Becoming Chaos

III - Rising Moon Part 3

The wind rushing to my face was crisp and cold. My cheeks got whipped by the rushing breeze as I clung to Michael’s body. We were driving through the Brooklyn Bridge, speeding over the murky waters of East River. Having lived across cities in New York, I developed a liking to the hybrid suspension bridge that connected Brooklyn and Manhattan.

When I was younger, I loved staring at the Neo-gothic stone towers that held the cables of the span and the arches that gave it character. Riding with Michael on his motorcycle, I found that I loved the bridge still. The midday sun gave the structure a weird orange glow, despite it being made from gray stone.

“Where are we headed?” shouted Michael over the sound of the rushing wind. His voice sounded muffled as he spoke against our speeding.

“Glenmore Avenue,” I replied and hoped he heard me right as I did not want to get lost in New York city with a boy I just met. You are on his motorcycle, Kay, I thought and shrugged my worries away. Pre-Vladimir, I would have panicked at the thought, but now that I believed that there’s more to everything than meets eye, I barely cared that I was strolling through NYC with a stranger.

Michael throttled so hard that the trip was made short. I barely had the time to process why we were going to my place. Buildings rose and fell on my either sides as we passed avenue after avenue. We slowed down once we reached Euclid. The traffic got more congested as we passed through the car-lined road. On either sides of the asphalt pavement were young but dead trees. Their branches were splayed into the sky like nightmarish webbed fingers clawing at the void. Michael finally made a slow turn from the dainty Pine Street into Glenmore Avenue.

“We’re here,” I announced as soon as I saw the bricked walls of my apartment building. A tug pulled at my heart as I looked at the orange-colored boxy structure. Taking the helmet off of my head, I dismounted from the motorcycle.

Michael shook his head free from the full-face helmet. His dark hair was tousled. “I hate helmets,” he said as he ruffled his hair with his gloved fingers. He slid his leg over the tank and righted the motorcycle with its center-stand. He took the helmet from me and shoved it back to the compartment box with his. Pulling the gloves off of his hands, he threw them on top of the gas tank. “Shall we accomplish the move today? Or shall we wait for a new leap year?”

My eyes rolled. The leather jacket and disheveled hair made Michael look like a bad biker boy and I hated it. It did not help that he was staring at me with his piercing forest eyes. I resisted the urge to lunge at him with tremendous effort. “Follow me,” I said and walked away from him.

“Down the rabbit hole, tiger,” he announced as he took stride.

I trotted through the cemented walkway and pushed the wrought-iron gate that barricaded the perimeter of my apartment, Michael on my trail. My eyes widened as the door gave away easily. I used to struggle to push the door open as it was heavy and the hinges were probably rusty, but now, I did not even break a sweat. Shrugging, I stepped through the entrance. A hand caught at my wrist. I looked behind and saw Michael, his fingers around my forearm.

“Hold on,” he said, his eyes alert like a hunting dog’s. “Let me go first. Stay behind me.” His voice was a notch deeper that I did not complain. His face was set hard like the cold Angel that he was; all expressions wiped from his features. His jaw twitched as he surveyed the hall of the apartment.

I followed his line of sight. In my eyes, everything seemed fine. Everything about the place was in order, even the smell was the same. Like gasoline and sugar. Dust motes were floating in the air, made visible by the streak of light pouring from the circular window looming over the wooden stairs. “You know this is where I live, right?”

He did not answer. Instead, he stepped in front of me as though I did not exist. He took his hand off of my wrist and continued to the hall. The old wooden floor creaked under his black combat boots. His head turned left and right as he passed one door after another. He looked back at me and pointed his fingers skyward as though asking if I lived upstairs.

I nodded. The apartment building was five levels high. Each floor housed at least ten units. My studio was on the topmost floor, on the furthest end. A sign was hung on the wall just before the stairs. No visitors except family. Visiting hours: 10am - 8pm. No dogs.

No dogs. The words leaped at me. I shook my head and turned my gaze back to Michael. His back was unto me as he started to the staircase. With a sigh, I followed him. He took the stairs two steps at a time. It was just past noon, so the apartment was almost empty. I was thankful that most of my neighbors worked during the day as I did not want them to see me with Michael. It doesn’t matter now, does it, Kay?

We passed landing after landing in swift succession. Every floor looked the same. The walls were covered in cheap gray wallpaper that gave the place a depressing atmosphere. The flickering and almost burned out fluorescent lamps added to the apartment’s dry appeal. Wooden doors with peeling paint were shut closed along the corridors. A faint noise from the lower floors comprised of television sounds and random rustling underlined the air. The fifth floor was entirely empty as all the doors were padlocked from the outside. Despite the peace and quiet, Michael’s composure was tense as though he took too much coffee.

“Turn right,” I whispered. Looking ahead, I skipped the last step of the stairs. I inched closer to Michael. “The landlord just changed the lights,” I said as I pointed to the dead bulbs that were supposed to illuminate the hall. A slow wave of anxiety crept through my skin as I wondered why the lights were off.

“Stay close,” he said, drawing something from the breast pocket of his leather jacket. I craned my neck to have a better view of what he was holding with his fingers.

It was a feather.

Not like any I have ever seen. It was gold unlike his wings. I itched to ask what it was for, but I stopped the moment he raised it in the air. A sudden burning glow burst from the feather. It lighted the halls better than any LED bulb has ever had. The golden light brought color to the otherwise depressing corridor. As I stared at the blazing feather, I felt a strange sense of calmness that I have not felt ever since I got bit by Vladimir. As if by some sort of magic, the anxiety that had begun to take over me disappeared in a click.

Michael looked back at me, but did not say a word. He moved forward, flashlight-feather in hand.

Flashlight-feather, LOL, I thought as I followed him.

For some reason, I felt like we were in some kind of movie. I remembered a scene from a motion picture that I once saw. It had a similar scenario like the one we were in. It did not end well for the protagonist. Swallowing the pooling drool at the back of my mouth, I took a step.

Michael turned his head and looked at me as though I killed his dog. “Your heels,” he said eyes wide. He was light-footed like a cat and there I was wearing heels, stomping my way through old wooden floorboards.

“Sorry,” I muttered under my breath. Bending down, I took my shoes off. I tip-toed and trailed behind Michael. A low ringing reached my ears as we walked like turtles to my unit. It was at least thirty feet away, but it seemed more like thirty miles. We reached the door to my apartment in what felt like forever. My eyes widened as I saw that the door was slightly ajar. No light spilled from the inside. “I am sure that I locked the door when I left,” I whispered to him.

Michael made a half-glance at me. “I told you. Vladimir might have come by.” He pushed the door open. Raising his hand higher, he shone the golden light upon the cramped space that was my studio unit and stepped inside.

I entered the room after him. I flicked the light switch on the wall, but it too, was dead. The golden light from the feather illuminated the darkness. My unit was at the furthest corner and was attached to the firewalls to the side and back, so there were no windows. The golden glow cast an ancient atmosphere over everything inside my unit. I looked around. “That’s strange,” I said.

“What is?” he asked, his tone deeper. For once, I felt surprised that Michael was all business and not acting like a child.

“Everything is as I left them,” I said as I saw the half-empty cup on my small kitchen table. Living alone, I did not have the urge, nor the money, to rent a bigger apartment. My crib was just a mishmash of a futon bed, a square table and some chairs, a small TV and some kitchen appliances. At the far end of the unit was the toilet and bath, beside it was a closet full of my clothes and stuff.

“I think we’re clear,” announced Michael. He loosened his stance and straightened up. His hand was still lifted in the air, holding the glowing feather. “However, move fast. Vladimir might still be around watching and he can attack anytime. Grab what you need and let’s go. We shouldn’t stay here for long.”

Without much thought, I raced to the side of my cushion and felt for my phone charger under the covers and pillows. I placed it in my purse as I soon as I found it. Rushing to the back, I opened the double doors of the closet. A mirror was hung at the back of the right door, and a calendar was on the left. I looked for the biggest duffel bag I can find and shoved all the clothes and underwear that I could. I ditched my stilettos in favor of my Chuck Taylor’s. Subtle noises told me that Michael had walked further inside. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him going through my mini pantry.

“What are you doing?” I mouthed.

“I’m investigating.”

“The chips?” I asked, incredulous. So much for not acting like a child.

He waved his spare hand, dismissing me. “Faster, Summers. We can’t stay,” he repeated.

I sighed. “Well, perhaps if you helped, we’ll be out of here sooner,” I said and realized that it was a lost cause. Michael was running his fingers over the shelves, not paying me any attention at all. I sighed again. “I’ll just change my clothes.” I went to the bathroom as I didn’t want him to see me naked. Closing the door of the cubicle as soon as I entered, I stepped out of his jeans, boxers and shirt. I tossed his clothes to the hamper and contemplated if I would take a bath. My skin was itchy and sticky. I stepped under the shower head and washed the grime off of me. I did a quick a lather and rinse without bothering to shampoo my hair. Grabbing the towel, I patted myself dry. Clothed in my own stuff, I felt more like myself. The familiar scent and feel of my own underwear, blouse and jeans gave me an overwhelming sense of security. I felt at home and it was glorious. Stepping out of the bath, I saw Michael standing in front of my closet.

“Are you really planning on taking my mirror?” I asked as I dried my hair with my towel. Michael was looking at my closet with a strange look. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open as though he saw a ghost. A ghost wouldn’t scare an Angel, I thought. “What’s wrong, Michael?”

“It isn’t June eight, is it?” he asked without looking at me.

“It is the eighth of June today. Is something wrong? Why do you look like that?”

He looked at me, his face painted with dawning horror. “I was wrong,” he said.

“Well, that’s a first,” I said, making sure I sounded as patronizing as I can be.

“No, you don’t understand,” he said. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. “I counted wrong, K. You do not have until tomorrow’s eve. The full moon is tonight. In seven hours.”