Chapter 4: Crazies
The scent of frying onions and cumin couldn’t quite mask the lingering memory of stale wine and desperation. Esme stood at the stove, flipping tortillas with practiced flicks of her wrist, the rhythmic sizzle-hiss a grounding counterpoint to the low thrum of the blender pulverizing mangoes. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching dust motes dancing above the worn wooden table. She wore her brightest floral leggings today – armor woven from cotton and defiance. Ignore it. That was the plan. Pretend the cushion incident was a bizarre, wine-fueled anomaly. Forget the sight of June’s tongue dragging obscenely, Willow’s eyes rolled back like a stunned calf.
She focused on the golden-brown edges of the tortilla, the comforting aroma of masa. Normalcy. Domesticity. Just three roommates sharing a kitchen.
A shadow fell across the counter. Willow shuffled in, hair sticking up at odd angles, wearing oversized pajama pants and a thin tank top. Her eyes, still bleary, immediately zeroed in on Esme’s backside as Esme bent slightly to retrieve a plate from the lower cabinet. Esme felt the gaze like a physical pressure, a hot pinpoint between her shoulder blades. She straightened abruptly, plate clattering slightly.
"Mornin'," Willow mumbled, her voice thick. She shuffled towards the coffee maker, but her path veered subtly, bringing her unnecessarily close behind Esme. Too close. Esme froze, spatula hovering over the comal. Willow paused. Not reaching for coffee. Just… breathing. A deep, audible inhale right behind Esme’s hip. Then a soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips, almost a whimper.
Esme spun around, heart hammering against her ribs. "Coffee's fresh," she stated, her voice tighter than intended, forcing a neutral expression.
Willow blinked, startled, a faint blush creeping up her neck. "Oh! Yeah. Right. Coffee." She fumbled with the pot, pouring sloppily, her eyes darting back towards Esme’s legs before she scurried out, mug clutched like a shield.
Esme let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Ignore it. Just… weird roommate stuff.
But the weirdness didn't stay confined to mornings. It seeped into the fabric of the apartment.
Later that afternoon, Esme returned from her part-time gallery shift, dropping her canvas tote bag by the door with a sigh. She kicked off her sandals, relishing the cool tile under her feet. Heading towards her room, she passed the living room doorway. June was sprawled on the couch, ostensibly watching some baking show, but her gaze wasn't fixed on the screen. It was fixed, laser-focused, on the plush armchair – her chair. June’s lips were slightly parted, her breathing shallow and rapid. As Esme paused, unseen, June leaned forward, her hand creeping towards the seat cushion. Her fingers brushed the fabric, then pressed down, kneading it slowly, her eyes fluttering closed as a soft moan escaped her. She brought her fingertips to her nose, inhaling deeply, her expression slack with bliss.
Esme backed away silently, nausea churning in her stomach. It wasn’t drunkenness. It was ritual.
The incidents became bolder, more frequent, stripping away any pretense of accident or intoxication.
Esme would emerge from the shower, wrapped in a towel, only to find June "looking for her phone" near the damp bathmat Esme had just stepped off. June would freeze, eyes wide and dilated, nostrils flaring visibly as she inhaled the humid, soap-scented air near the floor. Her tongue would dart out, wetting her lips, a low hum vibrating in her chest before Esme’s sharp "Find it?" snapped her back to reality, sending her scurrying away with mumbled apologies.
Willow developed a habit of "tripping" whenever Esme walked past her in the hallway. Her hand would shoot out, ostensibly for balance, but always landing with startling accuracy on the curve of Esme’s hip or the swell of her backside, lingering a fraction too long, fingers pressing in before jerking away with a breathy "Oops! Sorry, Esme!" Her face would be flushed, her pupils blown wide behind her glasses.
One evening, Esme was painting in her room, the door slightly ajar for airflow. She was lost in the swirls of ochre and cobalt on her canvas, depicting a vibrant mercado scene. The familiar, comforting scent of linseed oil filled the small space. A soft creak from the hallway made her glance up.
June stood frozen just outside the doorway, not looking in at Esme, but staring intently at the worn rug just inside the threshold. Esme’s discarded jeans from earlier lay crumpled there, waiting for the hamper. June’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. Slowly, almost hypnotically, she took a step forward, then another, her gaze locked on the denim. She knelt down on the hallway floor, just outside the room, her movements stiff, trance-like. Her hand reached out, trembling, towards the jeans. Her fingertips brushed the fabric near the waistband, then traced downwards, following the seam towards the seat. She leaned closer, her nose almost touching the denim, and inhaled with a deep, shuddering gasp that sounded like a sob of relief. Her eyes rolled back slightly, her mouth falling open, a thin line of drool glistening at the corner.
"June!" Esme’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and cold.
June jerked violently, scrambling backwards on her hands and knees, eyes wide with terror and shame. "I—I dropped my earring!" she stammered, voice high-pitched and frantic. "Thought I saw it… near your… your floor!" She scrambled to her feet, not meeting Esme’s furious gaze, and practically ran down the hallway, disappearing into her room.
Esme slammed her door shut, leaning back against it, breathing hard. Her hands trembled. The violation was no longer just visual, no longer confined to discarded cushions. It was tactile. It was predatory. They weren't just chasing a scent anymore; they were hunting the source. The "ignore it" strategy wasn't just failing; it was fueling them. Their desperation was escalating, their inhibitions crumbling faster than she could rebuild her own sense of safety within these walls.
The vibrant mercado scene on her canvas suddenly seemed garish, mocking. The cozy kitchen with its tortilla scent felt like a gilded cage. The hum of the refrigerator in the sudden silence sounded like a warning. She looked at the crumpled jeans on her floor, seeing the faint damp patch where June’s breath had hit the fabric. A cold, hard knot of dread settled in her stomach, heavier than any paintbrush. Ignoring wasn't an option. Surviving this required something else entirely. She pushed away from the door, her movements decisive. She needed space. She needed air that didn't taste of their desperate hunger. Grabbing her keys and wallet, she headed for the front door, not looking back. The apartment, once bright and promising, now pulsed with a sick, silent craving she could feel clinging to her skin even as she escaped into the indifferent city dusk. The question wasn't if they'd cross another line, but when, and how far she'd have to run before she felt clean again. She pulled the door shut behind her, the click of the latch echoing like a period at the end of a sentence she hadn't wanted to write. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d start packing. Tonight, she just needed to breathe.