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The first time Emma owned an apartment, she found out that they are big, even the single bedroom ones.
When she opened the front door and walked into the kitchen, she walked across a chasm. Each step melded into the next, but could never bring her any farther any faster. The walls yawned and creaked from the weight of their sheer size. Voices, which should only have been a few feet away, were muffled by the space separating her apartment from reality.
That first night, she slept in the bathroom. There the walls were reachable, the door easy enough to block.
If she repainted, it could almost pass for her cell.
The second night she also slept in the bathroom. Then the third and the fourth. After a week, she forced herself into the bedroom. The mirror in the bathroom was too large, and she caught sight of herself too many times while getting dressed. The bedroom would have to do.
She didn’t have a bed, but the futon she bought before moving in was good enough. Emma had pushed it into the corner originally. But when she laid in it for the first time, Emma could have sworn the walls were expanding, that the window grew wider. Anyone could see her from here. She couldn’t reach the door quickly. She was all alone, and no one would notice if anything happened.
She tried the kitchen.
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Work. Sleep. That was all Emma did. Apparently, having a record, even if you were a minor when it happened, didn’t get you the best of jobs. But in the end, she did need to buy food somehow. That meant working as many hours as she could.
But somehow, coming back to the apartment, even as exhausted as she was, didn’t get easier. No matter how many times she did it.
So, one night after work, when Emma returned home well after the sun had gone down (or maybe it was before the sun was going to come up?), she found she couldn’t walk across the chasm that was her living room anymore. Sliding down against the shitty door with dozens of dents in it, Emma just stared across the vastness. Unlike most chasms, her living room was not void of any color. It was a light gray horizon above an endless oak brown. A barren, desolate wasteland. A container with nothing inside of it, rendering it useless.
Emma looked for any sign of humanity, of a single splash of life amidst the dull colors.
Nothing.
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Towards the beginning of her stay in this old-as-dirt apartment complex, a few of her neighbors had tried inviting her over to their places. There was the old lady, who lived to the right. She brought over cookies, despite barely being able to walk. Her preteen granddaughter was with her, and Emma could tell the two of them were close. Emma took the cookies, and implied they could get together at another time.
She lied.
Then there was a middle aged man and his wife who lived down two doors to the left. The two of them stopped her in the hall, and invited her to a block party their church was hosting. They let her decline easily enough, but invited her to dinner some other night.
Emma made sure to come home at times when they were either asleep or out.
People continued to try talking with her. One or two even expressed concern for her, if you ever need help, just let us know. But, in the end, Emma wasn’t helpless or some kind of lost puppy that needed their attention. Now, they didn’t try to connect with her anymore.
It was like she had predicted. They didn’t really care about her anyways. No one ever had, and no one ever will.
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It was ironic really, an ex-criminal that chases down criminals. But it was what Emma found she did best. Becoming a bounty hunter was the one thing Emma had ever done in her entire life she could be proud of.
Not only could she pay for food and rent now, but she worked her way up to buying a tv, a couch, a coffee table, some of those fake plants she wanted when she was 12, pillows, paintings, and even picture frames. Her bedroom finally got a bed, not the small twin size she had always had, but a full size. Emma could lay on it and spread out, not having a worry about falling off. She added shelves and filled them with books; she bought a wardrobe, as well as enough clothes to last a month before washing them.
She had everything she ever wanted when she was younger. It was paradise.
She wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t cold, she could relax without worry. Everything in this apartment belonged to her and her alone. No one was going to come in here and take it away.
It’s perfect, Emma told herself, as she walked past the pile of empty picture frames. This is amazing, she thought as she zoned out watching tv, not wanting to sleep in the bedroom still, despite having stayed up all night catching a man who skipped out on bail bonds. This is all I could ever want, she tried to believe as she avoided looking at her stomach, having gorged herself on food (because she has food! She can eat whenever she wants! It's a dream come true!): and now her stomach is bloated, and heavy, and if she looks under her shirt she knows she could still see the stretch marks that adorn it.
Sitting in her apartment, Emma stared out into the chasm and still could see no life.
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It got easier, as she got older. The chasm was still wide, but traversing it became second nature. Emma didn’t have to think about the walk anymore, she just did. She started sleeping in her room more and more, pulling the covers over her head and blocking all else out.
There were two days though, out of the entire year, that Emma couldn’t pretend on.
Her birthday, and His. Those were the only days she could see some semblance of a life. A broken, ragged one, but a real life nonetheless. For the first two years, on his day, she drank until she couldn’t see and cried until she wanted to throw up. Now, she sits on the bathroom floor for an hour, and lets herself feel without falling over the edge of grief. Then she gets back up and goes bounty hunting.
For her birthday though, she only does one small thing.
She gets a cupcake.
Its not a lot, but its more than Emma got for most of her life. She had never wanted much, but she had wanted this. And so, in remembrance of the little child she used to be, Emma buys a single cupcake.
And when she blows out the flame, can you blame her if she wishes, just a little bit, that she wasn’t alone?