Content Warning(s): Mild implications of violence, blood, and depictions of grief
Janie wished this wasn’t the only moment she was able to watch as she stood quietly at the door with her head tilted against the frame. Her tan body was minuscule, fragile, with parted lips and arms permanently folded across her chest. She felt cold. She was tired; the bags under her brown eyes were proof. Her distorted blonde hair would have made the house reek. She couldn’t bring herself to shower.
Everything around her was identical to what she recalled from her childhood; the hallway stretched into the living room where she could peep at the antique tea cups from 1842 that she adored or the little knights aligned at the bottom of the fireplace; the photo right outside the bedroom door that hung at a slant; the way there was never a speck of dust in the bedroom in front of her.
Her father sat on his king-sized bed which he shared with no one–other than the times she crawled into the mattress when she had nightmares. His back was facing Janie. He rolled his head back and rubbed his eyes before sliding his hands down to his mouth. Janie could tell he hadn’t shaved from the blonde pricks of hair peeking onto his sideburns.
“Why aren’t you answering me?” he groaned.
Janie sniffled, her jaw clenched, and her toes curled as she struggled to find her voice.“I’m sorry…” she whimpered.
Her father didn’t move, his head remained bowed, and Janie could feel the air in the room thicken in his despair. He glimpsed at his phone and rubbed his forehead with an exasperated sigh.
“You know I worry.”
Pinching her skin, she muttered, “I know…”
“I just need to know if you’re okay.”
Clenching her teeth, she shook her head vigorously despite knowing her father couldn’t see her. She felt small; like a little girl again who broke another coffee mug and saw her father hunched over cleaning it up.
He was never the type to yell. Yet that made things worse.
Her father buried his face in his hands. He huffed.
“...Dad?” she called out.
He didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry…”
There was a knock on the door. Janie didn’t move from her spot, nor did she remove her eyes from her father.
“No,” she said.
Her father rose from the bed and sauntered past Janie to get the door.
Janie didn’t move, but she pleaded with a voice God himself could barely hear. “Dad, don’t,” she begged in another whimper.
He was down the corridor.
“Please,” her voice cracked.
He took a glance through the peephole.
“You can’t,” she mumbled as tears rained on her cheeks.
He opened the door. “Yes?”
Within seconds, she could hear shouting, rustling, something—someone—falling to the ground followed by…
BANG!
Janie jumped and covered her ears.
BANG!
Her legs quivered. She could barely stand.
BANG!
She hiccupped and watched gravity pull her tears to the ground.
Seconds passed by while she heard the muffled footsteps of two people running in the house. She loosened her hands around her ears and caught a glimpse of a stranger—a man— hunched over at the fireplace, stuffing his duffel bag with the gold cutlery that went with the tea cups. As he hastily stood up, he knocked one of the miniature knights into the ashes of the fireplace.
A lanky shadow rushed past her and into the bedroom, nudging the frame on the wall, causing it to fall onto the floor with a crack. A woman that was now digging, plowing, rummaging through the bedroom in search of—she laughed upon discovering a handful of pocket watches from the nightstand drawer. Half of the pocket watches that were stuffed into the duffle bag were gifts from Janie.
The woman called out to her partner. They both ran out of the house, past her father’s dead body, disregarding the bloody footprints they left behind; robbing them of the household belongings and her father’s life.
Janie could barely see the room flicker with her tear-filled bloodshot eyes. The walls around her faded into a dark blue; they twitched, faltered, and shook before slowly crumbling back into her temporary run-down apartment while the police occupied her home.
“Simulation complete,” the human-like artificial intelligence in the corner of the apartment announced. “Would you like to replay or end the session?”
Her feet were stitched to the ground. She stared at the tears that painted and partly cleaned the musty floor.
“I’m sorry,” the AI began, “I didn’t quite hear a response. Would you like to replay or end the session?”
Her glossy eyes glanced at the photo on her bed. She couldn’t recall how long ago the picture was taken. It was difficult with half the glass shattered across the frame and sputtering into her father’s face. She would need to get a new one soon.
“Replay,” she croaked.
“Replaying simulation,” the AI informed, “if you would like to stop the simulation, say ‘stop.’ If you would like to replay the simulation from the beginning, say ‘replay.’”
The walls of her apartment faded into a dark blue again. Slowly, different objects fell into place and a brief static played in the background while her old home settled in.
She stood in place, under the doorframe. From beyond, she heard the sound of footsteps—her father’s.
He rushed past her into his room which he shared with no one, pacing back and forth.
“C’mon, Janie,” he groaned, “pick up the phone.”
His habit of thinking out loud never stopped.
“You promised you’d pick up my calls,” he complained.
He ran his often cold and rough hands through his hair. He turned to stare at the photo in the hallway. The photo had not been fractured yet. Their eyes were supposed to meet. Janie soaked in every second, every wrinkle, every speck of skin on his face before he turned away and settled on the far side of the bed, his back, once again, facing her.
Janie leaned her head against the doorframe, arms crossed against her chest. She was minuscule, fragile.
“Why aren’t you answering me?” her father sighed.
Janie’s mouth quivered as she held back a hiccup.
“Replay,” she choked.
END