I thought things couldn’t get worse.
That was
just silly.
I told
myself I was the .00001 percent, and a retest would prove it. Then I
shit-talked to imaginary Gene Fielding and imaginary Detective Jim Martin,
because buddy, they were going to be so
sorry when my humanity was confirmed. Monsters can’t sue for unlawful
termination, but humans can.
Hell, yes,
they can.
By the time
I got home, I almost felt normal.
I was going
to prove my innocence, and they were all going to kiss my butt.
I was going
to prove my innocence after a bubble bath and some chocolate. And coffee. Lots
of coffee.
Forget the
coffee, vodka, lots of vodka. In fact, I’d fill up the tub with vodka and
chocolate and loll around in it until this fiasco was over.
Dreams of a
vodka bubble bath burst as I tromped up the back staircase to my apartment. The
apartment itself was what Realtors® call “quaint.”
The main
house on Primrose Circle was built in 1908 in a Spanish style. It was on one of
the only hills in Daytona Beach, and just three blocks from the beach itself.
Behind the house, next to a teensy square of grass, was a converted garage. The
top of the garage was turned into a sort of mother-in-law apartment.
It was my
little slice of paradise. I had a small deck on the roof of the garage and I
spent a lot of nights out there, staring at the stars, listening to the ocean, wondering
if any of the wishes I made on them would ever come true.
The interior
décor was 1970s puke green and powder-puff pink. But hey, three blocks from the
beach makes up for a lot of ugly wall space.
There were
two bedrooms. Well, there was a really, really big closet I used as an office,
and a bedroom. Every surface in the office was covered in bookshelves.
I didn’t
have a television at home. I had a tablet and some streaming subscriptions for
when I felt like it. But books were my thing. I worked. I read. Go me. The most
boring person on earth.
I yearned
for the white-picket fence, a Martin-shaped husband, and two-point-four
children, but when reality kicked me in the face, I could always escape into a
book. The people in books always had more interesting lives than I did; and
they always had a happy ending.
The
apartment’s rent was dirt cheap. I’d lived here for four years, and loved it as
much as the day I moved in.
My mom, my
best friend in the world, had a set of keys, and once or twice a week she’d let
herself in and leave a paperback book on the counter, or some gourmet coffee,
or homemade banana bread. Mom was possibly the most amazing human being on the
planet.
“Shit,” I
said. “I have to tell Mom.”
She was
going to want to fix it. Right now, I kind of wanted someone with that energy.
But, before
I could send a text, I noticed the yellow eviction notice on my door. It cited
the Inequity Act of 2021 as reason for terminating my lease early, without
penalty on the landlord’s behalf.
I had three
days to get my crap out.
There wasn’t
any point in going to the landlord’s house and beating on the door. That would
just get me thrown in jail and dragged out in front of the Special Magistrate.
Harassing a human is bad news for monsters.
Until today,
I’d always thought that a fair law. Now I couldn’t even yell at my landlord for
kicking me out.
But, on the
upside, what I did – or used to do – was obviously important. Seems as if everyone read the daily “Who’s Human”
e-news alerts. How charming. Go me.
I ripped the
notice off the door, stormed into my apartment and threw my purse in on my
couch.
Something
wasn’t right.
I smelled
pee.
Since I didn’t
own any pets, unless you counted my wilting Scooby Doo Chia Pet, urine was an
atypical odor in my apartment.
The
tacky-green walls had red spray-paint all over them.
Some of the
most offensive and grammatically incorrect verbiage was sprayed on every
straight surface.
“There’s a K
in that word, asshole,” I muttered at a three-foot tall profanity right over
the couch. “Well there goes the security deposit.”
Rage
throbbed at the base of my skull and my jaw nearly cracked from clenching when
I saw my hand-me-down beige couch was shredded.
Now, that
couch may not have been beautiful, but it was freaking comfy. Mom gave it to me
as a moving-out present. Dad said it was just so she could buy a new one, but I
knew she gave it to me because it was the most perfect reading couch ever.
Mom did buy
a new couch for her office. It was gorgeous. As far as I knew, nobody had ever sat
on it.
I peeked in
the pass-through which separated the living room and kitchen.
It appeared
that every dish I owned was now shattered on the ground. The pink cabinets were
thrown open and more examples of Florida public education were painted on them.
I was
really, really angry. My heart was thudding in my ears, and my fists were balled
up I didn’t have a lot of stuff, but I liked everything I had. Ugly or not, my
crap was my crap.
I wasn’t
sure if I should cry, hide or kick the shit out of someone. I was leaning
toward the shit-kicking someone, and, I had a clue who the someone was. The
landlord, who I could not verbally rip up, had two juvenile delinquents she
called children. Those two hooligans had already run into the law, and it
happened to be while they were spray painting slurs on a highway overpass.
When I
proved I was human, I was going to knock those snots into next month.
My phone
vibrated and I noticed that I somehow missed 16 calls. I hit the voicemail
button and put it on speaker as I went to the bedroom.
I hoped
they’d left my shoes alone. I had really big feet, and shoe shopping was
horrible. If I found a pair of something cute in my size, it was worth celebrating.
“You are a
bitch. I hate you. If you ever call me, I will have you arrested for human
harassment… beep.”
Hm, that
sounded like Rachel, my best friend since second grade.
“I’ve got
something you can suck, vampire… beep.”
Random nut
job.
The slurs
continued. I recognized the voices of a few church members, using anatomically
impossible profanity, to let me know they’d heard of my new status.
I turned off
the voicemail feature of my phone. Texts were now pouring in. I turned my phone
off and put it on my table. I didn’t delete a thing. When I was proved human, I
was taking the recordings to church and playing the messages during the service.
“Sonovabitch!” I yelled.
Everything,
I mean everything, from underpants to novels, was shredded.
“You pissed
on my shoes?” I screamed.
A light flicked on in the main house, as if
someone moved the curtains quickly. I shut up, suddenly scared.
Nothing
would stop them from carting me off as a threat. And no one would prosecute if
they came up here with torches and pitchforks and beat the very human life out
of me.
I left the bedroom, shutting the door behind
me. I wanted to hit something. I wanted to kick something. I wanted to cry.
Screw this. I wanted my mommy.
I grabbed
the phone, turned it on and dialed mom’s cell. It went straight to voice mail.
“Mom, it’s
me, I need to come over and crash for a while,” I said. “Some really bad crap
has happened…. But don’t worry, I’m safe. I’ll explain everything when I get
there.”
I hung up.
The text alerts dinged like the baseline of an EDM song. I turned the phone off
again.
I was a
human being, dammit, and this was so not the way we treated each other.
I sank into
the middle of my teensy living room, on the only clean space on the floor. I
threw the phone in frustration.
“I am a
human being,” I yelled.
“Hmmm, do
you really believe that, darling?” a voice next to me said.
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