Free The Apartment by S L Grey

basic bond of decency in this “house swap” scheme. Steph bought these people fresh sheets, for God’s sake! In exchange, we get a dingy warren with
buckets of human hair
in the closet.
    I want to rail and yell and demand retribution, but nobody cares.
We
blundered into this arrangement sight unseen and it’s only our mistake—my mistake for encouraging it. I could have snuffed the idea out when it started.
    Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve. Didn’t.
    I hurry into the kitchen and grab a roll of trash bags from the murk under the sink and dodge out again, but not before Steph can say, “What do you need all those for? It’s just a mouse.”
    I pull a face. “Looks like it’s been there for a while. Thought I’d better wrap a couple of bags over my hands when I scoop it up.”
    “Yuck. Strange that I didn’t smell it.” She smiles. “Thanks for clearing it up, Mark.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
    But it’s not nothing.
    I don’t know how I would even begin to explain to Steph what this means without sounding morbid and weird. Of course she knows the basics about what happened to Zoë and Odette, but not the details. How could I even start?
    Back in the apartment’s bedroom, I fit a bag over the mouth of the first bucket, as carefully as possible so that I don’t have to touch any of it, and tip the whole thing over.
    Again, I check over my shoulder to see if Steph’s going to catch me in the act, but by the sounds of things she’s back rooting through the kitchen cupboards.
    I carefully empty each of the buckets into the trash bags, tie the tops up, and stack the buckets back in the closet. Despite my care, a few loose strands wisp into my face. My arms and hands tickle where it’s touched my skin, long after I’ve wiped it off. I feel…things…walking over me. Tiny, invisible things. Microbes. I try not to think of it; thinking too much sends an icy finger trailing down my spine. I’ll get these bags out and then have a long shower.
    I slip on my shoes, not bothering with a coat, and creep out of the apartment, gruesome cargo bumping softly against my legs. I call out something about heading for the trash cans, then pick my way down the narrow stairs, my phone in my left hand lighting my way and the three black bags in my right fist extended as far away as possible, clutched like three oversize human heads. Out in the courtyard, freezing rain is filtering down from the small rectangle of sulfur sky. There were some green trash cans parked out here earlier, but now they’ve vanished. I consider taking the bags out to the street and dumping them, but I wouldn’t want to have to explain myself if anyone were to challenge me.
    Doing what should be done. That’s all I ever want to achieve, and the bloody home invasion keeps on cycling through my mind. Did I do the right thing? I let the fuckers take what they wanted without trying to act like a hero. That’s what everyone advises.
Don’t play the hero. Don’t put up a fight.
If they got angry, they could have tipped over into violence. So I sat there as they prowled around our home as if they owned it. I said nothing. I did nothing. Steph blames me for this, I know, but ultimately she and Hayden were unharmed—I did my job. I don’t want to ask myself what I would have done if they had tried to hurt Steph and…I don’t even want to think about it. It didn’t happen that way and we all turned out okay.
    There’s a weathered storeroom door set into the knobbled masonry a few paces along, its once-green wooden slats peeling and flaking. I peer through the low window but can see nothing through its grimy panes. My face is getting numb from the cold already and my muscles are sore from holding the bags at arm’s length, so I drop them and don’t think quite as much as I should before pushing the door open and entering the room.
    A thick, dank, cold miasma of must hits me as I search fruitlessly for a light