack as the floor caves in. Rubble and debris slam into the empty space, sending up cloud after cloud of dust. Eventually the ash settles and the heat of hell rushes over me.  

Beneath the countless layers of rock is a room. There’s a fridge tucked in the corner, echoed by cabinets, a sink, and oven. The dining table is rickety and shabby, made from cheap, rotting wood. A doorway is visible, leading into what looks like a bedroom. The most eye-catching feature, though, is a giant hole in the floor. Crouched beside it is a girl. She has long hair––messy from days without brushing––and the build of someone who hasn’t eaten properly in a long time.  

I stare down at her as she stares into the hole beside her. My knees twinge in protest and I finally shuffle, sliding back to sit properly. Surprise etches across my face as the girl in the pit does the same.  

Oh.  

Fear slams into me with the force of a tsunami. My hands, previously gently holding onto the edge of my stone platform, tighten until I’m clinging on for dear life. The girl below me shifts. Her body tilts to the side and her neck cranes back, looking straight at me.  

Her eyes are dark and wide. There’s an emptiness to them that sends shivers down my spine, like there’s nothing more to her than existing beside this pit. Her entire world has dialled in to this specific moment and anything beyond it is meaningless.  

My skin feels too tight around my body, wrapping around my lungs and suffocating me. The girl’s face is blank, just as empty as her eyes. She bores into me, rendering me useless with nothing more than a look. The ice in my veins is sharp and hard because it’s me. Those are my eyes and my face and my hair and skin. I stare down at myself, horror mounting as the shock passes and truth begins to sink in.  

The stone under me suddenly feels too weak to hold me, like the force of the girl’s stare—my stare—is enough to crumble the concrete.   

Panic surges through me, clogging my insides with something sharp and painful. I scramble backwards, fighting invisible bonds to regain control over my breathing. My eyes settle on the shovel, abandoned at my side. I look at it and then over at the pile of rubble where a living room once was.   

I climb to my feet and begin scooping the dirt back into the pit, desperation fuelling my aching limbs as I shift load after load of rock.  

Horror swallows my lungs when I look back at the pit, shovel raised with a mound of gravel. It’s empty, just as it was when I first opened it. The girl inside has her own shovel raised, scooping my efforts into her pit. She looks up at me, making all-too intentional eye contact as she does.  

It’s pure, unfiltered fear that forces me into movement again. This time, instead of filling the pit, I aim at her, depositing a small hill of debris over her head. She yelps when it hits her and starts trying to shift it into the pit beside her, but my terror has unleashed something inside me.  

She’s not fast enough.  

I can hear her screaming, suffocating by my—or is it her own—hands as I pile a mountain of rock and ash on top of her. When the dust finally settles, it’s almost night again. I’m shaking, my entire body trembling with such force I’m not completely sure how I’m even standing. I sink to my knees at the edge of the pit, and then lower until I’m curled up, arms locked around my bunched-up knees as I stare down at the mound of concrete that was once a version of me.  

***  

Somewhere in the distance my phone rings again.