Perilous

Chapter Three: Everything Comes Full Circle

My fingers trembled as the ominous rings echoed throughout the entirety of my apartment, my morals frailing by the pure desperation of wanting to live. This had been the twentieth time I called Eli, and I knew it was futile, but there was this ounce of hope that entertained my sanity. "Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system..." The robotic voice taunted me once more, prompting my pitiful groan as I clicked the end button. The silence surrounded me, and I stood utterly still, my eyes glancing over the clock.

Leo would probably be arriving soon, which fueled into my pathetic anguish. I was growing desperate by the second, and I couldn't possibly be killed for something so worthless as a shitty boyfriend. Thus, I began to act, rushing into my room and grabbing a large duffle bag out of my wardrobe. The perplexity was overthrowing any possibility of a clear mind, playing into the selection of random clothing items and products.

I zipped it up once it couldn't permit anything else, throwing it over my shoulder and walking into my kitchen. I grabbed the notepad from the drawer and scribbled a note for Leo, hoping it would emit some type of decency on my end. 'I'm sorry I couldn't get the money. I'll find a way to make it up to you. -Viviana.'

With that, I hastily walked out of the apartment, and locked my door. The tranquility of the hallway was even more menacing, since it was abnormal for any quietness to exist in this building. There would always be someone walking up the creaking stairs, or voices to be heard through the paper thin walls, no matter the time of day. And it was rather late, but again, nothing usually ceased the activity.

I guess I would be the torch holder.

And not just the metaphorical torch holder for my apartment building, but also for my decisions. When I was about five years old, my family and I moved to the outskirts of New York for my father's new job. It wasn't an immense culture shock, since Montreal was relatively close and my parents made it imperative to teach me english alongside french. But it did install this adoration for the city, like I was growing more and more attached the longer we stayed. As a matter of fact, I was utterly attached by the time my father lost his job, and my mother fell sick, my longing to stay straining my parents as they packed up our items. Seventeen was far too young to stay in a city all alone, and there wasn't really room for debate.

After all, I was their only child.

So we moved back to Montreal, the place I knew as a child. But in the eyes of a seventeen-year-old, there wasn't any familiarity, nor did I have the desire to leave my room and experience the city like I did in New York. As well, it was the place where mom started going to the doctors countless times a month, and dad was desperately searching for a job. They were distracted, and I was about to graduate from a Canadian school.

Therefore, when graduation day came around, and we celebrated at one of the local restaurants, I told them my plans of going back to New York to become a chef. They bewilderingly shared a glance, my father appearing more displeased than my mother, who grew out of her stern ways from the exhaustion of her cancer. She placed her delicate hand over his as he was about to scold me, giving him a knowing look before pulling this weak smile on her lips.