Emma
As I reached for the water Kyle offered with the tablets in my other hand, the milky liquid quivered within the confines of the glass. I stared down, recalling Kyle’s words—after the fever...
I spoke to Jezebel. “I’d rather have a beer.”
“You don’t drink beer,” Kyle replied.
“And you’re dead. Time changes things. I want a beer.”
Jezebel shook her head. “Give her a beer.”
Once the glass was taken and a cool bottle was in my hand, I nodded toward the cellar. The one place I didn’t want to go was now my escape—at least temporarily. I took a step, but Jezebel stopped me.
“Emma, you need to rest. Take the tablets.”
With my hands trembling and three sets of eyes upon me, I lifted my hand with the tablets to my open lips and followed them with a sip of the beer. Swallowing, I turned back to the stairs. Before I made it through the doorway, Kyle reached for my hand and pried open my fingers. His blue eyes met mine. I saw his determination, wanting to catch me in deception.
Once my fingers were straight, all that was left was a smudge of blue on my palm left by the tablets from when they’d been captured in my overly warm hand.
I gave him my best fuck-you smile.
“Rest,” Jezebel said.
Nodding, I left the beer on the nearby counter, hurried through the doorway, and rushed down the wooden stairs. My high heels luckily didn’t falter. I barely noticed my surroundings as I ran for a partially open door and pushed it open. Turning on a light and closing the door, I spit the contents of my mouth into the toilet. Quickly, I ran the faucet. More of the milky water spewed into the sink. Ignoring the color and odor, I cupped some fluid in my hands and brought it to my lips.
Resisting the urge to gag, I sucked up the liquid, rinsed and spat again.
I repeated the procedure a few more times until I was sure there were no remnants of the tablets left in my mouth. When I looked up, my reflection staring back at me appeared weary, but unlike Jezebel, my complexion was the opposite of pale. My long hair had taken on the curl of the humidity. While most was still secured back into the ponytail, I had small frizzy spirals surrounding my face.
Removing my hair tie, I lowered my head, gathered my long tresses together and piled them onto my head and away from my neck. A few twists of the hair tie and I now had a messy loose bun.
After I splashed more water on my face, I took a deep breath. Unbuttoning my blouse, I saw the bruise from the seat belt across my chest, interrupted only by my lace bra. Gently, I smoothed more water onto my neck and chest. Each application lowered my temperature and washed away a bit of the perspiration. A fine white dusting from the airbags disappeared from my skin with every douse. The powder was ingrained in my black slacks. It would take more than dirty water to clean them. When I looked again at myself, my eyes seemed clearer and bluer and my cheeks had lost a bit of their rosiness.
In that second, I had the realization of what Kyle had told me. The temperature in this cellar was at least fifteen to twenty degrees cooler than upstairs. I hated to admit that he’d been right. Slowly, opening the bathroom door, I looked around the room I’d only sprinted through.
The walls were cement blocks. Stepping inside I splayed my fingers on the rough surface. I felt the coolness they must transmit from the earth underground. Looking up, I saw that the ceiling was wood. It wasn’t a ceiling at all but the underside of the floor above.
As a matter of fact, the boards creaked above me as people stepped. If I strained, I was able to hear voices, but I couldn’t make out their words. The floor beneath my high heels was smooth and made of concrete.
Along the wall next to the steps was a twin bed complete with a pillow and bedding.
Compared to the beds I was used to sleeping in, this one looked small, as if it were meant not for an adult but for a child. Turning, I saw an old upholstered chair and a lamp. The current illumination was coming from two light bulbs in white sockets attached to the ceiling/upstairs floor.
I walked around, running my fingers over the furnishings. Everything was spotlessly clean and interestingly old. The similarities to Rett’s third-floor suite seemed ironic. In one corner, sat a small round table with a Formica top and two chairs. It looked as though it belonged in an old-fashioned ice cream shop, not a cellar.
“Furnished,” I said under my breath.
My freshman dorm at University of Pittsburgh had better furnishings.
If I were to compare this cellar to the third-floor suite, there were a few obvious omissions. The ever-filling refrigerator complete with bottled water was one, and as I turned a complete circle taking in everything around, above, and below me, there was no magical ceiling with a skylight.
It was then that I noticed the bottom landing of the stairs. Where in my haste, I’d turned left into the open room, to the right was a door—a closed door. Walking quietly to the landing, I peered up the stairs. From where I stood, I could tell the door was closed. Its status as locked or unlocked was unknown.
If I were to believe Kyle’s word, it was unlocked. However, in my rush to spit out the tablets and small sip of beer, I hadn’t taken the time to listen for the sound of a dead bolt moving.
I reached for the handle of the door to the right of the landing.
The handle didn’t turn.