Sex + Love

September 25, 2012

What is this Love? Part 8: Pablo’s Apartment

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Written by: Kyle
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Sad Man

This is a fictional series. Catch up with parts 1-7 here.

Ricky and I left my apartment with as much haste as humanly possible after such an ordeal. He was still shaking and I held his shoulders and kissed his neck. We walked and walked, even though taking the subway would have been a lot faster. I think he needed it. We didn’t say a word the entire time, nor did Ricky blink. His eyelids were open wide as he just stared at the pavement passing his feet.

When we arrived at Pablo’s house, Rickey couldn’t bring himself to go inside again. He just looked at the stairs and started to whimper.

“I can’t do it,” he cried as he fell back into my arms.

I was scared as shit, a little pissed off that this was on my fucking plate, and a bit comforted that he was so close to me. I snapped out of it and sat him on the bench across the street; I had to go in alone and see what the situation was. What needed to be done, if anything at all.

I crossed the street, went up the short flight of stairs to Pablo’s front door. It was ajar and I could see a dormant foot through the window down the long corridor. I pushed the door open with my knuckles and entered what felt like the end of my life.

The house was quiet. My fists were still clenched from opening the door. My knuckles were now completely white. I glanced back to see if I could see Ricky across the street on that bench, but I had moved too far into the apartment. I was hoping to see him, before I saw Pablo, at least the rest of Pablo. A pool of blood surrounded his foot that lay at the corner of the corridor wall and leading into the front foyer. A small stream lead to a crack in the floorboards. As I stood there, watching and barely breathing, I could hear the blood dripping into what must have been a room or a basement below. Drip. Drip. Drip. Everything stood still.

As I rounded the corner, more of Pablo’s body appeared. He wasn’t wearing much. Some basketball shorts and a tank top. He had fallen on his back, exposing his bludgeoned face. Ricky really did a number on him, I thought to myself. Shortly after, I started gagging. My head started to spin out of control. I slipped on what must have been blood and braced myself with a chair nearby. Holding myself up, I heard the front door slam shut. My eyes widened and I jerked upright with such force I thought my guts were going to come straight out of my mouth.

“I-I-Is he dead?” Ricky whispered from the front hall. I could have taken the same bookend and beaten him in, for christ’s sake, he had scared me half to death.

“I don’t know!” I loudly jetted back, though trying to keep it at a whisper as much as possible. Pablo didn’t have any roommates or anything, I just felt that whispering was the appropriate thing to do at a murder scene.

Ricky had made it as far down the hall as possible, but, at the sight of the blood, he panicked. I heard a thud and another noise and then a thud again. I peered around the corner and he must have placed his back on the wall and just sunk to the ground into a sitting fetal position. He, again, began to whimper.

I started to think about what could be done. I had just finished the first season of Breaking Bad and thought about the acid and the plastic bin fiasco. It would be messy but would do the trick. Then I thought about Dexter and perhaps cutting up the body would work and make it easier to get rid of. Maybe just stick it in a car and run it off a bridge, like in the Sopranos. Minutes went by as I tried to rehash TV show and movie solutions when I myself started to whimper.

“This isn’t a fucking TV show”, I inaudibly blubbered into my palms.

I was at a loss. I had to go to the cops. It was the only way. I stood up, determined. And as I walked by the body, something gripped my foot.

Look for Part 9 next week. In the meantime catch up on the entire series here.

 



About the Author

Kyle
Kyle
|Contributor & Photographer| MA in cultural and political communications. Currently live in Montreal with my boyfriend and his cat, Shakira. Writer, #hashtagabuser, slow food advocate, culinary master, avid photographer, hopeless romantic, handsome pants, part-time lumberjack, occasional super hero, determined professional, master of witt, and self proclaimed food and wine junkie.




 
 

 
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