Stonecrop Magazine

Jessie is a friend.  She currently resides within an apartment complex on 949 E. Warm Springs Avenue, though if you looked right now, you’d only see a grassy field of stone crosses.  She lives six feet underground, alone, in a suite with her name on it.  It’s not often that you can find a residence that’s named and built specifically for you.  But ever since she’s moved in, all she’s been interested in is herself.  She doesn’t desire to meet with anyone else in her life, myself included.  All she wants to do is sit inside and rest.  What was once an active woman with a promising life has become nothing but a disappointing shut-in. 

She first settled into her new abode about two months ago, a week after her ribcage had a rather violent disagreement with a speeding truck.  It was their first and last discussion with each other; Jessie needed to cross the road for groceries, and the driver on his phone needed to pay more attention to the red stoplight ahead of him.  This momentary conflict of interest seemed to change Jessie somehow, and she stopped coming out to see us the next day.  With the help of some men in black suits, she decided to move to her current place of residence, and no one’s heard from her since the sale finished. 

I sit at her doorstep, day after day, waiting for her to open up and greet me.  She never does.  Sometimes, I get impatient and begin to yell obscenities at her, asking if she plans to stay inside forever.  She never responds.  On the odd occasion, I entertain the thought of smashing her door down and dragging her outside kicking and screaming, so that I may safely take a sledge to her goddamned stone sign and rip apart her gaudy flower-adorned doormat and burn the whole fucking complex down to nothing but ashes, right in front of her.  I never do.  Not yet, at least. 

In my bouts of distress, I’ve noticed a vacant suite next to hers, and I often wonder what it might take for me to move in.  It’s a privileged spot, one that costs an inordinate amount for living quarters so simple.  I have the asking price saved up, and I’ve debated on impulse purchasing.  There just has to be something extraordinary about it.  I simply can’t think of any other reason why she’d be so self-absorbed otherwise.  It’s an intoxicating offer, and though my rational side acknowledges the horrifying selfishness of it, it hasn’t left the back of my mind yet.  But I don’t know what’ll happen when I step inside.  And that frightens me most of all. 

All that I really desire is the chance to see her one more time.  I just want a sign, a letter, a mere utterance from her lips that she’ll step outside her home again. 

But it never seems to come. 

And I’m beginning to think that it never will.