« i didn't think you would actually go out for groceries, » juliet says, floating up beside me as i reach for the doorknob. « are you sure about this, dear? »
i shrug, and hold on to the strap of my off-white double-crocheted cotton tote bag. i check the list on the corkboard with the heading before you leave the flat.
are you wearing shoes? (yes)
do you have a bag? (yes)
do you have an umbrella? (no; i go back to my room and get my umbrella then go back.)
do you have your phone? (yes; it's inside the bag.)
do you know what time it is? (11:29)
— si tu es vraiment inquiet par ma sécurité, alors tu m'accompagnerais, juliet.
he says something about muriatic acid. muriatic acid is one of the things i need to buy.
oh, yeah, the grocery list.
i step back and tear the grocery list off the corkboard. i read it all in one go, just to remind myself:
paracetamol
500 mL soy milk, unsweetened (red cap)
HCl
miso
milkfish
mustasa
tomatoes
garlic
onions
heck, paracetamol. i have to go to the pharmacy for that. that sucks. do i really need paracetamol? i might not get sick at all anymore. after all, i'm rotting up. that should be stronger than any sort of infection that comes at me. in fact, i haven't had a cold in a very long while.
— i don't want to go to the pharmacy.
« comment, chérie ? » juliet asks, from somewhere behind me.
— c'est rien.
« alright. be careful on the way down, and remember there's the elevator on the third floor. »
the university did try to give me accessible housing, and they did a very good job, at least when i was a freshie and better at stairs.
i could always ask for a different room, but that would eventually involve going to the housing office and knocking on doors and talking to strangers and being in small, maze-like spaces. so, no.
besides, if i leave, on whom would juliet and william have to polter?
i open the door and walk out into the corridor.
i can feel my knees locking up already.
i walk down the corridor.
heck, here come the stairs.
i am going to die.
i see it happening every time i look down the stairs — i see myself falling, falling, falling down, my hair coming off and my arms flailing like a doll's. and then my neck will break and i'll keep falling, falling, falling, with my head twisting around, and when i land, my legs will flop over and my feet will hit the ground with a resolute thud.
i hold on to the railing and hop one step down. and another, and another step. so far so good.
oro, plata, mata.
i learned from a housekeeping magazine once that stairs were traditionally constructed in a regular pattern — oro, plata, mata — such that one would always end on oro, that is, on gold.
the stairs here are fucked up, though. they come in multiples of three, so my counting always ends on mata, that is, on death.
i wish i could say i wasn't supertitious, but it doesn't give me any comfort knowing that these creaky wooden stairs have a slightly higher chance of killing me because someone fucked up the traditional counting of the steps.
oro, plata, mata.
oro, plata, mata.
and i am on the third floor. the elevator doors are on the wall to my right.
i stand in front of the elevator doors.
i hate elevators, but at least i hate them less than stairs. i hate them less because they don't involve as much leg movement. of course, i could still die in an elevator. elevators break all the time. i don't know the numbers; i don't want to know the numbers because i'd never forget them. i don't want to know how elevators break. i already know that they could.
where am i going? i'm going to the grocery. i'm going down.
i press the down button; it's a shiny black inverted triangle sticker on a metal button that's on a metal plate on the wall to the right of the single set of elevator doors. it's probably stainless steel, but i'm not sure. it still feels a little cold; not as cold as it used to, and not because the metal is getting warmer, but because i am getting colder. i keep my finger on the button even after i've pressed it. it's comforting.
the doors open, and i step inside the empty elevator. the elevator goes down, and something between my chest and my neck sinks along.
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