Heroism (h.s.)

11.

I barely sleep that night.  Lisa has a late shift at the hospital so I’m left alone in my apartment, eyes wide and heart leaping at every single noise I hear, no matter how small.  By eleven o’clock, I’ve eaten as much as I possibly can to preoccupy myself and decide to crash into bed.

Every time I close my eyes, I picture the dead girl; her blonde, tangled hair, the ghastly colour of her complexion and the way her mangled body laid helplessly at the bottom of the trash bin.  I toss and turn trying to dredge up a completely unrelated image, like flowers or happy bunnies running through a field.

Nothing works.

At around what I believe to be five o’clock, I finally fall asleep only to be rudely awakened by my alarm two hours later.  I practically stumble into the shower and after standing desperately in front of my half-empty closet, I throw on the same clothes I wore yesterday.  I pull my damp hair into a ponytail and skip breakfast, leaving to meet Harry.

Except when I leave my complex, he isn’t there.  Knowing that he would never play a trick on me after last night, I stand in the cold morning air, biting my lip.

“This is so unlike Harry,” I speak out loud to myself and a lady walking by gives me a wary glance.  I ignore her and try to weigh out the possibilities.

If he’d gone ahead to the diner, there’s no doubt that he would’ve left me a message.  As a stroke of brilliance, I run back into my building and check my mail.  The only things I find are unpaid bills.  I groan and shove them back in carelessly.

Back to square one, I stand outside, racking my brain in order to figure out where else Harry could be.  A water droplet from my ponytail drips onto the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

I straighten up suddenly, a thought occurring to me.  A metaphorical light bulb goes off above my head and I feel my eyes widen, “His apartment!”

Hurriedly, I check my watch and realize that I’m going to be late for work anyway and Harry’s as good of an excuse as any to be tardy. 

So, I rush off in the opposite direction of the restaurant, crossing streets when I probably shouldn’t and darting in front of turning cars like a skittish cat.  I rely on my feet to remember the route, taking a sharp turn onto Risley where Harry lives.

I try my hardest to dredge up my memory of what his apartment looks like.  The last time I’d been here, it had been pitch black and I’d been half asleep.  I vaguely remember a lot of stairs being involved and decide to pick the tallest building on the street.

As soon as I enter the building, I realize with dread that I’ve no idea what room number he is.  A male attendant stands behind an oak desk, looking incredibly bored.  In a rush, I zip my coat down and push up my bra, thanking God that my new work shirt is so low cut.

I stride confidently up to the desk, pulling my hair out of its ponytail.  It falls in a wet mess around my shoulders and I hope it looks presentable enough to turn this guy on.

“Hi,” I greet coyly, placing my hands on the counter and leaning over, showing as much cleavage as possible.

The man scratches his dark black hair and dandruff falls to the ground.  I try my best not to grimace.  He looks up from his old, tattered book and his eyes nearly fall out of their sockets.

“Well, hello there,” he replies, completely interested.  Leaning forward, our hands nearly touch on the counter.

“I was wondering,” I begin, dredging up a flirty smile, “Could you tell me where Mr. Harry Styles lives?”