Spoiler! :
"Higgins!" a raspy voice barked.
Entwined in a tangle of sheets, Sam cracked his eyes open and winced as sunlight streaming through the window seared his eyeballs. His head ached directly behind his eyes; he had a hangover. Maybe, he thought wearily, if I pretend not to hear him, he'll go away. Oh, please, go away. A tense silence settled over the room as Sam buried his head in the sheets and closed his eyes against the invasive light.
"Higgins!" The grating voice was much more urgent this time. Sam groaned and attempted to move, but he felt like his body had been thrown from the top of of a building and had tumbled through the air until he had finally landed, sprawled and shattered, on his mattress. He couldn't feel the muscles in his legs, and his chest felt dense. He sucked in a breath of air, grimacing as it trickled around in his chest, awakening his stagnant nerves.
Get up, he told himself. You need to get up.
He finally convinced his reluctant body to move, Bare feet tingling as blood rushed into them, Sam dragged his legs over the side of the bed and set them on the floor, rubbing his bleary eyes with his fists. The man at the door had ceased calling Sam's name and had started pounding furiously; Sam heard him swearing beneath his breath. Walking mincingly because the floor chilled his tender feet, Sam teetered to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
His landlord, Mr. Greasley, was standing in the hallway. His ragged purple t-shirt sported an advertisement for a local pizza joint; it was slightly too small for him and clung unpleasantly across his gut. He wore noticeably white gym shoes that showed virtually no signs of wear; it didn't take a detective to see that he wasn't a frequent inhabiter of the gym. A grubby piece of paper was clutched in his left hand.
"Your rent's up," he snarled, waving the piece of paper in Sam's face as he brushed past him into the room. He began looking up and down the room greedily as if it was something scrumptious he desired to consume rather than just a dirty apartment.
"Mr. Greasley, I'm sorry, I just can't come up with the money. Is there any way you could let me stay here for just a few more days while I try to find a job?" Sam detested begging to Greasley. He was cheap and annoying and frankly, he smelled. But the truth was, Sam couldn't find a job. Since he'd lost his factory job two months ago, he hadn't been able to find a replacement. Business owners weren't interested in hiring a depressed, scrubby young man who hadn't the slightest idea what direction his life was going in. Sam had lost his initiative when he'd lost Rosalie.
"No!" Mr. Greasley snapped almost before Sam had finished speaking. "I've already let you get away with a month rent-free, Higgins, and that's only because of my wife's stupidity. Your time is up. Clear out. I've already got a tenant lined up for this place." His tiny eyes scanned the room again and again. Sam felt tendrils of anger writhing in his chest, but he forced them into submission.
"All right, Mr. Greasley. Can I have half an hour to get ready?"
"Twenty minutes," Greasley growled. "And I want you downstairs by then." He turned and swaggered through the door and down the hallway, chunky feet padding heavily against the peeling linoleum floor.
Sam shut the door behind him and clicked the lock shut. Breathing a frustrated sigh, he walked over to his shirt, which lay crumpled in the corner, and tugged it over his head. Well, he thought as he looked at the bleak room, at least I don't have to pack. His hangover swelled uncomfortably behind his eyes, and he sank into his broken chair, staring blankly out the window.
You need to choose, he told himself. Stop putting it off. Be a man.
Massaging his head with his fingers, he stood up again and hobbled to the bed, where he knelt and felt groggily beneath, groping for something. The muscles in his skinny forearm clenched as he hauled out a cardboard box. Opening it, he reached inside and pulled out a stack of at least seven or eight canvases.
He spread them out on the floor next to each other, placing them so that their edges touched like spaces on a checkerboard. When they were all laid neatly next to eachother, he reached up onto the easel and wrapped his fingers around the last canvas, the painting he'd finished the night before. Holding it lovingly in his hands, he laid it next to the others and stood up to look at them.
They were all of her. They weren't exactly the same, but they were very similiar because her face was in every one, her eyes always blissful smudges against her cheeks. His eyes darted from one painting to the next, running over the pale tones of her skin and her slender shoulders, caressing every detail. A potent sorrow brooded in his chest because he knew that he couldn't bring them all with him. The canvases were large and the entire stack of them together would be a cumbersome weight for him to carry. Besides, in his part of town, thieves who noticed people carrying large, bulky parcels usually assumed that there was something valuable inside.
They're really only valuable to me, thought Sam, but that's beside the point. Choose one. Just one.
The headache throbbed behind his eyes and he pressed his palms against them, his cracked lips shrinking away from his teeth as he grimaced not only from the pain of the headache but from the discomfort of the decision he knew he needed to make.
At last, he shrugged despondently. I can't make this decision myself, he thought, so I'll leave it to chance instead. He dropped to his knees, closed his eyes, and trailed his fingers over the paintings until at last they settled on one. Grasping the edges of the canvas with his fingertips, he opened his eyes and looked at the painting he had chosen.
It was his newest one. Inhaling reluctantly, he told himself to to be satisfied. Take this one and be done with it, he thought, trying to convince himself that it was the right thing to do. But as he looked at the others, he realized that he couldn't choose just one. It was either take them all or leave them all behind. The first option was out of the question, and the second one seemed equally impossible. Returning the painting to its spot next to the others, he cradled his head in his hands and scoured his brain for an answer. Still sluggish from the effects of the alchohol, his mind searched desperately but didn't come up with anything until, all of a sudden, he thought of a solution.
Why didn't I think of it before? I don't want to throw them away and I can't take them with me, so they've got to stay here. Mr. Greasley won't let me, but Mrs. Greasley will! I know she will!
For the first time in weeks, hope glimmered in Sam's eyes.
He picked up each of the canvases from the floor and placed them neatly back into their box. Standing up, he glanced around the room, asking himself if there was anything he was forgetting. He was reluctant to abandon his easel, but it had only cost him five dollars in the first place since he'd bought it at a garage sale. It didn't make sense to lug it along. Other than that, there wasn't anything that came to mind.
Wait! How stupid can I be? He walked over to the painting hanging over his bed and gently tilted it out from the wall, cupping his hand beneath it to catch what tumbled out. It was a worn white envelope, a common everyday sort of mail carrier, but it contained his most valuable possession, even more valuable than the canvases. Slipping on his green hooded jacket, he carefully placed the envelope in its side pocket and buttoned the flap over it. After picking up his cardboard box of paintings from the floor, he unlocked the door and stood looking over the room.
He knew he should feel at least slightly sad. After all, this place had been his home from months. But, looking at the apartment, he couldn't muster anything but disgust. Completely devoid of resentment, he turned and walked away.
She sat on the stained concrete steps, a smoldering cigarette drooping from between her withered fingers, slightly graying hair messily hanging in her face. When she saw Sam, she rose to her feet. Flicking her eyes back and forth, watching for Mr. Greasley, she smushed the cigarette into the metal ashtray next to her and walked to Sam, wrapping her arms around him for one rushed moment. When she stepped back, she stared sadly into his eyes.
"Sam, you know I wouldn't send you away if I had a choice. You know that, don't you?" she asked.
Sam forced a smile. "I know that, Mrs. G." That was his nickname for her. He didn't like associating the word "Greasley" with her; she was so entirely different than her husband.
She sighed. "Well, good. I've got something for you before you leave." Reaching into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, she pulled out a Snickers candy bar, Sam's favorite, and pressed it into his hand.
"Oh, Mrs. G, you shouldn't have."
Her grey eyes stared into his. "Yes, I should've. I don't care what my husband says, Sam. You're a good boy. You shouldn't have to leave. You're just having a bad time right now, that's all. You just need somebody to give you a chance. You shouldn't have to go."
"It's okay, Mrs. G. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. There is one thing you can do for me, though." Her eyes lit up slightly.
"What is it?" she asked eagerly.
He motioned to the cardboard box, which he'd set down when she hugged him. "You can keep these here."
She stared at the box for a moment, her eyes running over it again and again, as if she knew what it contained but couldn't remember. Suddenly, a look of realization clouded her eyes and her wrinkled lips frowned.
"Oh, Sam, not your paintings."
"I can't bring them with me. I thought that maybe you could keep them in the basement until I can come back and get them. I promise I will. Believe me." He peered earnestly at her face, watching for her reaction.
She didn't hesitate. Instantly, she nodded and knelt down to pick up the box of paintings.
"Thanks so much, Mrs. G." he said gratefully. She stood looking at him silently for a few seconds until she heard the front door creak open.
"What's Higgins still doing here?" Mr. Greasley barked harshly, his chubby face wrinkling with annoyance.
"Nothing, dear," mumbled Mrs. Greasley. "I was just saying goodbye to him." She looked over at Sam momentarily, and their eyes met. In that instant, Sam knew she that she wanted walk away from the apartment like Sam was about to.
"Well, get him outta here!" Greasley roared. He swore under his breath as he turned and went back inside.
Mrs. Greasley wrapped both of her arms around the box, cradling it, and she and Sam stood on the sidewalk for a few seconds, looking at the front door. Sam nodded slowly, reassuringly, to her, and turned away. She stood forlornly in the sidewalk, watching him as he left, before trudging up the porch steps and into the building.
Sam pulled his hood up, hiding his scruffy face from the world. He walked away from the apartment building without the slightest idea of what he was going to do or where he was going to go.
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