The Apartment

The Apartment

Above all else, it’s the smell that assails you first. Upon opening the door it hits you like a sharp slap to the face followed by a low jab to the gut. The strange part is that once you get past the initial shock, you just have to wonder what could be causing it.

The two-room first floor apartment is dimly lit; by only a small light over the stove in the kitchen area. Its pale yellow glow displays the multitude of food-encrusted pots and pans splayed across the burners. The nearby sink is full of used plates, bowls, glasses, and silverware. Cockroaches scurry for cover among the dishes as the beam of your flashlight displays the scene.

You slowly work your way into the room, hearing the soft crunch of flimsy cellophane wrappers being flattened under your steps. The squishy feeling on your next step tells you that not all of the Yodell packages are empty. “Shuffle steps from now on,” you tell yourself. Just like a snow plow in winter, move the debris aside and keep going.

Scanning the room you see the beat up Bark-O-Lounger in the far corner with its heavily stained and randomly ripped pleather. Next to the chair is a large beer stein, half filled with a golden liquid. You try to convince yourself that it’s beer.

Sitting on a hassock in front of the chair is a small box filled to overflowing with pictures. Some look to be pretty old black and whites, while others are more recent color photos; but they are all of the same two people, a man and a woman at varying stages of life and love.

The stillness in the room makes you strain to hear any noise. The stench is oppressive and seems to deaden any sound. Then you hear it. Was it a groan or maybe a jagged breath? Pushing aside the months’- old stacks of daily newspapers and monthly periodicals you peer around the partitioning wall to look into the sleeping area.

A single king sized mattress lies directly on the floor. There are no sheets to cover the red and brown splotches in its sunken middle. If it’s possible, the rankness of the odor is worse here because now it’s mixed with the sickly sweetness of a lit pumpkin and spice candle.

He’s sprawled across the mattress kitty-corner, half dressed in a crusty white t-shirt and wrinkled black trousers. His unshaven face is pale and drawn. With every inhalation his lips are sucked into his mouth, past gums with no teeth, making his face seem hollow.

Calling out his name you notice a flickering of his eyes as he tries to open them. Kneeling down to check further you find the prescription bottle of sleeping pills still in his right hand. Your partner calls for extra manpower as you look in his left. In it is an obituary marking the death of the woman in the pictures, the woman who had been a part of his life for over fifty years. From the date in the paper it appears she died one year ago today. You start your work and wonder if there will be another obituary written for this date.