F is for Four

 

I live on the 4^th floor of my building. My floor is marked “F” because the number “4” is unlucky. I live in an indistinct building, tucked away behind a much more prominent apartment building, with four massive towers, providing a healthy amount of shade throughout the day.

There is a trail of red sauce that leads from the garbage pile out front, into the elevator, and up to the floor marked “F.” It  continues all the way down the slate-scale hallway with a flickering fluorescent light, snaking like the path of some giant red-onion slug.

I haven’t seen the person responsible for making the mess, or the one for cleaning it up. In fact, up until a few days ago, I hadn’t seen anyone at all. It was a little eerie at first, because Becca and I could hear them through the walls, but never caught the other tenants in passing. I joked that our apartment building was haunted. Becca’s been leaving the mirror face down since then.

The apartment is small and square, and constantly reeks of cigarette smoke coming from the walls. It’s cozy. When it gets too cozy, it’s time to throw open our single window with a view. The view is dominated by an unyielding brick wall. If you look straight down there’s an alleyway, and far enough to the left or right you’ll see the busy street. None of our wall-paper matches: One wall is dotted with peach-colored flowers, and the opposing wall with colorful polka dots.

To me, this is home. When the sun comes up over the foggy city-skyline and the chicken delivery runners rev up their motorcycles, that’s when my day starts. When the neon lights gleam on the faces of giant blocky buildings, and drunkards sing songs in the alleyway beneath my window, that’s when my day ends.

This apartment building may be haunted, and it might not. All I know is that when I close my eyes, when I sit in complete silence, this building speaks to me with its creaks and it’s drips and the resonance of a story unfolding all around.