Room 406

Written by Jasmine Gabriel Winoto

illustrated by Yulia Saraswati

Here’s to you who wishes to be free from your past. 

Fate has never been on my side. 

My muddled mind finds clarity as the sound of the engine lulls me back to the streets, where I can finally feel in control. I haven’t used the brakes for the last twelve hours since I left my parents’ house; I didn’t have to. Except now, I pull up just by the side of the road, near the fields that stretch out towards the horizon with the rising sun peeking shyly. There is no one for miles, from east to west, north to south. I stand there beneath the changing skies, feeling for once a fulfillment that has never been achieved by anyone with the wealth of kings and queens. 

Fate may just screw herself. I’m finally free. 

I

“I wasn’t the one who wanted to break up!”

A high-pitched voice rings out in the rather peaceful neighborhood, a few birds that have been perching close on one of the tree branches fly away and several old ladies gathering around the corner scurry away, I can hear them still gossiping, from all the ruckus. 

I park my motorcycle in front of the house address that has been listed on the internet, rented for a month. A couple of days ago, I clicked on it, paid for the shared bedroom and jotted the address down on a piece of paper, the moment I realized I couldn’t spend my days in a run-down motel near the highway. 

Room 406, South Fantasma Street. 

My new home.

I wasn’t aware the house came with a couple’s drama. I look at the couple fighting in front of a stone house. The front door behind them contrasts to the whole look of the house, made from wooden planks. 

The girl looks small and frail. But the way her voice raged and embers lit in her eyes, show that she is anything but. 

Her partner has his arms crossed and his foot is tapping as if he can’t wait another second to get rid of her. He flips his shaggy brown hair from his face, only for it to fall back down again, covering half of his face.

“Um… hello.” I wave at them, smiling nervously when the both of them swivel their heads at me. “Sorry to interrupt. Is this house number 406?”

The couple shares a look as I stand there in the sunlight, in front of the block of house that I will soon call home. I try not to stare at the fuming couple, my eyes combing the narrow streets until it reaches a dead end and I can’t find another escape.

“You’re… Artemas?” the guy asks. His face stays indifferent. 

I nod, a bit too eagerly, but I can’t help it. My first home! Even though it means sharing a room, it will still be home. 

“This is Room 406.”

“Um…” Did I make a mistake with the address?

“Yeah, this is house number 406, but Dee likes to call it a room,” the girl says. “It’s sort of small so I guess the name suits it.” Her messy brunette hair reaches her waist, and her face looks bare except for her red painted lips, a single smile tugging at them. Her eyes trail over ‘Dee’ who walks in, leaving the door open behind him. She extends her hand and I shake it. Her grip is firm. “I’m Calista, but everyone calls me Callie.” 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Arty.”

“Cool. That was Dennis, by the way.” She lets go of my hand and points inside the house. “Come on in, then.” 

I look at myself at the dirty mirror as my black hair hangs back stiffly above my forehead. The dark circles under my eyes aren’t getting better even after I escape the abundance of work my parents have been giving me back at home. The new butler must've panicked when he saw my bedroom empty but they would never waste another ounce of their precious time to look for me. Instead, they’d be grateful that I’m gone just as they’d wanted twenty-five years ago. My tanned skin has grown a shade darker after spending a lot of time outside rather than being caged inside, slaving away for days with no end.

When I enter the shared room, the moonlight shines brighter as it sneaks its way into the room through the curtains near Dennis’s bed. Dennis is still sitting behind his desk, his eyes glued into the screen of his computer. Callie left right after I settled in. I was told that she lives in a dorm a couple of blocks from here, in a campus she’s studying mathematics in. I adore people like her, staying right at their path Fate has offered them, but I can never be like them. Not when my fate was to sit down and waste my life behind a desk. 

“What are you working on?” I try to initiate a conversation with Dennis for the third time today. The first and second attempt, I spoke about the town and he completely ignored me. 

Third time’s a charm. I say to myself, smiling a little at my naiveness. Dennis stops for two whole seconds, his left hand wavering above the pad. He then turns off his computer and covers himself with a blanket, facing away from me, as if a silent wall is a better company.

II

After four days, I’ve grown accustomed to the life of the neighborhood, I quite know my way around. The people start their day as early as six o’clock, some go to school, others travel to their workplace, the rest stay at home to work on their businesses. The smell of baked bread accompanied by the sounds of tinkering and wood chopping as I greet the florist at the end of the street, buying one of his flowers to replace the withered one in the living room. In my morning jogs, I’ve crossed paths and exchanged high-fives with kindergarten kids with their colorful scarves, holding their parents’ hands. Then, in the afternoon, I have lunch at a cafe near downtown with the office workers who usually turn up late after their breaks. When dusk settles in, Callie swings by Room 406 at six o’clock straight every time.

“Dee, look who’s here,” Callie calls out and opens the door wider, allowing a wave of new faces for me but familiarity washes through me after a couple of dinners inside the cramped but warm living room of Room 406. Dennis is always present in the small parties Callie hosted in our house, but he’s never shown enough interest, always looks so uninterested and bored. 

“Can I ask a question?”

“Shoot it, new boy,” a friend of Dennis answers, a little bit tipsy with his pale face reddening and smiling widely. We’re all crowded in the living room and the kitchen for game night, with just a small path to walk on in-between those of us who are sitting down on the floor. 

“Was Dennis always like that?” 

Dennis has turned in early and closes the bedroom door behind him after ignoring his friends’ series of goodnight calls. 

“Yeah, I guess so. I wasn’t that close to him in college, and still isn’t now. All I can say is that I’m still here, aren’t I?”

The room roars with laughter and shouts as the night goes by, and soon enough, guests start to trickle out few by few then all at once, until it’s only Callie. She’s helping me clean up with her lips still red, even when the clock strikes eleven. 

“I think I can take it from here.” I stretch my arms then take the garbage bag from her. She tilts her head, confused. “It’s late. You shouldn’t walk around at night alone, Callie.”

“Okay, Mom.” 

She rolls her eyes but giggles, shaking her head, as she grabs her things. She pauses midway then she takes the maroon sweater lying across the edge of the couch and throws it to me, grinning. 

“We haven’t given you anything for your welcoming gift. Usually it’s bread or honey, but you don’t come from around here.” She smiles knowingly. “Well, consider it as one.”

“Thank you, but you shouldn’t have.” 

“Oh, but I should. It’s tradition, Arty.”

“Thank you. Again. I really appreciate it.” I say. She stares at the sweater for another second before heading towards the door. “Do you want me or Dee to walk you home?”

“No. It’s alright. I can take care of myself.”

“I know that.”

That makes her beam a little.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Arty.” 

Dennis comes out of the room a second later and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, giving them the least privacy they can afford. There is a loud whack noise, followed by the front door being closed forcibly. I open the bathroom door a couple of seconds after, finding Dennis standing in the middle of the living room, his head hanging low and his eyes training to the ground. A red mark begins to show up on his left cheek.

“Hey, are you okay?” I step towards him but he shakes his head, making his way back to our shared room. It is the only time Dennis has ever shown any interest in answering my question since the day I moved into this house, and it’s not a sign of him finally opening himself up. 

I don’t dare to follow Dennis into the room. I decide to sleep on the couch tonight with the smell of wine from several hours ago hanging low in the air. When a person is hurt, not just physically but emotionally wounded, they need a little time to spend with themselves, either for healing or reflecting, or both. I keep tossing and turning as the moon starts to drown hour by hour, wondering whether I have healed from the scars my parents have left all those years. I reach for the right side of my neck where a certain mark lies to remind me of their ignorance, and under my fingers, I can almost hear the sizzling once again. 

III

Callie rarely visits anymore and the chance of a party in Room 406 subsides to zero. About two weeks living here, I’ve been collecting second-hand items for my room as I hang around outside, spending most of my time with my newly-found friends around the neighborhood. They walk me through the town, showing me how bright it is during the day and how it gets even brighter at night as the lights come out. Dennis grows more and more distant as our schedules seldom align. 

I busy myself, continuing the blog I made a couple of years back when I was still a straight-As college student. But even then, in this blog, I was completely out of touch from my parents and their never-ending tyranny. There, or rather here, I write poems and letters for strangers, who were my only friends then. I write lyrics for musicians that are struggling to make something out of their jobs. I work with artists who are dreaming about chasing away their fate and making it their own. I work with dreamers as I become one. 

“Would you look at that? Our little Arty’s a poet.” Callie’s voice comes out from behind me and, just like those years back at my parents’ house, I automatically shut the laptop. I didn’t hear her come inside the house, nor the room but there she stands in the middle of the shared room, complete with her bright red lips and casual smile. “Whoa there, rabbit… It’s just me.”

“Um… yeah, it’s kind of lame anyway.”

Callie types something on her phone and then looks up to me.

“Well, that’s not how your three thousand followers feel about you.” She holds up her phone screen to my face as I groan, already opening my laptop. “But hey, I respect privacy if you don’t want to share. Tell me only when you’re ready.”

“No, it’s alright.” I haul my laptop and sit on the bed, my laptop on my lap. I motion to Callie to sit beside me and she does, her eyes directly pasted into the screen. For a minute, she freezes, her eyes scanning through the works I’ve written for strangers I’ve never met but have fallen for; both for their work and the drive they all have fighting against the current.

“You’re really good at this. Why don’t you feel proud about your work?” 

“It’s just that... My parents were never really supportive and I never really had the chance to prove myself to them. It’s become a habit of mine to hide any kinds of work that aren’t according to what they expect from me.” I lean back to the wall, letting my laptop wobble into the bed. “Hence, the jumpy rabbit behaviour.”

“We all have our pasts. It doesn’t matter what kind of history we carry in our lives, what matters is how we react to it. What we make of our future.”

“First-hand experience?”

“First-hand.”

She leans back as well, sighing through the motion. We sit there in the stillness of the air, wondering if the other is willing to break the quiet as the clock ticks by. Callie then gets up, a rush of cold evening air replacing her warmth beside me. She turns to me, a small smile teasing the ends of her red lips.

“So, do you want to brood here being all philosophically gloomy or do you want to grab some drinks and sing some bad karaoke songs?”

“The latter.”

“I’ll wait outside then.”

I change into the maroon sweater she’s given me a couple of days prior, it still smelling of her familiar scent, chamomile, but fainter. The sun is setting when I lock the door behind me, leaving the key in the regular spot: under the third clay pot near the door.

“So, where’s this bar you told me about?” I ask her, the wind blowing against both of our faces as we go downhill, her arms tighten slightly over my waist. I can feel myself reverberating at the breathtaking feeling of freedom that never gets old when I ride my motorcycle.

“It's thirty minutes out of the town but it’s got the best karaoke machine. Me and my friends used to go there when we were freshmen.” Callie pauses before continuing with her usual playful tone. “Nice sweater, by the way. Where’d ya get it?” 

Callie isn’t kidding when she swears it as the best karaoke machine. It’s got a few wireless microphones, each of them having their own stands, and a huge speaker that plays the song through the whole bar. I’ve never considered myself a singer, and I certainly don’t think it’ll change any time soon. As soon as I sing the very first line, the bartender gives me a drink, on the house if I stop singing.

“Sorry for Eddie here.” Callie slings her arm over the bartender from behind the bar, grinning from ear-to-ear. “He’s not usually this rude.”

Tonight, her face looks brighter. I thought it was her make-up but it was something more; she holds herself in her usual confidence and carefree manner that everyone can’t help but stare at her, her regular self before the fight breaks out. Eddie rolls his eyes and points at a group of old people in their 60s who pierce their gazes at me.

“You’ve attracted a couple of spectators.” Eddie shrugs, smiling a little. “And for the record, I sound so much worse than you.”

“Heh, that’s Arty to you. He attracts death himself.”

Eddie raises a glass he’s just filled with water, since he can’t drink when he’s on the hour. Callie and I follow suit. Eddie makes the first toast, the lights dancing across his eyes.

“To the worst of you, Arty.”

“Cheers!”

IV

The bar stays open until three but the crowd disperses at twelve. By one thirty, Eddie has cleaned the bar counters and all the tables, along with the abundant beer glasses. Callie is on her fifth glass of beer and I’m on my third because I’m driving. There are only three other groups of people and compared to the horde of bodies earlier tonight, the bar has lowered its volumes down as the night grows old and the dawn starts to settle in. I’ve taken several more shots at the karaoke machine when Callie pulls me into the counter where Eddie just wipes down the remnants of snacks and drinks.

“Can we talk?”

“Of course.” I sit down and wait for her to start. Her cheeks are red from all the beer and her eyes begin to flood.

“It’s about Dee.”

I nod, wondering if I should say another word but she’s already ordering another glass from Eddie, and so I do too. She sips hers slowly, her eyes staring outside the window, wearing an expression I’ve known anywhere: longing.

“We broke up.” She blurts then shuts her eyes. “Just a month ago, before you came.”

She sets down her glass on the counter, water immediately pools around its bottom. She inhales before continuing her story.

“We had our fights, of course. Any couple that has been together has had their fights. Then, why did we fall apart? When we were together, he’d slap me for going out with my friends at night, cut me off from all of my connections. But I know that he’s just protecting me.” 

She sighs, running her hands through her pale face up to her dark roots as tears start to pour. 

“And then, he ended it. Just like that. Out of the blue, saying that I would leave him in the end.” She downs her beer and orders another as Eddie looks worriedly. “I could never hate him, let alone leave him.”

“Why is he so distant, then? Was it because of your break-up?”

“No, it’s an old wound of his.” She shakes her head, smiling wistfully.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you but… perhaps, you can help. He’s had a rough past. His mother left when he was five. She met this rich guy named Kaden, leaving him with his father working three jobs to keep their lives afloat. And he’s trying his best to help his dad but money isn’t good when you’re an aspiring comic artist.”

“Yes, I know a thing or two about being an artist.” She turns to me, her face twisting in curiosity. “Every artist has their own beginnings. And beginnings aren’t always sunshines and rainbows, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, I guess… But, what’s your story? You look too fancy with your turtlenecks and loafers to be stranded in some place that’s not even listed in the map.”

“I guess it’s only fair.” I lean back, unable to choose between lying or telling the truth. I’ve told a twisted perspective of my past to everyone who’s been asking for the last couple of weeks since I understand that they don’t really mean it when they ask, it’s all part of the formalities. “Strap in your seatbelt, you’re in for a ride.”

“Ha! Already a step ahead of you.” Her tears have dried, replaced by a small smile. She motions a clicking of seatbelts and sits tight as she waits for me to begin

“As I’ve told you, my parents were never supportive about my love for writing. I grew up under the thumbs of my folks as the only successor of their company. I don’t mind the title but they never had enough time to put down their suitcases and play around with me, just as the little kid I was.” I shrug but she stays silent, her light grey eyes meeting my dark brown ones. “The pressure finally got through and I ran away with only a suitcase and my motorcycle.”

We sit there in silence as the music from the speaker dies down and Eddie goes to the karaoke machine to shut it down. Somehow, I feel lighter just by stating the truth after burying and covering it up for the last few weeks.

“What about the scar on your neck? Where’d ya get it from?”

“That’s a story for another time.” I wink playfully which results in her punching me in the arm.

“Whatever. How does it feel being a fugitive?”

“It feels… thrilling. Like I can do anything and everything at once. I’m in control of what happens next.” I close my eyes, reminded of the first twelve hours being away from home.

“I envy you.” I turn to her because her voice sounds sad. “You can run away from Fate just like that and she won’t chase you around. No one to keep an eye on you, or throw you in a cage at the end of each day.” 

She’s staring at the ground, as if she’s saying these to herself.

“Can I tell you something?” She looks up, her eyes twinkling no more under the dim lights. I nod slightly, sipping the lasts of my beer. “I hate math.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Aren’t you majoring in that?”

“I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!” She chants as she jumps out of her chair and heads to the karaoke machine. “Eddie, light ‘em up!”

“But, I just—” he groans but plugs the cable back into the socket. “You’d better be out of here at three or I’m kicking both of you out.”

I laugh at Eddie trying to calm Callie down but she has too many drinks to care about his rambles. I keep on laughing at them running around the bar, at her silly moves and even sillier voice, accompanied by one glass of beer and then several more.

V

My head is ringing when I wake up in my bed. I squint as the sun enters the room and directly shines through me relentlessly. I grab for my phone but it isn’t in my pocket, nor is it on my desk. The clock shows forty past ten. Below it, Dennis has changed the calendar, it's showing the date today; I was unconscious for two days. I try to recall how and when I get back from the bar with Callie but no memory resurfaces. I decide to ask Dennis when he gets home tonight. I don’t bother looking at how bad I must’ve looked, and instead, I go to the kitchen and make myself breakfast: a bowl of cereal and some aspirin. 

There are kids outside, barely five, playing around the neighborhood with their friends. I spend the rest of the day staring at the kids playing and then, the workers and students going back home to their families. 

Family. I never really understand that word after twenty-five years of my life. It reminds me of how isolated I felt in the large corridors and hallways around the mansion I’d lived in, how cold the marble floorings were, how quiet and resound when I tried to speak to anybody present. There were only so many butlers and maids around to make me feel less lonely and yet, I’d always feel like an outsider for them. When the night comes, they’d go back to their own families, hugging them with the warmth and love I’ve never felt as a small child. 

I realize how messed up it is for me to even state these words. Everyone keeps on saying that I should be grateful to be born in such a wealthy family, born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Though, my silver spoon has tarnished for a while, with no one tending it. My parents spent their wealth to shower me with countless expensive gifts but they were never present for my birthday. There were always meetings abroad, an opening ceremony outside of town, or even something as simple as an exhibition they had to attend. And year by year, my faith in them dissolves less and less.

The front door opens and Dennis storms inside, his regular grey shirt dirty with patches of soil that trails down to his shoes. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of the setting sun before he closes the door.

“Hey, Dennis. Have you been gardening?”

I almost sling my arm around him but backs away, remembering how he flinched when I tapped him on the shoulder to call him for dinner the other day. As per usual, he doesn’t answer. He rushes to the bathroom where I can hear the water turning on a few seconds after.

I connect the dots, and make my own deduction that perhaps he’s bitter from how Callie invited me to hang and not him. Maybe he still loves her. Maybe it’s just jealousy speaking. Maybe I’m just not making a lot of sense. I wish to call Callie to ask about the other night but I can’t find my phone anywhere.

“Uh… Do you know where my phone is?” I ask again at Dennis when he comes out of the shower, all fresh and cleanly-clothed. He completely walks past me, opening the fridge and then drinking some juice straight from its carton. I cross my arms, frowning at his attitude. “That’s a bit rude to ignore a simple question like that, isn't it?” 

He seems to be staring at me but then, he puts the carton back and goes to his bedroom, shutting the door in front of my face.

“Hey, don’t treat me as if I’m dead!” I shout at the door but sigh, not wanting to waste another fleeting moment on him. I don’t go back to my bed for the whole night, preventing any other clashes between the two of us.

Callie visits one night, around dinnertime. I’m feeling unwell and my nose is runny, already wrapping myself inside two blankets. She knocks on the front door and Dennis opens the door for her. He isn’t inviting her inside anymore, it’s almost second nature for her to be around. She prepares dinner, I can hear the pans and pots clunking from outside the bedroom. Dennis keeps sitting behind his desk, silently moving his hand across the pad, probably drawing one of his new comics. 

“Why don’t you help her cook?” My voice is muffled from the layers of blanket. “She could always use your help with all the cooking she’s done for us.” 

When he doesn’t reply, I turn to face the wall and try to sleep with the distant voice of Callie singing in the background. 

Sometime around midnight, I wake up, with my whole body sweaty and slippery. I wriggle myself out, getting up to the door when I hear voices from the other side.

“Isn’t that…? Isn’t that his sweater?”

“It’s mine now, Callie. Didn’t you mean to give this to me anyway?”

“I… That doesn’t matter. Give it back to him.”

“Oh, I see how I’ve been replaced.” Dennis says quietly.

“Replaced… What? Dee, it was a welcoming gift.” Callie replies, her voice tight. “You know, you could’ve been friendlier to him. Maybe you’d just find something in common along the way.” 

“Friendlier?” Dennis sneers. “Yeah, right. I could just act friendly to him, and then what? I turn a blind eye when you ditch me for him, for his pretty face?”

“Dee, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I know how it ends, Cal. And I’m not willing to make the same mistakes my father did.”

“I’m— I’m not your mother and you’re not your father.” Callie’s voice breaks. “We’re different people, Dee… Wake up.”

“Yeah, we are. We’ve changed.” There’s a click of an opened door. “Good night, Callie.”

Another click. I hurry back to my bed, pretending I’m still asleep as Dennis opens the door and buries his head on his desk. The clock ticks slowly and painfully as I lie awake, trying to dull myself from Dennis’s soft but strained sobs.

VI

Dennis keeps on wearing the maroon sweater Callie gifted me, and I let him. I think of it as an unspoken apology for not realizing what I’ve done to their relationship. I don’t speak to him again, we just keep on moving around Room 406, waiting for one or the other to go outside for their day. I don’t go outside anymore since my phone’s gone and I have not enough savings to buy a new one yet.

I’ve been reading a lot of comments posted in my blog, a lot of artists are seeking advice and help as they embark their journey to the wild side. I haven’t replied to any, not even sure anymore if running away is the answer to all problems, both for mine and theirs. Fate may just have been an asshole all this time, but Fate has been right on leading more and more people to their path. Being astray from the path Fate has designed can be exhilarating, and yet now that I’m here, I don’t have a purpose. It’s as if following Fate alone is how you’ll survive in life. I look back at my blog and find the few poems I have not posted yet, unpublished and unfinished. I continue one.

Love

They say love is beautiful.

Love is all we ever need.

Love is effortless and eternal.

It’s the first dates, the first kisses, the firsts.

Real life isn’t as charming.

Love is the tears in your eyes at one am after a break-up.

Love is your curses in the rain as you run home alone.

Love is the echoes as you sit alone in your room, waiting.

Love is the feeling of turning twenty,

And still not knowing what the fuck love means.

Love has been twisted and damaged.

But we all love anyway.

We love, we fall, we hurt, we get hurt.

I don’t click publish like I always do. My fingers hover the keyboard, the single click taunts me with its power. It feels wrong, like I’m blaming love for all the years I’ve lived with the crowd but nevertheless, alone. Love isn’t truly the evil one. I am the one misusing it as everybody else does.

The bedroom door opens and Dennis comes in, his grey sweatshirt stained with red and brown. His brown curls wet with sweat bobbing up and down with his labored breathing.

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” I ask him but he doesn’t seem to bother me. He sits on his bed, trying to calm his breath, placing a hand on his chest. “Dennis, please answer me.”

“I’m so sorry. It was the only way. I’m sorry.” He chants softly, covering his face with both of his hands, his eyes wide with fear. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

I’m about to touch his shoulder when the plastic bag rustles and a series of moans comes from inside of it. I retract my hand back, staring at Dennis in confusion.

“What is all this?”

He keeps on staring at the floor, chanting, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

And when the plastic bag moves once more, the tied end opens and a pool of brunette hair and a familiar face resurfaces with her signature red not only on her lips. Callie. 

VII

I stagger back as I see Callie’s hair coated with red, her mouth is gagged with a piece of cloth tied around the back of her head. Dennis stares at her face, running his hand through her cheek. She flinches at the touch but doesn’t have the mobility to swat it away from her.

“Shh, shh.. It’s okay, Callie.”

She makes a growling noise, her eyes sharp staring back at Dennis.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way…”

“Get away from her.” I close my distance to Callie but Dennis pulls a knife from under his bed. He brings it closer and closer to her neck. She whimpers at the action, unable to comprehend the situation. I see Dennis’ phone on the table and grab it, dialing the police as fast as I could.

Callie’s eyes are still transfixed to the knife, edging nearer to the skin below her chin but it stops midair as Dennis sees me, his mouth gaping open. A clang echoes through the room as the knife in his hand loosens.

“What… Who...” Dennis mutters, his eyes widen in my direction.

“You’ve reached the police telephone line. How may we help you?”

“Turn it off! Who’s there?” Dennis says, backing away from Callie, who seems as confused as he is.

“Yes... Please help. We’re in house number 406, listed as Room 406, South Fantasma Street. Please hurry, my friend is about to get hurt.” I blurt out, hanging on each and every word I’ve said. Callie’s eyes widen, meeting mine. She wriggles out some more, loosening the bonds she has around her body.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” The lady who picks up from the police station asks.

“Yes, hello. Please come to Room 406, South Fantasma—”

“Sir, I’m afraid this isn’t a line you can call as a prank. I’m going to close the phone now.”

“No, wait I—”

“Help! Room 406, South Fantasma Street!” Callie interrupts me halfway and starts screaming at the phone. “My name is Calista Kamberis! I’m in danger! Please help—”

Dennis muffles her scream with the piece of cloth and stands up, walking towards me. I back away until I reach the foot of my bed and fall back.

“Alright, Ms. Kamberis. We’re on our way. Please stay on the phone a bit longer—”

Dennis grabs the phone from my grasp and turns it off. 

“What the hell is going on here?” He gruffly says, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his knife. “A floating phone? Artemas’ voice? What, am I going crazy?”

He shakes his head, setting the phone down on his bed stand. Callie’s eyes are still on me as they begin to water, edges reddened. Her dulled shouts become weaker. I can hear her throat straining at even the tiniest effort. Dennis crouches down until his face levels with her, their noses touching, it’s almost as if he’s about to kiss her; so intimately caressing her cheek with his palm.

“Do you want to know what I did to your little Artemas?” He whispers slowly with her sobs accompanying it. “I ended his misery, Callie. Won’t you say thank you to me for protecting you from another creep, hmm?”

She jerks her head to her side, freeing her mouth as she breathes vigorously.

“No, Dee… This isn’t Kaden. Arty isn’t Kaden. I’m not running off with some guy like your mother, ditching you alone. Dee, please… Kaden and your mother have left, but I’m still here.”

From a distance, there’s a wailing of police sirens. Dennis looks out the window and his lips twist into a scowl, scoffing. 

“Maybe he isn’t… But what does it matter, Cal? He’s dead.”

I stare at his face, wanting him to look back at me and tell him he’s joking. That this is all a nightmare where I’ll wake up with Dennis finally talking to me with the sun hitting him softly on his face as he smiles. That this is all a TV show where they’ll open the door and surprise me with six cameras. That this is all a game and this isn’t game over. I look down to my hands, they feel solid yet they are evanescent. I blink once then twice and they’d disperse to the air.

“What did you do, Dee?” Callie’s voice sounds so distant and suddenly I’m floating through space and time.

My body shimmers under the night sky. My only other company is the moon, hiding behind the clouds, shy with its own light. Below me, police cars are swerving left and right, trying to find a Calista Kamberis in this tiny but populated outskirts. I hear what they’re shouting at one another but all the words jumble inside my head. A ringing inside brings me back to the room as I wince and fall back onto a wall. Callie calls for me but all I can see is her legs dangling above the ground. Is she dead too? Is that why her feet don’t touch the ground?

“I killed him. Knocked him off his high horse. And now, it’s a pity you’ll be joining him.” 

I take one glance at Callie’s face, and somehow, it’s all I need to realize that I can’t outrun Fate, but I can change the course for someone else’s. Dennis has both of his hands around her neck as she continuously gags and gasps for the tiniest amount of air to enter her lungs. There’s a flashlight on Dennis’ desk. I quickly grab it and flick it on, its beam shines out to the streets under the dark night sky, as if it’s just another star ready to make its debut.

“What the hell is going on?” Dennis says.

I shut my eyes for what’s about to come but it never comes. Instead, it is his scream surrounding my head and I open my eyes to Callie biting into Dennis’ arm, struggling to keep him from getting to me but she’s getting weaker with her head bleeding out all the blood. He tosses her back and she slumps motionless against the wall.

“Callie!”

Dennis grumbles, looking at where she has bitten him, a red mark over his left arm. His eyes glint with hatred as he stares into me.

“You…” He grabs me by the neck, which aches at the touch of his palm. I prepare to feel breathless but he gets back after touching my right side, where it’s still throbbing. He growls slowly. “Why are you still alive?”

I bring my right hand to my neck and my fingers brush against something wet and slippery. My hand trembles, red glazing all over them, dripping to the ground in front of my eyes. My breath catches and the flashlight slips from my hands. It shatters where I can see my own reflection cracks in a million pieces. 

There was a time when I searched for ways to hurt myself, just to get a few seconds of my parents’ tight schedule, just a speck of their attention. When I turned nine, my parents were abroad for another business trip for the third time that month. They’d promised that they’d have some time on my birthday, promised that we all would blow the candles together with smiles and wishes that next year would be just like this one. On the eve of my birthday, they flew out of the city and left me with boxes after boxes of presents piled up against one another on one corner of the ballroom. My room never felt colder before that night.

The next day, the day I turned nine, I sneaked into the kitchen. The cook was chopping some of the ingredients, a boiling pot behind her. I “slipped” and hot water poured all over my arms, with its brim touching the right side of my neck, its sizzling noises etched into my mind. The cook went mad, the butler and maids hurried but my parents weren’t there, not even after they’d been called about my “accident”. Two weeks later, they came home and not a word was spoken of the incident. It was as if they gave themselves a free permit, as if it was just another day where their child would get all wounded and in pain just for the sake of hearing them say “we love you” or “we’ll never leave you alone”. Then, it was all a blur of speechless years, without the words “sorry”s, “I love you”s and “thank you”s.

“Why are you still here, Artemas Zikas?” Dennis shouts at the name I’ve given myself the day I left my house. Zikas. May he live. It’s a wistful wish that I’ve kept from everyone as I grew up: may I live. And I did, for the last couple of weeks, I did live, with the attempt to run away with the little money I have, away from the family that has done nothing but abandoned me from such a young age. 

“I wonder about the same thing, Dennis.”

The door on the front of the house opens and then the door to our shared room. Dennis looks lost and perplexed as the police scouts the place, one of them checking for a pulse from Callie’s neck. 

“She’s alive.”

“Bring him in.” Another police officer says while the others grab Dennis harshly, putting his arms at the back of his body. 

“No! Don’t you see? Look at him! He tries to take away my life from him!” Dennis struggles to get out the officer’s grip, his eyes bewildered then it stays at mine. “It was self-defense! I...”

And then he’s gone. A police officer stays with Callie, easing her breath as she blinks her eyes open. They frantically scramble all over the place and when they rest on mine, her breath quickens once more.

“It’s alright, you’re okay, Miss. It’s all over.” The officer says.

With the help of the officer, she gets up, leaning against the wall but her legs stand steady. She walks towards me, then looks out the window where two police cars are parked in a hurried manner, one of them crashing to the stoned wall.

“Is it really over?” She asks, still staring at the madness outside. Dennis is brought into one of the cars, his shouts ringing all over the neighborhood. Several neighbors have come out to see all the commotion, wearing only their nightgowns and slippers. I know she’s asking me but the officer replies to her.

“Yes, it is.” 

“Arty, are you really dead, then?” She whispers, tears start to form around the edges of her eyes. I don’t answer but I nod my head down, in her peripheral vision I know she sees it.

She backs away from the window and holds onto the officer for support to walk. She steers the both of them to my opened laptop and perches herself in front of my desk.

“Miss?”

“Hold on, I have to do this before I go.” She scans for a particular file, her fingers dancing across the keyboard in a rigid but prioritized manner. With a final click, she backs away from the laptop and smiles at me, nodding for me to view her work. I reach for the laptop, reading the lines of what she’s written to me, or rather all the artists.

Yet, love isn’t all that, as my good friend says.

For love is powerful,

Powerful enough to make us see the good and the bad,

Enough to cross dimensions, 

Enough to save a life.

Love isn’t at all twisted and damaged,

Because we are the hurt ones.

But love mends the scarred and the wounded.

It is the only thing keeping us feeling alive.

Love is a vicious cycle we keep on falling for.

And it’s worth each time around.

-        I hope you find your peace in love, Arty.

She changes the ending of my poem, leaving it as bare as before but there’s the subtle hint of sweetness I’m always unable to offer in all my works. She nudges at me, her arm passing right through me and she looks apologetic for a second. I smile at her, her eyes already forming more tears, and nod. Her fingers linger on top of the enter button before I set my disappearing ones on top of hers. Together, we push the button and the poem is published. She steps back from my desk, the officer walking her out. Before she exits the room, she turns her head to me, her lips forming two words I’ve never heard so sincerely before.            

Thank you.