He walked unsteadily, constantly putting his hand to the wall or whatever was close by to steady him. He was feeling the effects of the vodka, despite quickly acclimatising to the effects of the alcohol again.
It doesn’t take long to get on the slip slide Addy boy, not long at all. Just ride it downtown.
Relief flooded over him when he made it to the door, then the hall, then outside Apartment Six.
As he brought his hand up to knock agains tit, he noticed the door was ajar. Nothing unusual there, for the door constantly seemed to be ajar, yet something felt wrong.
You’re only noticing that now?
He stepped inside, the pain in the joints where the prosthetics connected to his legs was excruciating and he found himself absently rummaging in his pockets. His fingers tips brushed against something small.
Some god or other gifted me back what I’d lost. They do that. If you ask for it.
He took it out and looked at it. A small white tablet. He wasn’t sure if it was the painkillers or the other medication. He felt back in the pocket and found another two. There was no markings on them. No logo, no imprint. They could have been anything.
It didn’t matter what the hell they were. He took all three in his mouth and began to chew, relishing the sudden acerbic explosion and savouring it as long as he could before swallowing. They would either help or they wouldn’t. Nevertheless, it seemed he had asked, and they had been provided.
The small hall alcove, mirroring that of apartment one, had two doors. This he knew. He had been here more than once. Some obtuse framed European art hung on an otherwise naked wall. It displayed a saint on a white horse, holding a flaming sword aloft and leading an army into battle.
A saint, or a martyr, he thought, before deciding that there was very little difference between them.
She took the amber in her hand and held it to her eye, looking deep within, yet knowing not what it was she was searching for. Was it the amber?
Her sister spoke to her through it.
“Do not linger here,” said Violet. “If you wish it to be, the way up will be clear for you. This is but a brief respite on your journey but also a chance for you to take stock. I want to tell you a story of where the amber comes from.”
Ivy held the jar to her ear. It was warm and seemed to radiate not just heat, but comfort. Here was her sister, deep within, and she would be ready for whatever she was going to tell her. She loved a story. They both had. She had only the fleetest of moments to think on where her sister had heard such a fable, than the small voice from the jar began.
“There was a lonely woman, whose children had gone to war. The fought for a far off cause in a far off land, and they gave their lives willingly. The woman, when hearing the news borne on bereft messenger, was distraught. Her husband had refused to fight, and instead had become a beekeeper, as well as a tender of the most lavish garden in the land. The garden belonged to the minister of the land, who, it was said, was the cause of this far off conflict, having planted seeds in the heads of kings across two generations.
“Her husband did not mourn the loss of his sons, but instead tended the garden with renewed fervour, and cared for the bees more than he had cared for his children. There came a day when the minister died, and the garden was left to ruin, along with the house, for he in turn had no heirs of mistress to leave it to, and he was too much of a wicked man to give to the surrounding villagers.
He opened the door to the living room and found the air thick with large slow moving furry bodies. The floor was covered in dark shapes. Each one alive with more dull insects. The air was stale, sweet and foul. The curtains were drawn, the sunlight burning through the thin drapes. He tried not to gag but, as before, found it nearly impossible considering the alcohol that he had also consumed.
“Nevertheless, the woman’s husband tended to those bees, and the garden, and ignored the needs and wishes of his wife. Over time the garden grew out of his control and the bees became bloated and lazy, stinging the man every time he drew near them. This did not deter the man, and he brought home honey to his wife every time he could collect it, and it was all she drank. All she consumed.
“After many years, a great sadness took her, and she remembered the sons who died in the war. She sold her belongings and bought cattle. One for each of her children, and she took them inside her home, and she dressed them in the clothes of her boys.
“When the man returned home one day, he was bereft. The garden had become so out of his control, that it had destroyed the bees home, the ivy suffocating the nests and hives. His wife comforted him, and asked him next time he should travel there, upon returning, he should then bring the remaining bees with him. He did as he was bid, and together they showed the bees their new children, and the bees took to them. When their children passed on to the world that lay beyond, the bees took their shells as a new home.
“Hello?”
He moved tentatively towards the dark shapes in the centre of the room, trying not to - yet simultaneously needing to - touch anything. If he didn’t steady himself, he would fall.
The painkillers, if that’s what they were, seemed to be working, and his legs hurt less already. He wondered if that could be more because of what else he was becoming pre-occupied with.
A flashback of…something. Searching with his eyes. Yes. Three of the large dark shapes had rope attached. Loose now and cut, yet matching similar lengths that hung from hooks from the ceiling. He saw the far wall, his adjoining wall. It was buckled and shattered, the plasterboard violently pushed in in multiple places. Whatever had taken place here
you KNOW what has taken place here
was now over. It would not occur again. There would be no more noises from in here. He inhaled the dead air. This place was a tomb.
Hair. Black and flowing, from one of the shapes. This one didn’t have rope attached and had more furry bodies over it than the others. Millions of tiny bodies and millions of small holes. He drew nearer, despite himself.
“The man and woman, now very old, spent the rest of their days consuming the honey that the bees produced inside their new children, until the lonely woman - no longer lonely with her husband and children next to her - died in great happiness.
“The man showed the bees his wife, who had also now gone beyond, and they took to her. He consumed what he gave them long after his sight failed and his legs no longer did as they were bid.
“Some say he lives on, in permanent rapture, and gives his honey to whom needs it most.
“He has given it to you.
“Drink it.”
Ivy did as she was bid. It was warm and ignited a fire within her.
She opened her eyes for the first time. Upon returning to the landing the way up was open to her.
She continued to climb.
Some of the insects moved away long enough.
Adam gagged.
He had only seen her briefly, and more from a distance, yet this was his neighbour. The remains of his neighbour.
Where was -
“Hello Mister Adam Campion,” the voice intoned from the darkest corner of the room. “You should not be in here.”
“Denys? Is that you?” He knew it was, but genuinely didn’t know what else he was meant to say by way of greeting. There was an outline in front of the curtains. Seated on a chair. A figure. He saw nothing more.
“You should not be in here. They were in here. I did not offer them anything. They were too late.”
“What happened?”
“It’s not your turn yet. You need to finish.” The figure seemed to sag into the chair, becoming less defined, more amorphous.
“Finish what?”
There was a deep sighing sound. “You know. You go back home. You finish. I come for you. I help. But not yet. Still I must stay. I find it hard. Is difficult to move. I not ready.”
“Do you have a telephone I can use? I need to contact the police.” Adam tried to just focus on the silhouette now, not wanting to take in anything else. He had his fill.
A barking noise that could have been a laugh, a cough or anything in-between.
“No phones. All lines are dead. They all go to the ocean.”
“Right.” Adam tried to think of what that could mean, of what else to say. He stood there momentarily and then began to back out of the room. As he did so, one of the lazy insects landed on the back of his hand, and now for the first time, he saw the dull yellow stripes across it’s bloated body. It thrust it’s rear end into his skin, yet was devoid of anything with which to sting him. He continued to watch as it slowly began to ground it’s abdomen into his flesh, fluid bursting out from it until it was nothing but a few twitching legs and a head that looked slowly from side to side, feelers moving up and down. Then it stopped completely. With disgust he flicked it from his skin, and it was swallowed by the dark.
“I see you, soon,” his neighbour coughed, as Adam reached the small hallway.
He was back at his apartment in a few moments and seated at his desk. Another glass of vodka and honey - despite the fact that knowing the source of it and how it should have deterred him - and resuming his reading of the manuscript. As he did so, his right hand began to sketch, and time ceased to have the same meaning. It became something else, and it all melted away.
It was once again just him, and the staircase.
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