Sometimes, in the cold air of the night, the past can come back to haunt us without warning. It is said that hate can breed some of the evilest beings in this world and the next. But, hate that started as love is even darker than imagined.
The last box landed near the bed. She left it sit there for two whole days while she unpacked each box one by one. Her new apartment was beginning to look like home. It had been a very long journey to find herself there. For her, it was paradise. Her friends and family disagreed. The floors creaked, the windows didn't shut, and the fridge was older than her. She felt perfect in her cozy, imperfect apartment.
Roselyn was twenty-seven-years old and had already experienced more in life than most people will. After she finally settled in and with her kitchen and bathroom complete, she headed to the bedroom. She picked up the box and sifted through pictures, notes, and binders. Placing them throughout the walls and bookshelves, she found herself pausing at random times to look back on the memories of those moments. Lastly, in the bottom of the box was a notebook she has long forgotten about. On the cover was a drawing of a silly looking slice of pizza. She drew it for him on their second date. He loved it and made sure they kept it forever. Thirty minutes later she found herself sitting in her chair reading every page in detail. Letters they wrote each other when they were apart lined the pages. Some filled with drawings and poems, others with pictures. Her head filled with questions and anger; her heart filled with love and regret. She threw the book across the room and tried to forget about it. Her last few hours of the night were spent sifting through the living room junk. Books and movies lined the built-in shelves around the television and her small table lamps were the only light source from inside the apartment. The lights from downtown cast shadows on the walls. Before going to bed, she picked up the notebook and hid it in the top of her closet. Out of sight; out of mind she told herself.
Drinking her evening coffee, the next night, she sat in the window seat and ran her fingers over her scar. Back and forth over her forearm where the knife cut almost to the bone. The thoughts of that night will never be more clear in her head than when she sits and strokes the scar. Most of the time she can distract herself, but the quiet times of thought always bring her back.
They were inside the crypt when she blacked out. After losing an entire two hours of memory she awoke in the hospital with a burning pain in her arms and nurses all around her. The pain coming and going for months to follow.
She shook her head and looked out the window to the streets below. So many busy people; so many stories. She pulls her laptop onto her legs and begins typing anything that came to mind. Endless writing always helped her when she needed to get anything out. It would continue for pages. She often would save them but never read them. It was her release for a bit of time.
After a while she shut down the computer, placed her coffee mug on the kitchen counter, and headed off to shower. In the middle of washing her hair, she heard strange noises, but brushed them off. Being in a new place can play tricks on the mind. When finished, she wrapped herself in her robe and walked back into the kitchen. On the counter, where she left it, was her coffee cup. It was in pieces. How does a mug shatter without moving? She cleaned up the mess and threw away the shards of ceramic.