Ricochet

I got lucky, moving out from my parents place at the age of 16. Working part time as an apprentice for the local cobbler left me enough money to rent a dingy run down apartment, in someones basement, the kind you live in until you make enough money to live in a dingy run down apartment, not in someones basement, but mentor happened to know someone who was leasing out house that also fell into my price range. Two floors, two bedrooms, big kitchen, storage, even a patch of grass I would eventually tend into a small garden I must admit I am quite proud of. So I contacted the landlord and planned a showing.

The landlord, young bloke named Patrick, was thin and wore oversized clothes that hung off his body like ritualistic rags, doing nothing to hide his protruding ribs. He looked malnourished. Only twink I’ve ever met to pull off heroin chic. Probably in his late twenties. Our conversation, which was had while walking from where he parked to the house, was scored by a soundscape of sparse but consistent gunfire, growing louder as we got closer to the house. “So, how do you know Willow?” “Through work, err… I’m her apprentice” “Oh! So a cobbler?” “In training at least” “Sounds nice. Lost art these days, craftsmanship” He was cute.

He explained to me that he’d inherited the place from his old man, who himself lived there for the last few years of his life. As we approached the door, gunfire peaking in volume, and he was fumbling with his large key chain, I asked: “So how come you’re leasing it out so cheap? What’s the catch?” “It’s kind of difficult to explain? I think it’s best if you see it yourself” As soon as I entered my question was answered. A wisp of air flew past the tip of my nose, just barely missing me, and pinged into the wall on my right. A bullet. A small but noticeable bassy noise reverberated, followed by the smell of sulphur, and the bullet was off again, flying in a seemingly random direction. Where it had hit the wall, a small splintered dent could be seen. The walls, floor and ceiling of the house seems covered in similar dents. Patrick turned to me and spoke.

I now lease from Emma, Patrick’s daughter. Patrick died a few years ago, fell in front of a train. So it goes. Blood is pooled around my shin as I wake up, already mostly soaked into the mattress. I get out of bed and get on with my day. I make coffee, eat breakfast, take the bullet through my shoulder, but I luck out and it mostly passes through an old hole, and put on some brand new overalls. It’s not long before covered in dark scarlet stains. Customers come by and drop off their shoes or pick them up, as I prefer to work from home. They prefer not to look at me, which I respect, so usually they just leave them outside, or pick up the finished ones I’ve left for them in front of the door. As I work the soles of a pair someone just brought in, I smoke a cigarette. Most of the smoke never reaches further than my throat, before leaking out of some old rotten hole.