Fractured Reality

Vivian’s going to kill me! What am I supposed to say when she asks where I’ve been? Or does she already know what happened to me, and I’m the only one in the dark? I mean, looking as messed up as I do, maybe I really am crazy. Maybe I don’t even know what’s going on around me anymore. Early dementia, like Nietzsche, only with the dull mind of a factory worker.

Billy Jones waved away his spiraling thoughts, feeling exhausted. Just then, he ran into Lilu in the stairwell (better known by her real name, Carry Web). She must’ve taken his gesture as a greeting because she flashed him a flirty smile and said, "Hello, sweetheart."

Billy forced a smile in return.

Lilu was wearing a stylish belted coat and had a thin scarf wrapped around her neck. She strutted past him in her red pumps, slipping a little card into his jacket pocket as she went. Billy couldn’t help but wonder how she managed to walk so confidently on heels that high. She had a red beret perched on her peroxide-blonde hair. Like many women these days, Lilu lived a double life. Publicly, she was known as a journalist for the infamous underground magazine New York Rebels, but privately, she led a scandalous life, where men could indulge their fantasies with—and on—her, as long as they paid the right price.

The beautiful Lilu was clawing her way to the top, aiming for Morningside Heights, the exclusive haven of the ultra-rich—a safe refuge in the anarchic borough, and much like Central Park, a place of myth and longing for those stuck in the abandoned parts of the city.

Though fulfilling men’s desires seemed like a pretty simple job, Billy couldn’t help but admire her drive. Lilu was willing to do whatever it took.

As the front door closed and the last hint of her sweet perfume faded, Billy checked the card she’d slipped him: her alias, her private phone number, a fresh lipstick kiss, and… another faint whiff of her perfume.

In the dark hallway, Billy fumbled around for the light switch, the one whose tiny indicator had been broken since he’d moved in, and his hand brushed against the neat row of mailboxes. He sniffed the card one more time before dropping it into a neighbor’s mailbox. The last thing he needed was for Vivian to get the idea that he’d spent an evening—or a week—with Lilu.

On the sixth floor, Billy stopped in front of his apartment door and started searching his pockets for his keys. Over and over, he reached into the same pockets, but after a while, he gave up hope of finding them. His whole keychain was missing. Just like his car. Just like the creepy woman. Just like the last week. Billy stared at the door, lost in thought.

Come on, get a grip. Can I remember Christmas last year? No. The year before? Not even close. My 18th birthday? Nada. My last birthday? Completely wiped. The last week’s just another blank memory, erased earlier than usual. No big deal. Amnesia, dementia. Take your pick. Nothing to panic about.

Billy rang the doorbell and prayed that Vivian was home. He knocked, waited, and rang again.

But nothing.

No flick of a light switch, no soft footsteps floating across the floor. The only sound behind the door was the loud buzzing of the doorbell he kept pressing.

"This can’t be happening. Come on, Vivian! Open up!"

Is she still at the Elysian? Again, I mean. Where the fuck is she?

Suddenly, he heard screaming from behind the door.

He froze. His finger hovered over the buzzer.

The screams of a baby.

What on earth is a baby doing in our apartment? Vivian doesn’t want kids, she can’t have kids—she’s way too self-obsessed for that. Did she get a nephew or niece during this lost week I somehow don’t know about?

The door flew open.

The chain caught, pulling it to a stop.

Strange eyes peered through the crack.

A young woman in a cream-colored cotton nightgown stared at him in shock. Her hair was a mess, her face tired and crumpled, begging for sleep.

"You crazy?" was her first question—sharp, cutting. Then, in heavily accented, broken English, she added, "You have explain why so late you ringing bell."

Instinctively, Billy glanced at the name on the doorbell.

Giacconi family.

"I—" Billy stammered. "I’m so sorry! I must’ve gotten the wrong floor! I just wanted to get into my apartment!"

"Idiota," snapped the Italian mother, running on three months of no sleep. "Guarda cosa hai fatto! Sei un idiota!" Then, back in English: "The baby scream! No half-hour of quiet we get. You know how long it take to make this stupid screamer sleep?" She started to slam the door, but Billy wedged his foot in just in time. He’d spotted something in the hallway behind her that grabbed his attention.

Am I actually losing it? Is she right? Am I crazy?

A wave of nausea hit him. He felt a cold shiver down his spine.

"Tesoro, chiama la polizia!" she shouted into the apartment.

With exhaustion weighing down his legs, Billy stomped across the floor. The husband—a giant of a man, a brute—loomed over him. "Che sta succedendo qui, Emilia?" The guy was barefoot, and with a single powerful kick, he forced Billy’s work boot out of the door gap. Billy’s toes throbbed as if he’d smashed them against the edge of a bed. The furious husband slammed the door shut, only to open it again after the chain clicked free.

"32nd Street, sixth floor?" Billy asked, his eyes welling up.

"Yeah, that’s where we live, cretino."

"Wrong," Billy yelled back. "I live here!"

Or do I?

He glanced over the guy’s broad shoulder into what was supposedly his (or their) apartment. No doubt, the furniture had changed, but familiar memories clung to every inch of those four walls, desperately waiting for him to recognize them. Like the deep dent in the floorboard—the one caused when Vivian had dropped the big wall mirror during their move. It had shattered into a thousand pieces. Seven years of bad sex, she had joked. But instead, fate had opted for none at all.

All bad things come with a silver lining, right, Buzzy? So why can’t I find the good part now?

And then there was the hole in the wall, where plaster crumbled with every tiny vibration. That hole had been the result of a failed attempt to hang their life-sized wedding portrait in a massive wooden frame. Or the dark stain on the ceiling from the time water had dripped through during a pipe burst.

It had to be his apartment! Or were they someone else’s memories that he carried around in his head?

"Are you subletting? Do you know my wife, Vivian Jones?"

"Vivian?" the overweight Italian man grunted, taking a step closer to Billy after barking at his wife to finally deal with the damn crying baby, whose wails seemed to irritate him more than the uninvited guest.

Billy wanted nothing more than to hurl himself down the stairs in sheer terror, but it was already too late for that. The man grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

"I know Vivian, you weirdo," the man growled, his face so close that Billy had no choice but to breathe in the man’s foul garlic breath.

"She used to live here. But she moved out a few days ago."

"Moved out? Why?" Billy croaked.

After the accident and his missing week, Billy could imagine the present taking any twist, anything! But even with all his expectations, he wasn’t ready for what reality hit him with.

The husband wrinkled his nose and gestured for Billy to stay put. Moments later, he returned with a newspaper, slamming it against Billy’s head before shutting the door in his face for good.

Billy bent down and picked up the latest issue of New York Rebels, holding it open in both hands.

What the front page revealed horrified him so much that he couldn’t help but scream.

Louder than the baby.

New York Rebels

Driver Trapped in Burning Car

Car Crashes Into Tree/Driver Burns to Death

Brooklyn Navy Yard. A wrecked car, nearly $28,000 in damages, a streetlight, and a human life. These are the tragic costs of a traffic accident that took place last Monday evening, shortly after 6 p.m.

The victim, 28-year-old factory worker Billy Jones, for reasons still unknown, veered off a side road in New York Harbor and crashed into a streetlamp. According to police reports, the impact likely knocked the young man unconscious, leaving him unable to escape the damaged vehicle before it caught fire. Investigators believe the fire was caused by a damaged car battery, though the exact cause of the accident remains unclear. An autopsy found no evidence of drugs in Billy Jones’s system.

Following the emergency call, multiple rescue units were dispatched, including several emergency response vehicles and ambulances from Brooklyn, the local fire brigade operated by Thandros Corporation, and the NYPD. The area was closed off for roughly two hours, making it even harder for harbor workers to get home that night.

Billy Jones's funeral is set to take place tomorrow, December 28, 2050, at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

By Carry Web