Drowning In Shallow Water

~ 1 ~

It was an hour and half later that I sat in a police station giving a statement as to why only family was in pieces on the highway. I had fresh clothes now replacing the ones I had after a fit of hysteria over blood on my clothes. The oversized white t-shirt hung over my shoulders like a curtain, draping down my waist and over the large shorts that looked like umbrellas around my knees.

They had bandaged my ankle, saying it would take about three days for it to heal, which I was thankful for. The pain was only a dull uncomfortable ache that I barely paid any attention to, too overwhelmed by my grief.

I could barely finish a full sentence without breaking out into sobs. The officer finally gave up, deciding that the information I had given was enough, and asked someone to drive me home.

Home. Was it even fair to call it that anymore?

When I got to our apartment, I lingered by the door. I could probably lie to myself and say it was because I had lost the keys but it was because I could not bare to open the door. I stared at the door for close to an hour, the air getting thicker and heavier by the minute. I flinched when the elevator doors down the hall opened with a ding. I kept my head low at the sound of footsteps approaching.

The owner stopped close to me so I looked up. I was surprised to see the landlord, Mr Martin. He was a short man who had lost the hair on the top of his head and would usually cover the bald patch with a cap. He was in his early seventies, spending the rent money he got from the apartment complex on groceries, old brown or grey cardigans and newspapers. He made sure to donate to charity and sent toys to his grandchildren every month, even though they were probably too old for that by now. There were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting too much since he had broken his glasses a long time ago and never bothered to replace them. There were folds on his forehead which I think are because he is so old and wise. His lips are in a permanent scowl which shun people away from him. Despite his grouchy appearance, I knew him as the nicest person I have ever met.

I was afraid of Mr Martin when I first stayed there but Danny made me hand over the rent to him. I fell in love with his impressive collection of historical fiction novels, most of them romantic. He was once a historian, no- a relic hunter- before he retired. He even had some historical pieces in his space, each one with a story I eagerly listened to. After sharing some pumpkin pie with him, we became best friends. I could tell him everything- from my first crush to what's going on in the rumour mill. He was fun to be around.

Mr Martin squinted his eyes as he looked at me before his brows rose in recognising. He shuffled his shopping bags before placing them on the floor with a sigh. He took off his dark grey hat and looked inside it, frowning and mumbling for a moment.

"Nicola, what are you doing standing by the door like that? Did you make trouble again?" The old man said, poking about the hat without sparing me a glance.

I hoped he would not see my red eyes and puffy nose. "No, I ... Danny had the keys..." I said after sniffing and clearing my throat, which was rough from screaming and crying.

Watching Mr Martin poke his hat was very distracting. It was almost as if he was doing it on purpose. He paused, put on the hat and looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there.

"Hmm? Oh. So you were going to just stand there?" He asked, taking off his hat and shaking it. He looked inside again and mumbled under his breath.

"No, I..." I stopped to watch as he hit the hat against his knee. "I wasn't."

He let out a yell, which startled me and made me flinch. He threw the hat on the floor, placed his hands on his waist, sighed, looked at the ceiling, sighed again then went to get his hat. He poked and peered again, put on the hat, stood still for a moment then took of his hat again. I found it all rather amusing.