This dingy little apartment with a leaf-patterned metal grail sheathing a door with buckled hinges that has, no doubt, been broken down before, is still. Its neighboring apartments are heaving with noise, one playing a game show far too loud, that fake laughter amplified enough to drill into One’s skull – the other apartment is no better ; generally men, but occasionally some women, go there to get tattoos. Or something. There’s a lot of screaming, whatever he does.
No. This apartment, this dim, drab little apartment is still. It makes as much noise as any other room, but its noise is the sound of suffocation.
A small woman comes to the door, wearing a dressing gown and a permanent cigarette fixed between her fingers. Her eyes are large, her cigarette-adorned hand stumbled and pushes against the wall next to her with a certain dizzied grace. She’s drunk, but she copes well with it. Most alcoholics are very good at holding their liquor. High tolerance.
❛ Can I help you? ❜
Her accent sounds like she’s just dropped from a champagne party at Buckingham Palace. Queen’s English, marred with slurred endings to her words – but otherwise crisp. She opens the door, wide eyed – she has not spoken to anyone in days and that harsh mask she wears is lost, scattered and torn about somewhere in that ugly damned apartment.