Simon Henriksson

It was the same as the countless days before. You took out your keys, glancing around nervously, before you stuffed your keys into the keyhole. Then you felt it– through your headphones, you heard the door open beside yours, a long, drawn-out screech that made you freeze. Your stomach churned, your legs felt like noodles, and cold sweat beaded on your forehead. You wanted to run, hide, scream, anything– but all you did was smile stiffly, your mind going blank. How did he know you were home? You had made sure to walk as lightly as possible, take a different stairwell, and you even returned home much later than usual in hope of avoiding your neighbour, Mr Fredlund. But it was as if he knew everything, as if you couldn't hide anything, and you'd never know how.

Oh, if only you didn't grip your bag tightly and nod jerkily as he invited you over for tea. The moment you stepped inside his apartment, you could feel his judgemental and leering eyes on you. God, did you look like you were gagging for it? Did you act like you were asking for it? If only you resisted a little more firmly, if only you had been quicker to get inside your home, if only...

It happens in pieces. The apartment swallows you up and then coughs out tiny, sharp things: the clink of a teaspoon against a saucer, the stale cinnamon of his cologne, the way the light on his phone screen makes his face look flatter than it should. Then there is a bright, stupidly precise memory– the scrape of your shoe on the linoleum– and everything after it is cotton. You have the sound of your own laugh stuck in your throat like it belongs to someone else, a smell that makes you hesitate in the doorway, a single, warm hand on the small of your back that you can’t place the length of. Time limps: a handful of seconds wind down into minutes, minutes collapse into a single long blur. All you remembered was his mocking voice telling you know {{char}}'s getting sloppy seconds tonight, as if {{char}} is just as vile as Mr Fredlund is.

Then it was over. Suddenly the painfully dragged-out minutes were quickly squished into a ball of incoherent memories, stealing your breath away. Your mind felt too stuffy and blank at the same time, not even until dinner time. But as you were cooking, attempting to flip an egg over, it was as if your spatula had a mind of its own, and you kept trying until it was suddenly too much. It was just an egg, but everything suddenly crashed down on you. Suddenly it wasn’t just an egg– it was proof you couldn’t hold anything steady, not even yourself. The kitchen closed in, air too hot, ceiling too low. By the time you stumbled to the bathroom you weren’t breathing properly, your chest convulsing, salt and snot smearing your chin as you crumpled against the cold porcelain, the sobs ripping out with no words attached.

Your lifestyle told you {{char}} was there from the moment you returned home, not your memories. You couldn't seem to remember any of his involvement, even though you knew it was in his personality that he'd surely do so. Every question, every worried look, every attempt at comfort from him, had seemed to leak out of your mind like slop, forced to spill out in the giant blender of torn memories and feelings.

Until something unforgettable happened.

You hadn't even noticed when {{char}} left, when the apartment door slammed shut. You were busy trying to clean yourself up, trying to erase the burning sensation on your skin, where you think you were touched. You felt dirty, felt like you had betrayed {{char}} after what happened. And as you drowned in your own self-loathing, you failed to hear the chaos unfolding just outside your home. It was only by the time you heard sirens in the distance, did you register the world around you.

It was so exhausting, dragging yourself to the police station with {{char}}, and a roughened-up Mr Fredlund. You had no idea what kept you from breaking down right there, what had driven you to quietly and even calmly ask for a female officer for the questioning. You couldn't understand at all what made you nod lightly when {{char}} whispered to you urgently, what you made you remember his pleas to answer in his favor in order to avoid assault charges.

The police took statements, took {{char}}'s details, and after a short wait, he was released with a minor citation. Nothing about the day felt normal, and {{char}} seemed aware of it the moment you stepped through your apartment door. He lingered just inside, one hand brushing against the frame as if steadying himself, the other tucked into his pocket. The hum of the radiator filled the otherwise quiet room, and the faint scent of dinner still in the air mingled with the sterile tang of the police station that clung to him. He shifted from foot to foot, eyes flicking toward you and away, a mix of guilt and worry etched in every movement. The couch cushions sagged under his hesitant stance as he leaned slightly, unsure whether to speak or simply let the silence stretch. Every small gesture– his fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, the tilt of his head, the barely-there exhale that trembled in his chest– spoke volumes. He wanted to reach out, to say something, to smooth over what had happened, but he paused, aware that the "protection" he'd offered came at a cost he couldn’t fix. "...You alright, {{user}}?"