Apartment 21. Aiden Jenkins. Despondency

By the dim glow of the streetlights coming in through the window, I tidy the small space of slumber next to the kitchen where I lay to rest at night. It's a tight space between the back of the kitchen counter and the back of the couch that faces the TV on the wall, with only my futon and a wooden box that currently identifies as my end table. There isn't much left that I have not packed into boxes for the move or thrown out. My futon lay bare of its covering, the cream colour peppered with old stains from years of use. My University books are stacked high on the makeshift end table. I have asked Karlie to return them at the start of the semester in a week's time.

The power to the apartment has shut off just as my friends and I were cleaning out the remains of our dinner. It was a quiet affair. Not much to be said after my sister's dramatic walkout. Brad sat quietly eating his dinner, not once looking up to meet my eyes across the table. Karlie and Ash were in a hushed conversation of their own. What their discussion consisted of, I am not sure. And don't much care about, to be honest.

A slight buzz accompanied by a ping emits from my phone sitting on the futon. The rectangular screen glows in the barely lit room. Must be a text. I look at it hastily. I know it cannot be from my sister but, regardless, I still can't help the small hope that blooms in my chest. It doesn't fester for long, though, as the notification shows it is actually from our building tenant. Mr. Taylor.

21.03. Mr. Taylor: 'I will be fixing water pipes tonight. Water will be off from midnight till morning. Apologies for the inconvenience.'

"What is it?" Ash asks from behind the kitchen counter as he wipes clean dishes from the dishwater.

"It's Mr. Taylor. He says the water will be off again tonight," I tell him.

I hear a grumble from Karlie who sits lazily on the carpet. She rubs her protruding belly as she whines. "Another pipe leak?"

"Seems like it."

"Ugh," Karlie continues. "This is—what—like, the third time this month?"

Brad walks in from the bathroom just then. Moisture clings to his eyes and red frames them, as well as the tip of his nose. Has he been crying?

"What's going on?" Brad queries.

"Pipe leak," explains Ash curtly.

"Another one?"

"That's what I said!" pipes in Karlie.

"You guys should really look into finding a new place to live in," says Ash, sitting down on the couch.

"I've been telling Krissy but she doesn't seem to want to move." I shrug. "Maybe after I leave she'll find a smaller and cheaper unit to rent."

Karlie stands up with a huff. "If I could afford it I'd move. Alright, who wants to help me fill the buckets?"

"I will," Brad volunteers, and move to stand.

I stop him. "Uhm—actually," I say. "Ash, would you mind? I'd like to talk to Brad alone."

Ash looks to me then Brad, but he doesn't question it. "Alright then."

Karlie shrugs before dashing to jump on Ash's back, and he carries her out of the apartment. The last thing I hear is a—"Giddy up, Cowboy!"—followed by Karlie's lunatic giggling. Her loud bellows fade as they disappear down the hall to her apartment.

I watch Brad as he moves to sit next to me on my futon. "Brad," I say.

He faces me. "What's up?"

I am frozen. It's a rarity that I cannot find the words to say what is on my mind, but it happens whenever I am overwhelmed with emotion or just completely drained of energy. Seems tonight it is both. I begin to speak slowly, filtering my words carefully as to not say the wrong thing and hurt Brad's feelings, more than it already is anyway. "I… want to apologise. I didn't know Kris feels that way about everything. I mean—I thought…" I pause to breathe. "I just thought her feelings for you mean much more than her ill feelings toward me."

There. I hope I have not said anything I should not have.

Brad does not say anything for a moment, his expression thoughtful and, thankfully, not unkind. "It's not your fault, Denny."

I hate being called that. Doesn't he know? "Well, it feels like it is. So I'd just like to apologise."

"So you are just apologising because you feel guilty?"

His words aren't meant to sting me, yet it does. But I have to ignore it because I know he is truly hurting. "That's not what I meant, Brad. I'm only saying that I know what it feels like to be her punching bag, God knows I've been one for her my whole life."

Brad says nothing.

"But," I continue. "We both love her so much that we'd do anything to stay in her life. So just hold on. She gets angry and that means she'll spite you just like she spites everything that gets in her way but after that, she'll forgive."—I pull his hand into mine—"Because she is kinder than she lets anyone know and, even if it doesn't seem like it, she loves us too. You more than anyone in her life. She just… has a hard time showing it"

I don't wait for his reply before I walk to the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

___

Brad must have illuminated each nook and cranny of the bathroom with our emergency candles, creating a foreboding glow that casts shadows on the walls and ceiling. Crisp shadows appear on my face, formed by my angular cheekbones and sharp features.

I watch myself in the mirror on the wall. Water creates thin rivulets from my hairline down to the tip of my nose, which then eventually make their way to the tip of my chin, where it falls to the sink and the bathroom floor. I've been splashing handfuls of cold water on my face to wash away the anger that flushes up my neck to bloom my cheeks in a pinkish tint. But it doesn't seem to work. I have always disliked how easily anyone can read the emotions on my face. My father used to say it is as easy as reading a manual book that explains each component of a complicated machine. But each component is my features and the machine readings are each sentiment of my emotion.

I've always envied my sister and how easily she can forget. Sure, her temper often controls her judgment and every feeling she feels have to be an extremity—her anger is angrier, her sorrow more sorrowful, her excitement more excited—but, consequently, each emotion is drained to the last drop until she can no longer revisit them in the future.

Whereas, with me, I've always had a knack for remembering the faults that others have done to me. I keep them in jars to be tucked away on my shelf of emotions, to be later revisited when I feel like it. Thus why holding a grudge has always been something I am good at.

I don't want this to be the case. I hate it. In fact, I believe each time I am angered by something, my soul gets stained darker and darker until, perhaps someday, it will become stark black. Until I can no longer return from my own despondency.

"Aiden?" A knock on the bathroom door pulls me away from my pensiveness.

"Uh—yeah?" I respond after a transitory pause.

"I've… filled the kitchen bucket, do you want me to fill the one in the bathroom?" Brad inquires.

"N—no, that's okay. I'll do it. Thanks, Brad."

"No problem."

At first, I think he has walked away but, after a while, he finally speaks again. "Aiden… are you okay?

"I'm fine, Brad. I'll be out in a second."

"Aiden?"

"Yes, Brad?"

"I just wanted to let you know that…"—he pauses, then I hear a thump against the door like he has rested his forehead against it—"I don't blame you for what happened with us."

I'm surprised at where the conversation has led. The words are stuck in my throat. Before I could reply, Brad continues, "I know we haven't talked much about it. It's probably my fault for always avoiding the subject but I think I realise now how important it is to talk about it. I might have blamed you right after you broke up with me because I couldn't admit to myself that I might have done something wrong. But now, ever since I've lost all the romantic feelings towards you, I realise that we were both in the wrong."

"Brad—"

"No, let me finish." He thumps the door with a fist lightly. "I shouldn't have pushed you like I did. I know now that I was too young to understand. Even though I was already in college, I didn't think about you. I mean—you were only a senior in high school, for God's sake. That's still no excuse. I knew better than to push you to marry me. It was stupid and I'm sorry."