A day and a half after having been fired from her cleaning job Kayla is splayed out on her bed gazing up at the ceiling. Dawn is just about breaking. Normally Kayla would be up and about by now but that was when she still had a job, income and Antrej pills. Now she has no of those things. Before long she’ll be evicted and forced to sleep on the streets. Few homeless people survive for any great stretch of time before turning up dead in the gutter of some long forgotten street that sees little traffic.
Kayla doesn’t know what to do. She could try and find another job if it were not for the Antrej withdrawals she’s suffering. The former cleaner even delayed taking her last two tablets as long as she could. That was when the pain was at its worst and it felt as though the metal socket grafted to her arm, into which her mechanical limb is docked, was about to tear free. It’s why the sheets of her bed are stained with sporadic patches of dark red from the bleeding. Arguably the pain she feels now isn’t much less than she felt shortly before taking her last dose. If she doesn’t get some Antrej soon she’ll lose the use of her replacement limb and perhaps her life. Part of her doesn’t care, not a lick. In fact, death might be a welcome rest. An eternal but welcome one nonetheless.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get up and get moving. Take some painkillers, whatever you have, and go look for a way out of this mess. You can get through it. You’ve done so before. These statements are but some of the things that bubble to the fore in Kayla’s mine, uttered by a voice that isn’t quite her own but which is definitely part of the more positive side of her subconscious.
Nah, you’re done. You might as well give up. No one’s going to hire you. They’ll do a check with Hector. He’ll do you no favours. If the bastard was going to he would’ve told you about Ms Ackerson. But he didn’t. He doesn’t care if you sink. No one cares. Not even you. Admit it. Go on, you know you want to. Admit that you want out. You might have accepted it but it’s not real until you admit it. You’ll feel better if you do. You’ll feel as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Do it. Do it! These are thoughts serving as devil’s advocate to those that previously rang in her head. Kayla finds them more suited to her current mood and is about to admit, aloud, that she gives up when a thought enters her head.
Her smile splits wide. She’d be lying if she did not admit that her thoughts scare her. Though, makes little to no effort at moving them on. Rather, she embraces the idea that was wormed its way into her brain.
Part of the reason as to why Kayla feels inclined to listen to this idea is due to the fact that she is withdrawing from Antrej. It has a tendency, a side effect really, which inclines those withdrawing from it to begin embracing ideas that would otherwise sound insane.
Sadly, Kayla is unaware of this and so to her, in this state which she is currently in, the thought sounds like a sound prospect. That prospect being to extort monies out of Ms Ackerson in exchange for Kayla’s silence. After all, there is no way the wider public, her neighbours chiefly, will be aware of the antics Ms Ackerson gets up to and indulges in. Not in that type of neighbourhood and with the reputation the middle-aged brunette has built, no doubt carefully, over her lifetime. Such stories getting out would create a scandal. One that Ms Ackerson would undoubtedly be willing to do anything to keep hidden from those she feels have no right to know.
With difficulty and her mind set, Kayla struggles off her bed and onto her feet. She has little energy. That won’t do, she thinks and so shuffles to her small bathroom occupied by shower, basin and toilet. A cabinet, slim and narrow with a mirrored door, sits above the sink. Kayla doesn’t dare gaze upon her reflection and instead elects to keep her eyes averted as she flips the cabinet door back to reveal a sparsely populated trio of shelves.
The former cleaner grabs the bottle of painkillers, clearly marked, and with little effort pops the lid and downs four tablets. It’s double the recommended dose but Kayla is used to Antrej which is a strong drug. Those four tablets should be enough but on the off chance they aren’t, Kayla pockets the bottle and shuffles back out of the bathroom and toward her kitchen area.
Her apartment is of the studio variant, all she could afford with her having to buy Antrej. Her phone rings. The grey slab screen facing upward glows brightly as it judders across the kitchen countertop. Kayla briefly glances at it to find the ID reads the name of her bank. She snorts in a humoured yet downtrodden manner but otherwise ignores it. Before long the call is diverted to voicemail. Kayla continues to feel spent and so stands with her arms braced against the countertop for added stability. Her phone vibrates without a ring this time to signify that she has a voicemail. Kayla shakes her head only to instantly regret it because she feels as if she is about to pass out. Her head falls forward; she catches herself and stops her forward stationary stumble. A quick series of blinks follow and yet Kayla can only guess how long has passed because the pain that was previously cutting is dulled and her throat is dry.
The black haired woman settles on movement being a decent option and to her surprise finds herself more capable than she anticipated. B-lining for the fridge Kayla pulls a carton of milk free and downs a good half of its remaining two thirds contents. The cool refreshing milk does wonders to awaken and reinvigorate the woman who recalling her decision for undertake blackmail feels there is no time like the present to get the ball rolling. With that and a renewed vigour caused by the ingesting of the milk, the former cleaner does an about heading for her bed.
Once there she settles on donning heavy boots, her still wet coat that she never laid out to dry and a baseball cap that is a leftover from one of her exes. She doesn’t remember which one. Tommy seems the most likely candidate as he incessantly wore the things but she could be wrong. All her memories have blurred into one. That is another side effect of Antrej’s withdrawals. This one she is fully aware of but having already moved onto other thoughts, the former cleaner departs her apartment.
Upon closing and coming to lock her door she chuckles to see an eviction notice pinned to her door. Its presence explains the scratching sounds she heard some time ago. She can’t recall when exactly because of the fog in her head. It matters little she decides. She can always get another home. She can’t get another life. This one is the only one she’s got and not inclined to let it come to an end yet means she needs to get some capital and fast. Blackmail, as wrong and illegal as it is, is the only option available to me, she assures herself.
With Kayla having reconfirmed her decision she turns and saunters down the corridor heading for the elevators which will carry her down some forty floors to ground level. Still, there is no getting away from the wet sensation of blood as it leaks from the tattered tears in her flesh around where the socket has been grafted to the remains of her left arm. If not for the painkillers Kayla would be howling in agony right about now. Instead, she is simply wincing absentmindedly and repeatedly as the strikes of pain tear toward her brain in constant remind.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 