Ruin - By N.M. Martinez Page 0,8

Brandon walks in front of me, the duffel bag in his hand which he holds about level with his waist. His shoes make loud thumping noises against the thin concrete steps. The rusty rails vibrate under the palms of my hands with each step he takes.

The third floor is the top. I pause for a second and take in the view. Buildings stretch into the distance. The afternoon light reflects off of them, most that same pale white color. The groups mill about out front still; most of them haven't even changed their position.

Brandon stands in front of a door near the stairs. It's the apartment on the corner. He opens the door for me and lets me walk in first. "I don't know what you're used to, but I know this can't compare." His voice is gentle as he walks in after me and shuts the door quietly.

I press my lips together as I survey the main room. It's a small apartment. The kitchen and the main room are connected. Really the only thing separating them is the small kitchen island. The rest of the apartment is sparse. The white walls are completely bare, and the furniture is old and well used. By the front door sits a small breakfast nook type table with a couple of mismatched chairs pulled up to it. A little further in there is an old couch and a small table.

Brandon steps past me with my bag and heads to the door at the other end of the small room. When he opens the door, I catch a glimpse of a bed made with old blankets. He drops my bag on the bed before he turns around and comes back.

My stomach grumbles, but I'm not quite sure what to say. I just met him, and my head is still swimming.

“You must be hungry.” He smiles as he motions for me to have a seat at the table. "I'll make us some sandwiches."

I nod. The seat I take creaks and wiggles as I watch him in the kitchen. Brandon gathers plates, a loaf of bread, and a knife. He turns around and opens the fridge to take out a small jar of spread. In the quick glimpse I get of the darkened shelves, I can see he's using it as a pantry to stock cans and jars.

I take another glance around the room taking stock of the electrical outlets. All of them are completely bare against the wall. Not a single thing is plugged in. Sitting on one of the tables near the couch, I notice the lamp. It has a knit rope through it with one end soaking up oil from the base. One end is burned.

They don't have electricity. Do they even have working plumbing?

Brandon glances up at me as he puts the sandwiches together. “Don't worry. We do have working toilets.” His eyes twinkle when I turn to look at him. “You just had that look.”

He steps around the kitchen island and hands me a plate with the sandwich on it before he steps back to grab a cup and a jug of clear liquid. “Water. We've got running water, but I wouldn't suggest drinking it.”

"Thank you," I say as I accept the plate from him.

"So you do speak." He grins at me.

I look away from his bright eyes. He doesn't look that old, but I know he's older than me. Though there are no lines on the pale skin of his face, his hands and neck are thicker than the boys I went to school with. He's not that much older than me. I'd guess probably in his early twenties.

"Sorry." The word slips out even as I don't look at him. "It's just..." My throat tightens and the words stop.

He takes a bite of his sandwich and nods. “S'okay. I know.” Oddly, it does seem as if he understands. “After you eat, you should get some rest.”

I nod as I reach for my sandwich. My hand feels heavy. The fingers sink into the soft bread before I've even picked it up.

In the small bedroom, I lay on the bed under the covers. Brandon had suggested I do whatever I need to get comfortable. He said I could stay in the bedroom for as long as I want.

My stomach twists some more, not in hunger, but with the complete wrongness of this entire situation. Under the covers, my jeans and shirt feel thick and make it difficult to move freely. The pillow