Twenty-Four
Kat
Mama I’m Coming Home – Ozzy Osbourne
The bell above the door chimes as I walk in, the warm air of the record store giving me a pleasant shiver. It’s late afternoon, the sun well on its way to setting, and the store is quiet.
The door creaks closed behind me, the murmur of the street reducing to a light hum. The neon Open sign buzzes in the way old neon signs do, casting a red glow that bleeds across the front window and spills over the first few rows of vinyl, making the plastic sleeves shine like wet paint.
Steve’s Spinners Record Store is one of my not-so-secret pleasures. When I first moved here and had any form of stable money, this is where I spent it. Now I come here whenever I want to get away and quiet my thoughts. Today is one of those days.
Stepping into this little shop is like stepping into another decade—like the outside world gets muted the second the door closes.
The space is narrow and deep, stretching far back from the street.
You’d never guess how big this shop is from its small, unassuming storefront.
Shelves line the walls, and multicolored baskets dot the floor, all overflowing with records.
It’s empty, save for the cashier and a couple at the far end of the room.
They seem to be arguing about whether to buy an Ozzy or Black Sabbath album, each of them holding up their respective choices as they bicker.
I bite my cheek to keep from laughing. I’ve heard this exact debate in this exact shop at least three times before.
Metalheads are nothing if not predictable.
Ozzy era. Dio era. Sabbath versus solo. The arguments never end.
Always Black Sabbath.
I make my way over to the huge rock and metal section.
My fingers brush the tops of the records as I flip through them.
The smell of dust, cardboard, and a hint of damp hits my nostrils as the albums thud together.
There’s something almost meditative about flipping through records like this.
The soft swooshing of the cardboard sleeves, the crinkle of plastic protectors rubbing against each other, the split-second excitement when you flip to a new cover.
Streaming never feels like this, it’s hollow in comparison. We’ve traded convenience for soul.
I’m looking for any copy of News of the World by Queen; I don’t even care what edition it is, just something about that album sounds perfect on vinyl.
I’ve been saving every spare penny from tips and the small amount of money Ryland lets us keep from our Headstone gigs.
I don’t take each treat for granted. The memory of sleeping under the freeway in my patchwork tent is not as far in the past as it sometimes seems.
I have a small collection in my apartment, about thirty records.
They sit on a cheap shelf beneath my record player, which I got for free from Craigslist. Each of the thirty vinyl’s are cleaned and sleeved meticulously.
They’re my prized possessions aside from my guitar.
Before, I had hundreds. Stacks of them. Milk crates filled to the brim, sitting on shelves my dad built for me that bowed slightly under the weight.
I used to spend entire Saturdays lying on my bedroom floor, trying to decide which album was my favorite, and then spending entire Sundays learning my favorite songs from the album on guitar.
My parents never once complained about the noise.
That life feels like it belonged to someone else now. I guess because it does.
I stand up straighter, willing the memory back down as I continue to flip through the records, my heart fluttering every time I hit a Queen album, but continuing when it’s not what I’m looking for.
Queen has gotten me through some of the darkest times in my life.
When I was on the bathroom floor, considering ending it all, Queen and Freddie Mercury were there for me.
Freddie.
I swallow hard. Fuck, I miss that cat.
My chest constricts as my thoughts drift to my best friend. My little orange ball of fluff, and how he used to greet me every single time I came through the door. How he would curl up under my chin when the world and my life got too heavy, like he was sharing the burden with me.
Tears sting the back of my eyes. I take a deep breath, my muscles loosening as I push them back down.
I’ve reached the end of the section, with no copy in sight. Turning on my heel, I grab a post-it note and a pen and write the album and my phone number and slip it into the “requests” box on the counter.
“Kat, hey!”
The greeting cuts through the quiet of the store, making me jump.
I spin to see Nathan standing in the doorway. He’s dressed in a black button-down shirt and matching slacks, looking very out of place in here. Where does he work anyway?
I give him a curt wave. I’m not conversing with him after what he’s done to Harper.
But maybe Harper would want you to find out what’s going on?
“How have you been? It’s been forever,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
Ultimately, I decide to play along. I’ll feed Harper everything later.
“Good, yeah, it’s been a while. Harper’s missing you,” I reply, keeping a careful eye on his features. Something passes over them, but it’s too quick for me to catch. Guilt? Annoyance, maybe? It’s impossible to tell through his sickly politician smile.
“Yeah, I’m actually planning a huge surprise for her, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.” He breaks into a knowing grin.
“Of course,” I reply with an equally knowing grin.
I’m absolutely going to say something.
“Harper mentioned she’d been trying to call you, but she couldn’t get through?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, swiping a hand down his face. “My phone broke a few days ago.”
I study his face, looking for any sign of dishonesty, but he just wears the same exaggerated smile.
“And you didn’t think to tell her?” I push, and this time something flashes across his face, but it’s too quick to identify.
“That’s why I’m planning a surprise for her,” he says, giving me a playful nudge. My body goes taught but of course, he doesn’t catch it.
“Well, this has been sufficiently awkward,” I reply. “I’ll see you later.”
I walk past him and exit the store, but not before glancing back at him. He’s stood in the same place where we spoke, casually flipping through records. Something about the scene doesn’t look right. He’s flipping through the albums too fast to be looking at them.
The door chimes behind me, and the warm cocoon of the store disappears instantly.
The evening air bites at my cheeks. Streetlights flicker on one by one as I head down the block, the sky fading from pale orange to a murky blue.
Cars rush past in bursts of headlights and noise while people rush by on their evening commute home, bringing the streets to life.
I pull my jacket tighter. What the fuck was he thinking? Nathan knows Harper tells me everything. She always has. There’s no universe where he expected me to keep my mouth shut.
Unless…
Unless he wants me to say something.
The thought makes my jaw clench. Is this some kind of power trip, or does he genuinely think I won’t tell my best friend?
I glance at my phone screen. 8:30 p.m.
I’ll definitely be telling Harper at work tomorrow, if he hasn’t already surprised her by then. She deserves to know he hasn’t dropped off the face of the earth before he shows up pretending to be Prince Charming.
Most of the shops are closing now. Metal shutters rattle down over the storefronts as employees lock up for the night. A couple laughs loudly as they stumble out of a bar across the street, their voices carrying through the night.
The walk to my apartment only takes fifteen minutes. The streets quieten down quickly, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.
As I approach my apartment, I rummage through my bag, looking for my keys.
One day I’ll migrate to a smaller one that doesn’t resemble Mary Poppins’s magic bag—but that day is not today.
Pushing aside various lip balms, paper receipts, and something sticky that I don’t remember putting in there, I finally pull out the keys as I arrive at my door.
But then I stop dead in my tracks.
The door to my apartment is ajar. Not wide open. Just… slightly, a thin sliver of darkness peeking through the small gap. My heart stops. My palms go sweaty, and my keys fall through my fingers, clattering to the floor loudly.
I remember locking it.
Or do I?
My brain scrambles backward through the day, trying to replay the moment. Leaving for work, grabbing my bag, locking the door. Did I lock it? Or am I just assuming I did?
I steady my breathing and examine the door. It’s resting on the latch, like I hadn’t clicked it into place before I left.
I bend down and retrieve my keys from the floor, keeping my eyes fixed on the gap in the door as I grasp them between my knuckles.
My heart feels like it’s going to tear through my chest as I peer inside my apartment.
The faint glow from the streetlights illuminates the room enough for me to see.
Nothing looks out of place. No overturned furniture, no open drawers, nothing is different.
The half-eaten bagel from breakfast is still sitting on my counter, crumbs and all, the music magazine I read before work still draped over the arm of my couch.
Everything is exactly how I left it.
I ease into my apartment, every creak of the floorboards making my heart beat harder in my chest. My eyes dart over the space, noting that every item is exactly where it should be. I make my way into the bedroom and the bathroom. Nothing out of place there either.
My heart refuses to slow down. It’s screaming at me that something isn’t right.
I’m so sure I locked the door. My breathing becomes ragged.
The apartment suddenly feels too small, like the walls are closing in around me.
A familiar tingling builds in my fingers.
I gulp in a breath, but it’s not enough.
My chest rises and falls, but it feels like no air is reaching my lungs.
I clutch my chest as I rush to the bathroom, still heaving in deep breaths. After shutting the door, I rest against it and inhale deeply. I realize I’m scratching my arms. Red welts start to appear in lines where I’ve scratched.
Rushing to the medicine cabinet, I pull out a hair tie, sliding it into position on my wrist. My hands shake so badly that I nearly drop it.
I pull it back and snap it against my skin.
The familiar sting loosens my muscles as I slide down onto the floor, my back against the tub.
It takes three more snaps before I can breathe and five more after that to calm my heart. One more, and my mind clears.
If someone had broken in, there would be more evidence. My jewelry, even though it’s mostly costume, would be gone. The small stash of cash under my mattress would also be gone.
I forgot to lock my door. That’s it. I won’t allow myself to think of the alternative.
Because the alternative is that someone was here. And the thought of someone standing in my apartment—breathing the same air, touching my things—makes nausea roll inside me.
No. I forgot to lock the door.
That’s the only explanation I need.