Forty-Two Stairs

Chapter 1: Admitting-3

During the day Owen kept his mattress and box spring upright, propped against the wall. At night, he shoved the furniture to the other three edges of the room and did his best to manipulate the standing ones into prone without causing too much disruption to the apartment below him.

He tried to be as cautious as possible with respect to transferring sound, and he told himself that it was an act of graciousness, not an attempt to rid himself of that feeling of being constantly tracked. But if he was being honest to himself, he couldn’t shake the thought that every time he sat down on the toilet, or every time he opened the fridge, Sebastian was below him, listening and nodding. Enjoying his life “intimately.”

They’d passed on the stairs several times, as Sebastian never seemed to stop moving. Down with empty bottles; back up with groceries. Down with cleaning products, and up with dirty rags. Down with a smile on his face and back up with a pensive expression and a wistful grin. What went on in that man’s mind was anybody’s guess, and apparently, that was just the way Sebastian liked it. Short of a few cryptic phrases and idealistic musings all but whispered as they crossed paths, Sebastian said very little at all.

The day times weren’t so hard to get through. Once the mattress hit the floor, and Owen climbed on top though, that’s when things got tough. Lying there in the dark, still, oh-so-freaking-hot night, with nothing but thought to run wild with him in bed—Owen learned quickly that was when things would be the craziest. That’s when taste reminded him of the acidic sweep of harsh liquids; when his brain reminisced on how easy it used to be to turn off the restlessness. As muscles twitched with the never-ending dance of nerves that were, no doubt, a normal thing for most, but a rarity for those weighted and laden with alcohol-induced stupor; when newfound memory danced in its freedom, and lanced every muse with something painful or foolish…those were the times when Owen fought hardest to turn away craving.

“Just one mickey,” the urges would whisper. “You don’t even have to drink it all. One isn’t going to get you hooked again, that’s a ridiculous thought. You’re stronger than that. Hell, you could even dump the rest if you want to.”

But he wouldn’t. Owen knew that without fail. He could convince himself a shot would help him sleep. Then he’d set the bottle aside; just in case. When that first bit didn’t work, he’d have another. And since he’d already had two, he might as well down a third. With the promise broken and a buzz starting in his head, he’d stare that bottle down and tell himself that since he’d already given in, he might as well polish off the rest. No sense wasting it. He could start fresh later. Problem was, if he let the urges get even that much of a finger-hold, they didn’t let go. And every failure made it that much easier to give in the next time. It was too hard, he’d tell himself. Life was too hard. Everyone had something to use as a crutch, so why did he have to be the strong one? Why did he have to suffer? Why was everything so damned unfair? Then he’d get angry. Self-righteous. The world would be against him and hell, f**k it, he’d show it right back. The just-a-bit-to-cope-mickey would become the it’s-only-fair-twenty-six-er, which would, in turn, become the it’s-cheaper-this-way-forty-ouncer, and the too-far-in-to-stop-sixty.

The cops would come after that, be it temper, disturbance, or another DUI, and the judge had already made it clear that it would be an extremely bad idea for Owen to meet up with him in the courtroom again. He had very little left to lose, but what he did have—freedom, personal choice, safety—were more important than a mere license or cash in the bank.

“I am a pawn of my addiction,” Owen whispered to the ceiling, reciting the script he used to not only remind himself, but to keep himself sane when he was sure he was at the edge. “And I admit that it has made my life a f*****g mess.”

Owen flipped on his side, stared out the window, and did his best to ignore the sheen of sweat that made everything sticky. One day, sleep would come back. With it, perhaps, the desire to f**k or, at the very least, jerk off again. Maybe once he got his license back and could get a decent job; maybe then his brain would be active enough that it would need the rest. For that matter, any job, decent or otherwise, might be enough to weary his body and turn off his mind. Once he found one, then life would get pleasant. Pleasanter, anyway. It would be nice not have to live off the province anymore. Not to have to decide if he could use his loonies and quarters for groceries or save them for laundry.

From somewhere below his open window, a similar divider scraped open, squawking in duress as humidity dug claws into its wooden frame and ordered it not to spread, and Owen frowned and dug his face into a damp pillowcase. He tried to cling to recollection, to place himself back into the time where Eli would be sleeping beside him, the ceiling fan humming above them, and all around their bodies the perfectly cooled, central-air-enhanced night would settle peacefully. When wisps of floral and spice huffed from unseen fresheners and everything was clean and perfect…but for the hidden bottles, and the occasionally hole-spotted walls or lilting door caused by either fury or fumble. Owen clenched his eyelids tighter, and mentally pushed away the negativity that tried to darken his attempt at soothing himself. But it was the fall of gravel, and the slide of something that seemed way too close to be street-level, that had both his eyes widening again. He hadn’t bothered with arranging bedclothes or blankets, stopping only to throw a sheet over top of the mattress before dropping on it two hours prior, so he had nothing to clutch against him when he rose. Nor did he consider clothing, disregarding modesty in lieu of airflow, as he crouched beside the window to see if he could locate whatever it was that had caused the noise. After all, four-storeys above pavement brought his few windows to a level that made looking in all but impossible unless one possessed a working set of wings. Had he not left the window unguarded, he might not have been so compelled to check. But days before he had propped open the one window in the far left corner of the room in search of a breeze. It had seemed fairly safe at the time considering placement and distance.

Once, in a time long past, the window had probably had a lovely view of the street. That was before the choppy addition to the apartment next to him, the apartment that had most likely been the other half of the one he resided in before greed had nudged two from one. On strange stilt-like legs, his neighbour’s kitchen, bath, or whatever the hell had needed the extra metre and a half, now straddled the flat roof of the level below them. That was where the window rested, jutted into the corner of the new addition and his exterior wall, giving Owen a perfect view of cheap siding or, if he craned his neck to the right, the building beside them. It had an old thumb lock, two cracks, and had been painted shut. He’d braved the task of slicing through layer after layer of solidified colour in the hope that increased airflow would bring cooler temperatures with it, and since that time the window had been wedged up with a wooden spoon and a prayer that said spoon would shoulder the weight. It had no screen, but with the thermometer inching past thirty Celsius outside, let alone in, Owen had been willing to risk the insects. The difference in temperature from stagnant room to night air was staggering, and for a moment Owen considered shoving more than just his head through the hole. Until the skitter of stone and shuffle-slide came again, and Owen ducked out of sight. Kids looking for a place to f**k? Stoners looking for seclusion to nod out? Someone who needed a spot to sleep? Suddenly the concept of the open window didn’t seem quite so smart.

Owen watched as what his mother referred to as a “foldy-chair” was tossed onto the roof from God only knew where. It lay there, implement of relaxation posing as folded umbrella, as though it had managed to jump on the roof by itself. He heard the hum before he saw the hair, though while the music was sweet and light and made him smile, it was moonlight softening purple hair into lavender that stole Owen’s breath. Sebastian advanced over the roofline, in incremental rises that suggested the rungs of ladder beneath him and wiggled over the edge in a way that all but stopped Owen’s heart with the recklessness of it. Shirtless, shoeless, Sebastian brushed his pants free of debris, hauled the chair to a spot where the breeze did magical things to loose, long hair, and shook the canvas clear of its bindings to unfold it into usefulness. With a pleased sound—something that could have been either mewl or musical note—Sebastian dropped into it. Seconds later a lighter was stroked into flame, but it was not brought to lips as Owen assumed it would be. Rather, Sebastian lowered it towards the ground and held it there, until the flame caught and another danced to flickering life within a glass jar.

“Crack,” Owen mumbled. And though the judgement wasn’t his to take, he felt his jaw tighten and his stomach fall as he watched. A shame, he thought. Too pretty, too young, too sweet to be partaking in such a shitty habit in such a potentially dangerous spot. But no spoon was rested over top of the candle. Nothing was held to, or over, or against the wick. Instead, Sebastian put both hands behind his head, settled himself into the sling of the chair, and lifted his face towards the sky. Tanning by moonlight was Owen’s first thought, as it did indeed seem that ashen skin was absorbing the blues and purples of the light source above it. And just as the sun managed to toast and caramelize flesh so aesthetically, so too did the moon on Sebastian’s look so very damn fine. A familiar, yet too-long-quiet sensation washed through Owen’s blood, and goose bumps rose on his arms. Cheap vanilla-heavy wax drifted along with barely moving air currents, and though the quality of scent was nothing like what Owen was used to, it had an ice-creamy, home-cooking sweetness to it that almost brought tears to his eyes. It made him forget sweat and musty corners. It teased the flush that had started on Owen’s skin into a chill that was so relieving, Owen shivered. “Why don’t you come out?”

Sebastian’s words stunned Owen into a childish drop below the window frame, as if that would, somehow, though too late and obviously pointless, hide him from sight.

“On a night like this it’s so much nicer out than in. Especially as high up as you are. In the winter you’ll thank us for our heat though.”

There was the possibility that if he sat there long enough, stayed quiet long enough, Sebastian just might believe he wasn’t really there. Owen held his breath as if the all but silent sound might echo and give him away. Regardless, Sebastian continued talking as though Owen was staring him in the face, his voice just shy of loud, his intonation one of bored amusement.

“Used to be an old guy that lived up there. Only one I ever knew that didn’t mind the heat. Couldn’t get warm enough, he’d tell me. I like that. When two faults work into being one perfect. Don’t you?” Owen rested his head back against the wall, curling his legs up closer to his body, and still Sebastian droned with the sound of a twelve-year-old and the innocent disregard of one a quarter of that. “Stairs got him though. Not right away, mind you. And not literal like. They were too hard on him, hurt his chest as he’d say it. So, he avoided them the best he could. Got people to run for him, got food delivered, that kind of thing. But the more a body rests, the more it wants to. ‘Till it just stops going altogether. Weird, hunh? He avoids the steps to try and save himself, but the act of avoiding it is just as hard, if not worse, than the original problem itself.”