Precious [ F, city, introspection, angel ]

(c) July 1998

By Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

The cool brick felt rough beneath her feet, her bare toes
unconsciously gripping the solidity of the stone. She glanced down at
the lights so far below which looked like streaks of red and white,
like a time-lapse of a city. Another tear traced down her cheek,
blurring her vision.

***

It had begun like any normal day.

The alarm shrilled out its ear-splitting buzz at 6:30 AM. Sleepily,
her fingers touched the snooze bar.

Five minutes later, James shoved her, and she woke up again,
murmuring to be left alone. James shoved her again, and she sleepily
swung her legs out of the bed, her bare feet recoiling from the cold
floor.

She hissed urgently, "Can't we get any damn heat in here?"

She tried to settle her soles back to the parquet. Her toes
reflexively jumped until she adjusted to the sharp contrast between
the floor and her comfortably warm sheets.

James spoke uncharacteristically gently, "I'll talk to the super. You
have to get up, now." He wouldn't talk to the superintendent, but
most of the time he wouldn't even bother to lie to her.

She held her head in her hands. She had to get up every damn day. And
she didn't want to. James rolled over, away from her. The snooze
timed out and the alarm buzzed again, shattering the silence of the
room. She instinctively reached out and switched off the alarm. James
cursed softly towards the window. She couldn't quite make out his
words, but it was something about her inability to turn off simple
machines. She blinked and struggled to her feet, stumbling to the
bathroom across the hallway.

The shower helped wake her, but she was still tired as she brushed
out her long blonde hair. Her hair dripped slowly onto her bare
shoulders and down her back as she made her way down the short
hallway into the small kitchen.

She quietly ate cold cereal with a glass of juice, and read the
cereal box. She was certain, without looking, that the neighbours had
stolen her newspaper again. No point to even looking. She could hear
the dripping of a tap somewhere, but she was reasonably sure it
wasn't in her apartment. She at least tried to keep the place
maintained. A scream echoed down the hallway outside the main
doorway, but she knew better than to investigate it. She lifted the
spoon to her lips slowly, her eyes scanning the happy honeybee on the
box and the list of vitamins that she was ingesting. She idly wished
that the vitamins could make her as happy as the bee.

She finished her meagre breakfast, and dumped the bowl and spoon in
the sink. James might wash it for her, but she wouldn't hold her
breath. She padded back down to the bedroom. James was asleep again
under the covers.

She dropped the towels from around her and moved efficiently around
the room and tiny closet, searching for and finding some clean
underwear and one of two dresses that she owned. She chose the bright
blue dress for today, pulling it effortlessly over her head to settle
around her form.

She licked her lips. There was a time when James would have watched
her dress. And she would have enjoyed it. Now, she was simply glad
that he was asleep. She didn't feel like fighting with him to find a
job, didn't feel like doing anything, actually. Even if he were awake
and watching her, he wouldn't be interested in going any further than
quietly watching her. Six months ago, he would have, but not now.

She straightened her blue dress in front of the mirror. She wasn't
*that* unattractive, she surmised. Yet they hadn't made love in two
... no ... three months. She had tried at first, and then given up
trying. They slept together, but they didn't. She wasn't even sure
who James was anymore.

She walked out of the room without a second glance, her stockings
whispering across the floorboards. She picked up her purse, and
clutching it protectively against her hip, she carefully locked up
her apartment. She avoided any contact on her way to the elevators.
She hadn't heard another scream, but that might not be a good thing.

***

The subway ride downtown was terrible, with disgustingly scruffy, and
downright dangerous people. She stood, hand raised, swaying with the
subway car, trying not to breathe. An obvious transvestite smiled at
her, and he ... she ... it was probably the most pleasant person on
the car this morning. The smell of liquor and a faint trace of urine
invaded her senses. She cringed as the bustle went on around her. A
petite girl, perhaps twenty-five, entered the train and looked
around. She appeared frightened, unsure of herself, beaten. The small
girl reminded her of what she probably looked like. The girl stopped
a few metres away, joined the crowd, and stared at nothing as the
train moved off.

***

The nametag on her cube matched everyone else's, except for the name
on it: 'Janice MacDonald'. She wasn't even sure who she was anymore.
All she knew was that the name on her cube told her that she, indeed,
was a girl named Janice. She barely remembered Janice.

Janice was a schoolgirl, in a bright yellow dress, playing with her
parents in a park. Janice was a college student, discovering life,
dreaming of marrying the perfect man, having fun. It had only taken
three years, and one dingy cube to break those dreams. Janice was no
longer the woman entering Janice's cube.

She sat down and stared at the screen in front of her. Meaningless,
green letters stared back at her. She sighed, and began to type.

***

The announcement had come at 4:35 PM, twenty-five minutes before she
could go home to a listless dinner, television, avoiding James, and
then blissful sleep. She looked forward to the sleep.

She had never been paged before, and was barely aware that the office
even had a paging facility. She listened, distanced, for her name
again.

"Janice MacDonald to Mr. Simpson's office, please." It crackled
through the office like a beacon.

She slowly rose to her feet and walked toward the vice-president's
office. She didn't even know what the man did, might not even
recognise him in the hallways of this labyrinth. She didn't even know
the man's given name. But Mr. Simpson was a vice-president, that she
knew. In this office, VP's carried some weight.

As she was preparing to knock at the oak door, emblazoned with the
tag 'Frederick Simpson - Vice President Operations', a female voice
floated up from a desk beside the office.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked. She had a blank expression on her
face, and it almost seemed like she was asking by habit, rather than
any desire to be of assistance.

Janice nodded and spoke quietly. "I'm Janice MacDonald," she wasn't
sure of that. "I was paged for Mr. Simpson."

"Ah. Yes." The woman's face became more sympathetic. Almost as though
she knew what the page was about. "You may go right in."

Janice turned the knob and let herself into a cool, dark, deserted
office that smelled vaguely of cigars. She swallowed heavily and
turned to retreat, sure she had the wrong office.

A silhouette moved by the shadow that was the desk.

"Miss MacDonald?" a husky male voice beckoned her.

She turned frightened, as a rabbit might when in the presence of a
wolf.

"Mr. Simpson? Why is it dark in here? I ... I thought ..."

She thought she saw him move a hand and the lights came on blinding
her. She blinked furiously and stood by the doorway. The heavy door
closed on its own with a quiet snick.

"I like to think in the dark," he spoke quietly. His voice carried an
air of authority. He was a rugged, large man. Janice could tell even
though he was sitting behind the massive desk. She felt awkward
standing, feeling small and unimportant.

"You paged me?" she asked, uncertain.

"I did."

She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, waiting for him to
elaborate. He seemed content to watch her squirm.

Finally, she ventured hesitantly, "May ... may I sit down?"

He licked his lips and spoke again.

"I don't think that will be necessary. It will only take a moment."
He paused. "Miss MacDonald, it has come to my attention that you have
been constantly late, and your performance has been poor."

She shuddered. She had never been late, and she certainly hadn't been
doing any less data entry than over the last three years of her
employment. If anything, her typing skills had improved,
involuntarily, and she was typing faster than before.

"I ... I don't understand," she stammered.

He leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

"You work proficiency has dropped 25% over the last month," he
smiled.

She shivered at his smile.

"That ... that can't be."

"I have figures," he waved non-committally at his desk where there
was a jumble of papers. She couldn't make out what the papers on his
desk were. They could have been stock quotes for all she knew. She
swallowed heavily, uncertain where to go from here.

He smiled again at her. "Janice, may I call you Janice?" She nodded
apprehensively. "This is a delicate matter, Janice. By rights, I
should fire you."

"Oh God," she mumbled, her heart beginning to hammer in her chest.
She could not believe that her work had dropped this much. She was
certain that it hadn't. Even with the problems with James, and her
depression. Her work had not suffered. She was certain. She couldn't
afford to lose her job.

"But there are some options ..." his voice trailed off.

She swallowed heavily. Suddenly the room was far too small and cold.
She could feel her nipples tightening involuntarily. She didn't even
want to know what the options were. She could tell by his easy smile.

He took a deep breath. For the first time, he looked a little
nervous.

"You could do something for me, and I might not have to act on your
work problems, if you can guarantee that I don't see this again."

She found her voice, which had hidden somewhere deep in her throat.
"What do I have to do?" she asked dully.

He seemed to consider, though she was quite sure he long ago knew
what he would ask of her.

He slowly stood. Her eyes became large and round as she took in his
hard and erect penis jutting out from his open zipper. It looked
obscene to her. She closed her eyes and moaned.

Suddenly, his breath was hot in her ear.

"You might show your gratitude for my looking the other way."

His fingers touched her shoulder, toying with the strap of her dress.
She shuddered at the touch and looked up at him, pleading with her
eyes. He was taller than she, and his physical size was threatening
and overpowering. She cringed back.

"You want to take it off?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head negatively, trembling.

"If you'd prefer, we can fire you ... your decision."

He began to tuck himself back into his zipper.

She shook her head again, couldn't believe this was happening. Not to
her. Not to Janice of the bright yellow dress in the park. Not to
Janice the college dreamer. It wouldn't happen to any of them. But it
was happening to her.

He smiled and let himself fall free of his pants again.

"That's a good girl," he spoke huskily as he moved towards her again.
He slipped his finger inside the strap and pulled it towards her
shoulder. She let it fall with a shudder. Her left side, then her
right. With a sense of the surreal, she noticed that he was being
gentle with her as he eased the blue cloth down her body. Her mind
was whirling, almost watching as though she was outside of herself.
She felt her hand being guided to the hardness, she could feel his
hands touching her. He was touching her as only a few men, by her
choice, had touched. Her breasts. Her bottom. Tracing her thighs. She
shivered. His hypnotic voice maintained a slow cadence, focusing her
on her job, her performance. She had to pay the rent, she had to
support James, she couldn't lose this job.

A dull ache in her nipple brought her back to reality. His fingers
had coaxed her unwilling left nipple to rigidity, and he had bitten
her through her thin bra. She yelped and backed away.

"You want Daddy to spank you?" he asked, fingering his belt.

Her mind exploded. He couldn't do this to her. She could see the
material of her dress, a flash of blue against his green carpet. Her
mind was filled with a picture of her bent over his massive desk,
naked and exposed, waiting for him. For his belt, or his penis, she
couldn't tell. She felt her exposure like a living thing, could feel
a tear fall gently down her cheek. Her crying only appeared to
inflame the big man, and he reached for her again.

She took a huge breath, and slapped away his hand. He recoiled as if
he'd been bitten by a cobra. She was seething. She took advantage of
his indecision, and not caring what the outside world thought of her,
she grabbed her cotton blue dress from the floor, pushed at him as
she passed, and walked out to the incredulous look of the bored
receptionist. She gathered the material as best she could around
herself and made it to the ladies room before gushing. She felt
nauseated, and repulsed. She hated herself for letting it go on as
long as it had. She could feel his hands on her breasts, between her
legs. She entered a stall, and sat down, letting herself shake and
sob, not bothering to close the flimsy door.

At last, she gathered up her dress from the tile at her feet, and
slipped it over her head. Wiping at the tears, she slowly let herself
out of the stall. She washed her face, trying desperately to scrub
the crawling sensations from her skin.

***

He was waiting across from the ladies room, with his secretary, or
whoever she was. Janice shivered and prepared to scream. She turned
away from him, trying to remain calm and walk back to her cube. The
other woman's presence helped a little.

"Miss MacDonald?" She apparently was no longer 'Janice'.

She turned, fright written over her face. It was after hours by now,
and she didn't really know the other woman. She blushed as her eyes
glued to his hands. Those hands that had touched her so intimately.

He held out a small envelope. She crept forward and took it from his
unresisting fingers like a mouse trying to get the cheese without
springing the trap. The paper inside was pink. Her heart was
hammering in her chest, even though she had known that it would be
the price of her running out of his office.

She swallowed heavily, fighting back her tears. "I ... I'll clean out
my office."

"Miss MacDonald, given the circumstances, we will send the personal
items from your office. Ms. Robertson will escort you from the
building."

Without a second look at her, he turned on his heel. At the mention
of her name, the other woman stepped forward guiding Janice to the
elevator silently. It took forever for the lift to arrive. Janice
willed the tears back while fingering the pink slip of paper.

She was ushered into the elevator, and Ms. Robertson entered with
her. The doors rattled shut with a sense of finality.

"I wasn't supposed to come in here with you," Ms. Robertson spoke
quietly. "Are you all right?"

Janice burst into tears again at the kind words. She felt the other
woman brushing at her hair, straightening it.

"I know what he does, if you need a witness," the other woman
whispered. "It'll be my job too, but you are the first one to walk
out of there. I ... I envy you. I wish I had."

The doors rattled open. Janice felt a firm hand guiding her from the
building and pressing a small piece of cardboard into her trembling
fingers. She stood silently outside as the late afternoon sun hit her
face.  The business card in her palm felt like it was on fire.

"Good luck," the woman said to her as she locked the door with a
decisive click.

***

It was dark before Janice realised that she was walking aimlessly in
the park across from the insurance company where she had once worked.
The small pink piece of paper remained clutched in her hand. She
looked up at the building, the fluorescent lights in the windows a
beacon to her. She settled into a park bench, and tried to think.

People passing by on evening strolls gave her strange looks, like she
was a homeless person. She supposed that she nearly was.

At last, she rose to her feet. Her feet ached, and she wanted to take
her shoes off, but she didn't dare to downtown. She was hungry, and
tired, and wanted to go home. Maybe James had actually done something
today. Maybe he made her dinner for once. Or maybe, he'd found a job.
She sighed. As long as she was dreaming, maybe she'd win the lottery.
The tears renewed as she walked slowly towards the subway.

***

The subways were still busy, even at 9:30 at night. She shuddered as
she found a niche between a drunken bum, and a woman blessing the
windows. Janice grasped the handrail above her head as though her
life depended upon it.

Halfway across the city, a pregnant woman stepped onto the car. She
was carrying five shopping bags, all filled with old baby toys. She
was glowing, an aura in the dinginess of the subway. She stood across
the aisle from Janice, one hand on her distended tummy, her other
gripping the ceiling rail. She swayed awkwardly, but smiled anyway.
Janice guessed her to be perhaps eight months along.

If I had a seat, if I'd ever had a seat, Janice thought to herself,
I'd offer it to the woman. But the busy city ignored the two of them,
bouncing them along the tracks, the squealing of the brakes hurting
their ears. Neither the slack-jawed teen, nor the overweight woman
wearing what looked like a muumuu, did anything but sit in front of
the pregnant woman, and stare at her like she was from another
planet. Perhaps they'd never seen a happy person before. Janice felt
like telling both of them off. She didn't, knowing it was a lost
cause.

The woman smiled at her, and Janice felt her heart lift a tiniest
bit. Janice tried to smile back, but failed. Instead, she looked
away, feeling guilty as she did.

It was at a subway stop, called out as Bloor, that Janice was thrown
to the floor. A burly man, determined to beat the rush to the doors,
barrelled through her as though she were made of pixie dust. Janice
hit the subway floor with a cry of pain, her ankle folding beneath
her. She began to cry as sharp bursts of agony flowed up her shin and
into her knee. She fought for control, nobody cried on the subway,
not like a little girl fallen off her bicycle.

A soft touch to her face opened her eyes from a pain filled scrunch.
A gentle glowing face hovered above her.

"Are you all right?" the pregnant woman asked.

Janice moved her foot. Pain, but not broken. She numbly nodded. The
tractor that had bowled her over was long gone, not caring who he ran
over as long as he stepped out at the right station.

"You've been down there a while, and nobody else was helping," the
pregnant woman spoke, quickly. "It took me a moment to get over here.
Are you okay? I can press the emergency bar, if you want."

Janice gritted her teeth. Given a few minutes, she'd be fine.

"Thank-you. I'll be up and dancing in a few minutes."

The woman knelt down beside Janice on the floor of the train. Her
fingers lightly brushed Janice's hair.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Ankle," Janice gritted her teeth again.

"There's more wrong than that," the woman spoke slowly. "Can you
walk?"

"Soon, just let me lie here for a moment."

"Floor's dirty," the woman smiled ruefully.

"Don't I know it. I don't even want to think about what I'm lying
in."

"What's wrong?" the woman repeated her question after a moment.

"My life is a mess, my boss molested me and then fired me this
afternoon, and my boyfriend is a jerk, and now my ankle hurts,"
Janice snapped. She didn't even know why she was telling this
stranger about her life.

The pregnant woman spoke sympathetically, ignoring the tone of
Janice's voice, "Sounds like a rough day."

"I'm sorry," Janice turned to better face the woman. "I didn't mean
to snap at you. You're only being kind to me."

"It's all right. Nobody else around to help, I guess," she looked
around at the legs like tree trunks throughout the crowded car.

Janice laughed a little. "I'm actually grateful."

She heard her stop called, and pressed against the floor. She was
still a little winded, but was able to get to her hands and knees.

A hand reached down and touched her shoulder. Gratefully, Janice
grasped it and with a grunt, pulled herself to her feet. Her ankle
throbbed. She looked into the hazel eyes of the pregnant woman who
had helped her. Suddenly ashamed, Janice mumbled a quick thank-you,
and limped towards the doorway. The hulk hadn't had this much trouble
getting to his stop, she thought bitterly.

"Janice?"

She turned, wondering how the woman knew her name. It didn't matter.
Not really.

"Don't do anything stupid. It's too precious," the woman spoke
softly, brushing her brunette hair out of her face with her fingers.

Janice felt a soft brush of the woman's lips across her cheek, even
though metres separated them. The train seemed like it had stopped,
and yet was moving. Sound crashed back into her ears as the doors
opened and movement resumed. When she glanced through the subway
window to wave to the woman, she was gone, swallowed by the city.
Janice limped towards the exit.

***

She called out James' name as she entered the dark apartment. He
didn't answer.

Drunk and passed out again, most likely, she thought bitterly as she
kicked off her shoes. She sighed as her feet touched the warm
parquet. She was hungry and tired. It would have been nice if just
once, he'd made dinner for her. She was tempted to send out for
Chinese, but she no longer was gainfully employed. If they wanted to
even stay in this dingy apartment much longer, he'd have to get a
job, or more likely, she would.

She poked her head into the bedroom, expecting to see him asleep
under the covers, not even concerned about her late appearance.
Except he wasn't there. She wandered through the empty apartment,
searching for him. He never left the apartment. No sign of him in the
kitchen or the living room. Even the ever-present television was
silent.

Goddamn. He was out. Probably spending her money, which at first she
hadn't minded sharing with him.

She sighed, and reached under her dress. She pulled off the
pantyhose, noticing a run up high on the thigh. She carelessly tossed
the ugly things behind the sofa. Next job, if there were one, would
not involve her wearing pantyhose. She walked barefoot to the liquor
cabinet, and opened it with a sharp pull.

She had trouble recognising what was missing. Everything but a full
bottle of Jack Daniel's was gone. She hadn't been in the cabinet for
months, but it seemed unlikely that even James could have drank that
much. She grabbed the remaining bottle and walked quickly to the
kitchen, shaking her head. Her bare feet pattered over the parquet,
making a pretty sound. Her ankle still throbbed a little from her
fall, but at least it wasn't swelling, yet.

She grimaced as she picked up a grimy shot glass from the cabinet.
She wiped the rim on a dishtowel, satisfied that she wasn't going to
be poisoned.

She glanced furtively up at the top shelf. A cookie jar with
mushrooms emblazoned on it sat high up there. She knew the jar
intimately; it had belonged to her grandmother. Suddenly a fear
gripped her stomach. She didn't want to, but she reached up, pulling
the jar down, sinkingly certain of its contents from the weight. She
lifted the top, knowing. It was empty.

Tears slipped slowly down her face. A perfect day. Molested, fired,
her ankle nearly broken, her liquor gone, and now her savings. She
felt a knot form in her stomach, and she sobbed. The money she'd
ferreted away, ironically for his birthday, and it was gone. She'd
given up so much to save it. Instinctively, she knew he was gone.
Taken her money and disappeared. She wouldn't miss him, but she'd
miss the regularity, the security of having someone. What else could
there be?

Still crying, she opened the bottle of Jack, leaving the cookie jar
askew on the counter. It didn't matter any more. She poured herself a
shot, downing it in one quick gulp.

She coughed, almost losing the vile liquid. She forced herself to
swallow. It was almost as bad as the one time she'd swallowed for
James. Jack and James, the two worst tastes in her mouth, ever. At
least this time it was for her.

She gagged and stumbled out to the living room. She fell back into
the sofa, sinking into its depths. She put another shot to her lips,
crying out as it burned down her throat. The second one was easier
than the first one.

She settled back, feeling Simpson's hands on her. She shuddered, and
quickly downed another. The alcohol began to fuzz her brain, and she
felt good for the first time today. She heard a small whisper deep
inside her head, telling her that this was how alcoholics began. She
ignored the voice and it shut up.

She reached forward and grabbed the remote control from the small
coffee table. She switched on the television, which blared to life.
James had been listening to it at high volume. As usual. He wasn't
deaf, but suddenly she wished he were. She rapidly thumbed the volume
down, wincing at the old episode of M*A*S*H that was playing. Hawkeye
was making some crack about the Korean War.

Hawkeye was missing an eye. She leaned forward, squinting. Her vision
was already blurry. She never drank. And never hard stuff like Jack.

She slipped off the couch and crawled across the floor, feeling the
unyielding presence of the parquet beneath her knees. A post-it note
was stuck to the middle of the television, blinding Hawkeye. James'
handwriting. In the flickering light of the television, she tried to
focus.

"Not working out. Bored. Sorry. James."

That bastard. She sat looking at the note for a long time, her legs
curled under herself. So he was gone. Forever. Shit. It wasn't
working out for him? What about her? She'd put up with *him* for the
last six months. She'd had to satisfy herself for the last three,
quietly in the shower or in the bathroom, afraid of disturbing him,
and even before that, he wasn't any Valentino. Half the time she'd
had to finish herself anyway. Shit.

She didn't know whether to be angry or sad. He was gone, and she
wasn't. She'd miss him, despite his faults. She balled the paper up
in her small fist and tossed it over the sofa to join her pantyhose.

She flicked the television off manually, and crawled back to the
coffee table. Six shots, one after the other, each easier than the
last. She was still gagging on them, but they definitely tasted
better than James. Rat versus poison. Hell of a choice.

Dizzy, she rose to her feet. The room spun around her, and she nearly
fell. She couldn't think, and yet she could think too well. The
touches of Simpson flowed through her mind like a bad dream. Simpson
morphed with James, and back into Simpson. Alcohol couldn't compete.
She could still feel his disgusting fingers crawling across her skin.

She closed her eyes and swayed, discovering that the room spun even
worse with closed eyes. She stumbled over to the stereo. She hit
three buttons before the amplifier came to life, flooding her with
sound. Collective Soul surrounded her and she moved without thought
to the bass beat thrumming from the speakers. The neighbours might
start banging on the wall, but for the first time, she didn't care.

She swallowed heavily and glanced at the half full bottle of Jack
still sitting on the table. Alcohol poisoning might be a good way to
go. Not brave, but there was nobody who cared about her. She could at
least go by her own choice, and reasonably unaware.

It didn't seem quite right to her. As Collective Soul flooded her
senses, she felt a deep need to remove the stink of Simpson from her.
She practically ripped the blue dress from her, throwing it behind
the sofa with a fluttering of cloth. But he'd barely touched the
dress. She ripped the bra and panties from her body. They joined the
rest of her clothing, cowering behind the small sofa. For a moment,
his touches were gone, tossed aside with her clothes. She sighed, and
began to move again to the music, hugging herself and feeling the
driving beat.

As she danced, she noticed the curtains left open. She vaguely
thought that it was unusual. She was a private person. Never would
she dance naked, and certainly not in front of an uncovered window.
In this neighbourhood, telescopes weren't for astronomy. She always
ensured the blinds were down before getting ready for her shower or
for bed. But she kept dancing, the music arousing her senses, letting
her forget.

She slowly moved around the room, her bare feet moving her,
expressing her, being her. At last, the compact disc ended, the
silence descending upon her, the last haunting notes of "The World I
Know" echoing through her numbed mind. She looked up at the dark
ceiling, and felt the tears begin again. She hated crying. With the
silence, she stretched out her arms and let the tears fall down her
face. Slowly, she sank to her knees and let her forehead press into
the hard unyielding floor. She sobbed uncontrollably for a time; her
cries falling from a kneeling nude woman with nothing to live for.
She could see herself, as though she stood outside herself.

Slowly she rose, not quite understanding what she was doing. She
padded to the door. Turning, she examined herself in the hall mirror.
The face staring back at her looked beaten and broken. Her make up
was long gone with her tears, but her body was still that of a
twenty-five-year-old. Breasts still high and firm, her figure was
nothing to be ashamed of. And she wasn't ashamed of her body. It was
her face that was older. She couldn't remember when her face had
fallen into old age. She swallowed and turned the doorknob.

A kindly looking coloured lady ushered her two small children back
into an apartment. They'd been playing quietly in the hallway,
probably more room there. At the appearance of the naked white girl,
the children's eyes had gone as wide as saucers and had watched her
as they were hurried inside. The apartment door closed with a
finality, as though on a tomb.

Janice looked back at her apartment one last time, half considering
that she needed another shot of Jack. Taking a deep breath, and
gathering her internal courage, she walked towards the elevators. She
wasn't even aware of her nudity.

She watched the small upward pointing triangle light up, as it was
pressed gently by her left index finger. She could hear the elevator
awaken somewhere below her. It was an odd feeling. She could sense
the very vibration of the elevator through the floor and the soles of
her bare feet. Her head swam, and she stumbled back until she leaned
against the dirty mirrors surrounding the elevator enclave. She could
see herself, nude, reflected infinitely in the opposing mirrors. She
was studying the effect when the doors of the elevator rattled open
with a dull thud.

Without hesitation, she stepped into the small room, but felt for the
first time claustrophobic. The door rattled shut behind her. She
studied her face in the mirror of the elevator, trying to ignore the
closed in feeling. Her face was drawn, and tired. She couldn't
remember the last time she had felt rested. And where had those lines
come from? At least there wasn't millions of her any longer,
reflected by light bounced into infinity.

She turned and jabbed at the highest button on the panel. The lift
responded mindlessly and carried the nude girl up. She was watching
as the numbers increased, skipping thirteen. Didn't the people on
fourteen realise that they were truly on the thirteenth floor? She
smiled humourlessly. Even elevators lie.

The doors rattled open for her, and she stepped out unsteadily. The
hallway was darker, but better carpeted than her own. She could feel
the softer fibres beneath her feet. The elevator doors closed, and
she turned, half expecting her hand to press the down button of its
own volition. Her hand remained resolutely at her side.

With a sense of purpose, she strode down the hallway, wondering if
anyone was peering out at her from behind the closed doors. The doors
on this level had peepholes, unlike the lower floors. Her bare feet
felt strange against the carpet. She felt a tingling through them,
almost a sense of nervousness, a sense of events beyond her control.

She pulled open the firedoor at the end of the hallway and stepped
out onto the cool concrete of the fire stairs. Her raspy breathing
echoed through the stairwell, as though she'd invaded a museum. The
stairway morphed briefly into the subway; it smelled damp, and dark,
and vaguely of mildew.

The short flight of steps extended up in front of her. They reminded
her of the wooden path to the gallows in all the western movies that
she used to watch on Sunday afternoons in college. Willing herself
forward, she walked slowly up towards the closed green door.

"No Admittance." The door spoke to her.

She swallowed heavily and reached for the knob, ignoring the harsh
voice of the door. Like everything else in this damn building, the
lock was long since broken. Probably some overactive teenagers,
drinking on the roof, had broken it long ago. The door looked like it
was never used any longer, even by the teenagers.

She pulled open the door.

A warm blast of summer air buffeted her bare skin as she stepped
through the opening. The door slammed shut behind her. Anyone on the
staircase would have been deafened by the echoes. But she had been
alone on the stairs. Nobody used the stairs. Not in this building. It
wasn't a smart thing to do.

She knelt down on the gravel of the roof, feeling the uneven stones
pressing painfully into her knees. Her head was still swimming. She
spoke to her God, praying silently for a few minutes, desperately
wanting forgiveness. Getting no answer, she rose staring at the
lights of the city around her.

She walked carefully to the low brick wall that surrounded the top of
the building. Her ankle still throbbed gently, and she winced as the
gravel thundered into the bottom of her feet.

***

So I walked up on high And I step to the edge To see my world below.
And I laugh at myself As the tears roll down. 'Cause it's the world I
know. It's the world I know.

***

She easily leaned for some time against the top of the wall, her
tears falling freely. She smelled the air, it was somehow cleaner up
here beyond the smog and bustle of the streets below. The wind and
her soft crying were the only sounds reaching up this high. She
cherished the rough warmth of the bricks against her palms and her
tummy, as she leaned over the edge looking down. The people scurried
back and forth like insects. The cars, looking like toys, flowed like
rivers across the streets, the headlights blurred in her vision. The
world below.

She thought back, still feeling Simpson's hands and teeth on her
breasts. She touched her nipples, one after the other. These nipples.
Her nipples. She shivered, feeling alone and lost. The alcohol was
beginning to work its way through her system. She felt light-headed,
but she was thinking clearly, at least she thought she was. She knew
she couldn't reach the world below. Not and survive.

With a sigh, she straightened. She looked up to the heavens, again
praying quietly for forgiveness. She felt a sense of calm as she
extended her arms towards the sky as if in supplication. She stepped
up.

The cool brick felt rough beneath her feet, her bare toes
unconsciously gripping the solidity of the stone. She glanced down at
the lights so far below, which looked like streaks of red and white,
like a time-lapse of a city. Another tear traced down her cheek,
blurring her vision.

***

She couldn't hear the sirens, but the flashing of lights so far below
was visible. The flashing lights added to the streaking of her
time-lapse. She was vaguely aware of a human presence behind her, for
some reason afraid to come closer. She could hear a deep, comforting
male voice, somewhere close, but she couldn't understand. She didn't
want to. She wanted to be alone.

Her fingers reached for the stars as she stood there. The wind felt
cool and comforting against her bare skin as she swayed gently. Her
lips were slightly parted; she could taste the saltiness of her own
tears.

She didn't even know the woman's name from the subway, but her face
came clearly and unbidden - unnatural clarity even through the
blurriness of Janice's tears. The woman's gentle and kind smile
comforted - giving her a sense unlike any she had received since she
was the yellow dressed little girl in a park distanced by time. The
woman's face was a shining lighthouse in a sea of darkness. Janice's
numb mind reeled. It didn't matter. One life for another. She would
be replaced; the woman's child perhaps named Janice. The clear and
glowing expectant mother's face fell, looking abruptly away. It
didn't need to be this way.

"Don't do anything stupid. It's too precious," the woman spoke
softly, her voice echoing through memory. She brushed her brunette
hair gently from her face with her fingers.

Janice could still feel James' absence, and Simpson's hands crawling
like eels over her skin. She cringed inwardly. She still had the
business card; she'd tossed it on the coffee table as she'd entered
her empty apartment. It was there beside the half-empty bottle of
Jack. She never had loved James. Her head felt like a heavy weight on
her neck. The world spun for her as she turned slowly on the wall,
her bare toes carefully searching for safe purchase.

Janice closed her eyes, her tears spilling faster, wracking her bare
body with sobs. Slowly, she turned one last time, facing the men in
heavy firefighter's uniforms, watching her. One was trying to talk to
her, but she couldn't hear through the rushing of her blood in her
ears. All she had to do was lean back. Just - one - small - bit. She
didn't even have to look down.

She hiccuped, and began to lower herself carefully to the solidity of
the brick beneath her.

She whispered, "Thank-you, whoever you are." But she knew who the
pregnant woman was - her guardian angel - a guiding light in her
darkness.

The clear image of the pregnant woman smiled her glowing radiance and
slowly faded. All that was left was a dingy rooftop, smeared with
splashes of yellow uniforms.

As she sat down, feeling the rough brick beneath her bare bottom, she
took a deep breath. Her feet didn't quite make it to the harsh
gravel, though she could feel the heat emanating from the stones as
she idly swung her legs, hands clasped in her lap. A blanket was
thrown over her shoulders by an anonymous saviour.

Clutching her meagre covering, she bent her head and cried.

After a while, Janice looked up, trying to clear the tears obscuring
her vision. The anonymous man in yellow was talking to her gently,
his voice soothing but still too soft to be heard over the roar of
her blood.

"I ... have to make a phone call," Janice whispered to her saviour.
She lowered her head and pulled the blanket around her again tightly.

Across the city, a glowing woman touched her swollen tummy, felt the
initial light pressures of the first contractions, took a deep breath
of relief, and smiled.

