When you woke up, you were home: a tiny, run-down apartment. [ One of a thousand, honeycombed into a concrete building that looked a century older than it actually was. Cheap housing for the many left without. ] You turned over on the thin pad of polyfill that could hardly be called a mattress and groaned. [ The city's forever-light shone through its singular window— dull yellow, painfully disruptive, partially diffused by a layer of smog that hung over everything like a wet blanket. ] You did not want to wake up. You never wanted to wake up, but that fact was especially true when doing so brought you to a place like this.

       One ear pressed below, you should have heard evidence of the tenants inside. [ Walking, shifting, talking. Music playing. The groan of pipes from an ill-timed shower. How many times have these been described? It's pointless, you know. How can one understand without experiencing? ] One ear facing above, you should have heard evidence of the world outside. [ Lights humming, cars growling, a distant siren wailing, warning of something terrible. Too many people in need. Not enough able to help. Fuckin' sucks, you said, but you get used to it. ] You heard only the sound of your own breathing, but it's been that way since you first arrived. The silence had long since lost its unease.

       You rose from the ground like a ghoul from its grave. The thin blanket fell away, revealing your sweat stained form and the oversized shirt you spent the last week living in— not that you remember. [ Your hair was black and curled and long enough to reach the middle of your chest. Your arms were too thin and marked with scabs and old scars. Your hands were soft and pale, with picked skin and chipped nails. Something dried and dark stained the delicate nerves beneath. ] You pressed your hands into your face, feeling the grease and morning crust. [ Blood, too, but you would not acknowledge it. ]

       You stood and stumbled past the ruined furniture [ Bedbugs, you said. She never got around to throwing the couch out. ], past the run-down kitchen [ The fridge became a prison, or perhaps just a way to keep rotten food out of sight. It did not hide the smell. ], past the bathroom caked in grime [ The water bill went unpaid for three months too long. You all showered at a neighbors unit. After everything, they preferred to sleep there, too. ]. This place was a time capsule of every awful thing you did not experience. You asked yourself, What right do I have to dwell?.

       Tap, tap, tap. Three knocks sounded from the front door, each harsher than the last. You answered