Chapter Text
Like the trillions of days before it, the sixteenth of January in the year two thousand and fifteen came into existence without interruption. The light of the apartment had only just been flicked on as the clock rounded to midnight, and the same process that occurred every Friday night began as it always did. Rose Lalonde made a tired but focused stride indoors, tossed aside her coat, and looked at herself in the mirror. She held no particular desire to look decadent and spotless all the time, much less in the comfort of her own home, but she did hold herself to certain standards.
The way her face hung and her hair was mussed and messy made her look as if she’d spent a week with very young, sugar-fueled children. In essence, she did – Friday nights were bar nights, as were the three before it. It was far from the most glamorous of jobs, and Friday nights wrought hell on earth. The place was always packed with people, always loud and obnoxious and at times downright infuriating. Seven hours felt like weeks, as time and again she was shouted at or joked about or subject of any other manner of asinine obscenities.
The other days weren’t as bad, though Rose was by no means enthusiastic of them either. The atmosphere was thankfully less raucous, and she rarely got headaches on these days, but they were a lot more depressing. On these days she had to come face-to-face with the kind of person that gets blackout drunk on a Tuesday evening. There weren’t a lot, but they were there, and they seemed damaged beyond all repair.
Fixing her appearance as much as she could be bothered to, Rose moved inside, picking up a lighter and taking a deep breath in some arcane attempt to relax. The place, despite her best efforts to keep it clean, was a mess. Apartments, she found, just seemed to become sullied naturally. It was certainly a far call from her childhood home – but one has to start their life somewhere, she supposed.
The view from the balcony wasn’t exactly a selling point, littered as it was with apartment complexes and dirty alleyways. Sometimes Rose pined for, well, the sea of pines and quaint rivers of old. She was no environmentalist, but there was something sad (or perhaps disturbing) about how cold and desolate a place the city could be. Still, the breeze carrying the smoke of her cigarette was nice, if a little brisk. Very brisk – really, dangerously so – but she enjoyed it nonetheless. There was something calming about it.
Rose let her mind wander, allowing herself to be taken away. She needed a break. At the risk of sounding entitled, she would say she was far overworked. Having enough money to scrape by was nice, yes, but that isn’t really what she considered living. The writing she got done in her little free time didn’t seem to be going anywhere, and it had felt like so long since she had really seen any of her friends. Truth be told, she felt very lonely. And worse, bored.
Stubbing the cigarette out, yawning, she moved to retire to bed. It was an eight A.M. wake-up on Saturdays, leaving her with next to nothing to do each Friday night. It was something she had come to accept, though there were moments – now being one of them – when she realized this was probably not a good thing. There was nothing that could be done about it, though. Resigning herself to the rigmarole, she collapsed on her bed and quickly fell asleep.
An alarm shook Rose from dreamless sleep, and in an instant she was up without thought. Saturdays (and Mondays) were library days. Unlike the migraine-inducing noise and bustle of the bar, the library was a quiet, and at times frightfully dull, experience. Of her two jobs, though, it was the one she preferred. It was all somewhat therapeutic, giving her the space and time to breathe she so rarely seemed to have.
Her morning routine – washing, eating, whiling away the small amount of free time through reading – always seemed to fade away in a flash. Putting on some approximation of smart clothing, she took one last look at herself before leaving.
Snow had fallen during the previous night – the first snowfall of the year – though it had died down by now. As a result, the streets were quiet in the dim, foggy light of dawn. Chill wind blew through Rose’s hair, sending a shiver running across her. Even if the roads weren’t treacherous, she didn’t know how to drive, leaving her relying on public transport most days. The library wasn’t terribly far away, though, and she arrived before the hour had ended.
There seemed to be no great need for libraries anymore, and as a result Rose spent most of her day there sitting in quiet solitude. So rarely did anyone come by that the only books she really had to pay attention to were her own. It was the perfect environment in which to write. A few times a day, the only other employee in the building – a skinny, timid high school kid who always seemed too shy or intimidated to approach her without stammering – would ask her where to put a book or if he could dust around the table, and perhaps once every day or two a student or academic would come in and ask for something, but apart from those instances, she was alone and free to do as she pleased.
At midday she took a break, stepping outside to stretch her legs for a while. That was the usual plan, at least, but much of the snow had subsided under the rising sun, leaving nothing but dangerously icy paths. Instead she sat upon the stairs, ready to take in the view of the now-bustling city. Her people-watching was quickly interrupted, though, by her phone ringing. Looking down, she smiled faintly as she saw it was her sister calling.
“Why hello there. You’ve caught me at a good time.” Rose placed a cigarette in her mouth, but chose not to light it, simply rolling it around her mouth.
“Oh, you were gonna pick up anyway.” Roxy’s voice was frantic, excited, but still with its usual chirpy intonation. Rose could make out the sound of fast footsteps against wooden ground and deduced that her sister was running.
Folding her legs over, Rose let out a small chuckle. “And how do you suppose that?”
The sound of a large amount of paper being crumpled ran through Rose’s ear for a moment. “Because!” A new sound, that of something crashing to the floor, accompanied Roxy’s voice. “You love talking to me.”
“Is that so?” When another, louder crash sounded out, Rose’s curiosity peaked. “Roxy, dear, just what the hell are you up to?”
“Hm? Oh, I’m painting!” This was accompanied by the sound of tearing.
“Painting. Right.” Roxy was an artist by trade, yes, but from what Rose could recall, painting never involved the sound of what she suspected was a glass bottle smashing. “Because it sounds like you’re in some kind of bar fight.”
The crashing finally stopped, and only the sound of Roxy’s flustered breath remained. “Yeah, we’re meant to do some sorta... unorthodox exhibition or something. I don’t really get it – but it’s fun!” Rose could hear a door open and a rush of wind blow through. “So, what have YOU been up to?”
There was a vaguely minty flavour to the cigarette filter. “Working, mostly. Nothing I particularly want to be doing – it’s downright soul-crushing, really. I’d say it lets me skate by, but even with two jobs it’s hardly doing that.” She paused. “I’m sorry. That’s probably not what you wanted to hear.”
“No, that’s alright! Better than keeping it all bottled up, right? And! And it’ll make the good news I have for you all the more uplifting.” Rose could practically feel Roxy’s enthusiasm leaking through the speaker. It was utterly infectious – she had to smile.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, then.” She removed the cigarette, now rolling it around between her fingers.
“I...!” Roxy took her time getting to the point, allowing theatrics to take over. “...am coming to stay next week! Let me break up all that boring work stuff for ya.”
Well, this was a surprise. Rose still kept in fairly regular contact with her sister, but it had been a long time since they’d actually seen one another. It did sound exciting, she had to admit; a day spent with Roxy was rarely uneventful, at the very least. Still... “That sounds lovely, Roxy, it really does. The only issue I have is, well... I’m not sure I have enough room to accommodate you.”
“No, no, don’t worry! I’ll find room.”
“I don’t even have a sofa.”
“I’ll bring plenty of pillows! Sleep on the floor. It’ll be fine!”
Shaking her head, Rose couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Well, I don’t think I could stop you if I wanted to. When exactly will you be here, then?”
“I should be there by Wednesday evening. ‘Til then, okay?” The crashing began anew, now more distant – presumably some of the ‘we’ Roxy had mentioned earlier. Rose thought it best not to keep her from her work.
“Until then.” With that, everything save the light wind was quiet once more. It should be fun, Rose figured. She only hoped she could find time to actually be with Roxy – she’d ask for some time off and hope to get more than a flat, direct ‘no.’ A breather would do her a lot of good, and she didn’t want to waste Roxy’s journey. Time would tell, she supposed.
The second half of the day was as uneventful as the first. The kid left an hour or so after Rose’s break, and so she was left alone to her devices. She was able to get a good deal of writing done, and at such a pace that it was possible that it could be finished by the end of the year. Whether or not it was any good – well, that was a different matter entirely, but she liked to imagine that she had a modicum of talent.
Outside, daylight had made itself sparse, and Rose made way for the cleaning crews and maintenance staff, not that the place needed much upkeep anyway. It was a dry, near-deserted place, but it still looked rather pristine. The kid was a good duster, she had to give him that. Packing her things away and stepping outside once more, she lit the mint-tinged cigarette and began walking, letting the cold, easy city breeze wash over her.
Rose enjoyed taking these aimless walks after a library day. It allowed her mind to wander, to examine the world around her and get a better sense of where she was within it. At times, she supposed that there were better things she could be doing with the little free time she had, but she always drew the (admittedly simple) conclusion that she enjoyed her walks and thoughts, and that was enough for her.
It always amused her slightly to see what kinds of people were roaming around as twilight settled in. Most passersby had, like her, just left work, rushing through the still-icy paths and clutching their briefcases and wrapping themselves in imposing coats in a dash to return to their cozy homes and happy families. Then there were the ever-amusing eccentrics: the street preachers finishing the last of their apocalyptic ministrations, the street performers performing an off-key jazz rendition of some old dance hit Rose could almost name, the rambling homeless, though Rose supposed that was far more sad than amusing. It could never be said that this city didn’t have character, and the characters did so enthrall her.
A sudden splitting headache forced her from her mirth, threatening to fell her. It was a sharp, brutal force, one that caused her to audibly cry out as it struck. Her eyes clamped shut and she started shaking. A moment later, though, she opened her eyes and found everything was fine – the pain had subsided as quickly as it had come. Rose rubbed at her head, confused and irritated. Whatever that was, it probably wasn’t a good sign. She’d never really considered herself much of a hypochondriac, but a pain like that was probably something worth checking out. Yet another thing she’d have to find time for.
She decided it was best to postpone her walk for the night. Her apartment building was fairly nearby, at least. Though the migraine had quickly stopped, Rose still found herself walking slowly, cautious and somewhat anxious about the prospect of another one striking her down. Nothing came of her fear, though, and she made it back to the building and into her room without incident.
Still, something felt off in the air, and in a quite literal sense: an odd smell to the apartment, a scent that felt vaguely familiar to her, but not something she could exactly discern. Placing her belongings aside, she tracked the smell and found that it became stronger as she moved deeper in. Soon enough, she found its source, or at least who was holding the source. Inside her kitchen a figure sat with its face down on her table.
The thing that shocked her the most, though, was not the way the figure was motionless and, upon close inspection, undoubtedly dead. It was also not the small prick that dotted her arm, the only blemish in her body, created by a pinprick or a needlepoint – though as much as she searched, Rose found no needle. What truly startled her was that the deceased girl was her.
Getting over a small amount of her initial surprise, she inspected the body’s face closely. It was Rose. Not even a twin or doppelgänger – she was wearing the same clothes, and had her hair done in exactly the same manner. Hands shaking, the living Rose inspected the other’s fingers and found the same small scar, just below the right index finger, that she had. The same blotchy birthmark on her shoulder, the small burn mark that she was told once vaguely looked like a bundle of grapes. The signs made it all rather unmistakable.
Perhaps it was a prop, some godawful prank pulled by someone in an attempt to freak her out. Who would have the resources and inclination to do such a thing, Rose couldn’t say, but it was a possibility she had to explore. She ran her fingers through the body’s hair; it felt real enough. Abandoning any sense of morality or hygienic sense, she reached a finger inside the other’s mouth and found it still damp inside. The teeth, too, seemed authentic. Quickly retracting her finger and stifling a shiver, she gave a brief sniff of whatever her fingers were coated with and found that it certainly smelled like saliva. Rose could only draw one conclusion: it was a real corpse, and it was her own.
Her mind was swamped with thoughts as she came to the realization. How and why? were the two burning questions, though she doubted any sufficient answers to those would come to her. What the hell am I supposed to do with it? was another strong contender for ‘most pressing question.’ What the fuck? also popped up a few times. She began pacing, washing her hands, looking outside frantically, avoiding turning her gaze upon the body for as long as possible.
There was no putting it off forever, though. A corpse in the apartment would serve her no good in the long run. She’d seen and heard plenty of stories in which someone has to dispose of a body; surely it couldn’t be that hard.
She quickly began making all kinds of strategies and plans of what to do – and it almost worried her how naturally it seemed to come. It would take a great deal of effort to sneak something so visible out of an apartment building, and even if she could manage such a thing there was no dirt nearby for her to bury it in. No, she would need to use a far less subtle approach.
The first step, then, would have to be removing any evidence that this was her. Hair, teeth, fingerprints... that should cover it, right? At last she glanced at the body and inhaled deeply. If this wasn’t some hallucination or night terror it had to be done. She’d start any moment now. It would all be over with soon enough.
She moved to start with the hair, but quickly stopped herself. What about when it gets discovered? Sure, they might not bother investigating some unknown body lying in an alley, but a body with burned fingers and no teeth is going to attract attention. And when they come knocking on Rose’s door and find she looked almost exactly like the body with hair on her head, it – whatever ‘it’ was – would likely come crashing down on her, rendering her as hopeless as she, in one sense, already was.
No easy solution came to mind. She began frantically searching for answers, but found nothing but the same questions she had already asked herself. She gave in, accepting that little could be done. Glancing outside the balcony and checking that there was nobody else outside – there wasn’t, thankfully – she decided that the only thing that could be done was to thrust the body down to the dirty alley below and hope that by the time somebody discovered the corpse it would be too late for anyone to bother to launch much of an investigation. Just some jumper who’d had enough. Clean-cut.
And so the body fell, and continued falling for what felt like a lifetime, until it collided with the ground. Rose could barely hear it, but still knew that the crunch of impact was a sickening sound. That was it, then. There was nothing that could be done now – it was out of her hands. Best to just forget about it and hope it never comes around again.
As she washed, though, she found it was not so easily forgotten. Questions, multiplying by the minute, ran around her mind endlessly, desperate for answers she was sure she’d never find. It was all terribly confusing. She soon attempted to fall asleep, but found that task a titanic struggle. The image of her own lifeless body lay dormant in her mind, bewildering and frightening her as it sprung up at random intervals, before settling down once again into a deep unsettling dread. Rose would find little rest that night.