A Room With A View

Chapter Seventeen - Agatha

September 15th, Friday

Agatha Newman stood at her balcony and peered down her nose at the courtyard below. Her hands twisted and curled around each other, her fingers gnarled like a crone's.

     There were loud-mouthed hooligans in the courtyard.

     She had watched them spill out onto the slate floor, whooping and laughing like madmen. They had brought a red rubber ball with them, and were now passing it back and forth.

     It was the first time Agatha had seen anyone use the courtyard, save for that wisp of a girl with her too-curly hair, but Agatha had known that they would come. It would just be a matter of time before someone came to degrade the space and make it a common building.

     Agatha sniffed. She hoped one of the boys would throw the ball a little too hard, a little too fast, and smack their comrade square in the face. She waited, wringing her hands in anticipation, but the ball simply passed gently from boy to boy.

     What an idiotic sport, she thought. In her day, it wasn't a game unless someone's nose bled. She left the balcony and shuffled back inside her apartment, the strands of her grey hair floating in the breeze.

     "Insufferable, meddlesome children," Agatha mumbled. She made her way to the kitchen, using the wall for support. There was a line of grey on the white paint from all the times her aging palm had reached out.

     Agatha's apartment was cramped and cluttered, despite being the largest unit in the building. She had acquired dusty furniture like liver spots, letting it fill up every inch of her life until there was space for nothing else. She had loved antiquing ("They don't make quality furniture anymore, it's always plywood and garbage from that Swedish store."), but her knees had begun to creak and grown, and so she had begrudgingly taken to online shopping, poring over the bright screen late into the night. It was the small pleasure of her day to order the delivery man about the room. "A little to the left. No, my left, you buffoon."

     Agatha swiped the plastic ivy from her face and crept over to the sink. A while back she had given her kitchen a jungle theme. Parts of it still hung from the ceiling and inched up the walls.

     There was a large pot Agatha had been saving for a special day like today. Her grandmother had used it to make stew for her nine aunts and uncles. It had filtered down through the family tree until it had landed in Agatha's lap. She hadn't needed it in quite some time.

     She turned on the tap and waited for the water to become ice cold. She thought about adding actual ice, but that might be a step too far.

     When the water chilled her fingertip, Agatha placed the pot underneath the faucet and waited for it to fill. She knew it would be heavy, but if she pushed it out to the balcony with her feet, she could manage.

     The water sloshed over the sides of the pot. Agatha turned off the tap, and with a great heave, she dropped the pot onto the ground. Water splashed out and onto the tiles, but Agatha didn't mind. Her floors were spotted with all sorts of ungodly things, what was another drip of water?

     She wrapped her crocheted sweater tightly around her shoulders, and slowly pushed the pot out onto the balcony.

     The degenerates were still outside, Agatha could hear them calling back and forth to each other. She smiled, her lips splitting over crooked teeth. She wouldn't be able to pick up the pot and pour it over the edge, but she would be able to tip it into the mesh railing. The water would still hit its target.

     Agatha looked back over the railing, gauging the distance, and stilled.

     The hooligans weren't alone.

     Agatha reflexively clutched at her chest. Her son was outside, standing with his wife on the balcony. His wife looked nervous, her eyes darting every which way. Their children were chasing after the red ball, two little twin boys Agatha had begged to meet. And standing next to her son was...

     Agatha gasped.

     Standing next to her son was his brother. He looked older, and handsome. He was very fit, with that crop of yellow hair Agatha had always adored. He smiled, and Agatha could feel her heart splintering.

     He was with that man, the one who had never been just a roommate.

     Agatha wanted to call out to them, but her voice was too brittle. She wouldn't be heard. And she didn't know what to say. She hadn't spoken to either boy in years. It had been those years that had destroyed her.

     Still, she whispered under her breath. "Neil," she said, "my son."