I go back to the door and try again to figure out a DIY way to secure it, but to no avail. The wood’s rotten as it is and the busted parts which once held the screws and bolts are now splinters, gouges and splits. I have no tools and no knowledge on how to repair a broken door. I also can’t pay anyone to come fix it either, so getting this shut and able to keep me safe from intruders just isn’t happening.
Fuck my life.
I slump down on the floor and look around at the mess surrounding me, kicking the door with my bare foot and stub my toe in the process. Yelping, mad at myself while I cradle my throbbing foot and glare around me. So much going off inside of me; the turmoil has me antsy, enraged and just overwhelmed.
They really did do a number on the place, checking every cupboard, drawer and bag and turning this room upside down. It feels violated and unsafe and somehow no longer any sort of place I want to be in. My skin has goose bumped in high alert, and I am aware that it’s still night and I cannot take my eyes off the now unsecured entranceway until morning. Not in this neighbourhood. An open door is like an invitation.
They obviously thought they would find more things of worth than I actually have and had to go to the extra effort to find something to steal at all. Getting myself knocked out just gave them time to have a good look around and I guess that’s how they found my space in the floor. When you walk over it, it tends to pop up a little at one end and make a loud creaking noise, that’s how I found it.
It’s my own fault for keeping my money here instead of in the account Alexi set up for me to be paid; stupidly never learning from my childhood tricks of hiding things under floors. I mean, how many times did my mother find my secret stashes in our old flat? Little boxes where I hid what money I could stash for bills and food, and she would waste it on shit she could inject into her arms. She never found the one in my bedroom though … I left all I had behind in that rotten hole in the floor. Journals, pictures, memories of my life and I never went back for them.
I should have used my cash account, it has no ties to him other than he used to pay me there, but I didn’t want anything to do with him anymore and I didn’t want to be traced. Bank accounts and cash withdrawals are the worst kinds of paper trail if you have the means to look; which most people from his world do. I wasn’t just running from Alexi, I was running from that whole world and all the ones before who might still have ideas of exacting punishment for my past sins. Tyler surely wouldn’t turn his nose up at a second pop at me.
My new job is happy to pay me cash in hand without question, so it was an ideal solution to hide my money in one place where I could grab it at a moment’s notice—ready to run, like always. I went off grid, hiding from everyone and this is where it got me.
Robbed!
In a shithole apartment in a shithole part of the city, and the only thing I have to look forward to is going to my shithole job to serve wankers shithole food for eight hours.
I sigh and look at my lap for the longest time, so exhausted, yet I know it’s dumb to sleep while my apartment is accessible. In this neighbourhood, any passing junkie or opportunist will come to see what’s left for the picking and I can’t be sure I wouldn’t be on the list of things to take if I let my guard down for even a moment.
I get up and start rummaging for anything to help me jam the door shut enough to get one of the bolts operational; determined to find some safety tonight, so I can recover from being knocked out. Pulling drawers and wading through the mess they left everywhere, tripping over crap and hurting my feet some more as I struggle with a pounding head and minor dizziness.
I check my hidey hole with a heavy heart, preparing myself for what I know is inevitable and like I expected, the shoe box is missing its envelope of cash. It’s not in the hole but pushed to the left under the sofa carelessly. All they have discarded over the floor is the few pictures from various parties over the years and my passport which was in with it. The one in my real name – Lisa McAllister.
It doesn’t stop the heavy thud of regret and heartbreak hitting me all over again. I physically sag as I try to stay positive on what I need to do. They didn’t want them obviously and I scoop them out of the box to put in my bag, which is overturned all over the sofa, and start pulling it all back together. There are clothes everywhere, some on the floor and kicked under the couch beside the box which once held my funds and I notice there is still something in there. I bend to retrieve what they have left behind.
Pulling out the box from under the edge of the couch, to see what it is more clearly, I stop when I catch sight of a familiar black card shining back at me in a completely unexpected way. Its high gloss coating catching the light and my heart and brain stop simultaneously with the familiarity of it as memory floods back to the night Mico handed it to me. It’s a bittersweet reminder of safety and belonging, even while Alexi was making me insane.
I stare at it for a long moment, pondering the decision to pick it up and pack it too, and just look for the longest time. It’s almost as though I am afraid touching it will open the floodgates of feelings and memories I have tried to outrun for months, even though I know it’s ridiculous.
Black and simple with just M.G. Carrero in gold embossed lettering. Just the name alone sends spikes of pain shooting through my chest. Underneath that is says … Carrero Corp. That’s all it says on this side and I pick it up slowly, stupidly careful as though it’s a ticking time bomb, to flip it over revealing two phone numbers and a business address in Manhattan. I assume that’s Alexi’s offices and just that thought alone is enough for me. I drop it back down in the box as though it’s burned me and kick it under the seat, determined not to use that avenue for help. Never going back to that means of security, knowing what comes with it.
Mico told me to keep it in case I ever needed him, and that day is not today.
Nor will it be tomorrow, or the next.
I discard my clothes and move off to keep searching for something to secure my door. That small bit of defiance that his name swirling in my brain has given me, I get some of my determination back, an ember of fire as anger bites. I won’t be left looking elsewhere for help ever again. I have to do this on my own. Screw all Carrero men!
I find a screwdriver and a hammer in the chaos under the sink and set about trying to bang my door back into shape haphazardly with no real clue as to what I am doing. It doesn’t take long before irate neighbours start screaming at me because of the noise at stupid o’clock and rattling floorboards over my head to quieten me down. I am attracting too much attention.
A shifty-looking pair of teens take up residence along the hall and watch me messing with my door. Dressed in dirty tracksuits and looking gaunt and spotty, it’s not hard to tell they are resident drug users and opportunists. I have only managed to draw them to the fact my apartment is accessible and it’s not even three a.m. yet. Daylight savings time means we are still in semi-darkness and for some reason that makes them more likely to attempt something.
I know that I’m drawing attention to the fact I can’t get it shut so I push it closed and hold it there with my body, so I am blocking them out. I hope it looks like I’m done, so they will push off, but a peek through the spy hole tells me they have wandered closer and seem to be eyeing up the door, nodding to one another.