815 Butterfly Street: Deux

815 Butterfly street.

As he walked up the stairs of his hard wood walled apartment, the door was ajar, all the lights lit and water running in the kitchen sink. Where's Justice?

"Putain."

On their Record Player/Radio Cabinet, Nina was singing " Feeling Good." He walked slowly into the apartment...just in case somebody broke in. It's just a little past 11, it's not that late.

This was a mistake, this was a mistake from the very beginning. Half a year ago, they moved in here together. She had been living at his studio apartment on Bronson for
3 months and the space between them was tightening, it was becoming hard to breath, and she always kept everything on, so he was always burning himself because he thought they were off.

"As long as your sober, we'll be fine," he told her as they signed the year lease for Mr. and Mrs. Wong.

"Oui," she said with childlike innocence. Don't be fooled. She is a master manipulator. He had a soft heart for her because both of them lost their mother at a young age and she grew up in Saint Landry parish, which is a town over where he ran away from as a child. She on the other hand didn't run away though, she was abducted.

"Justice? Justice?"

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good

Nina, he thought. On the contrary. On the contrary.

He stopped the music. You can hear the water running and the bathroom ventilation moaning. He turned the water off, and then heard the whistling of the January wind, probably from Santa Ana. He turned towards the patio and saw the screen and the sliding door was wide open.

"Putain." Someone could have stolen everything in the house he thought as he slid the screen door then the sliding glass door shut. She must have left hurriedly harried. He turned the light out in the kitchen. Locked all the doors and decided to go to bed after using the bathroom.

"I'll turn off the lights and the vent after I use it," he muttered to himself as he unzipped his pants ready to pee.

"Fuck." A jolt, a yelp, a jerk.

There she was seated on the toilet face down and half the body folded over, the left arm on the sink with cold water still running and her panties by the ankles. He turned off the ventilation. It smelled like Bombay Sapphire.

"Justice? Justice?" She was passed out. He checked her pulse, she's not dead. Great.
He grabbed her panties and slid it to her waist balancing as he straightened her up by her armpits into standing.

"Mon Dieu," she muttered then burped.

"Mon Dieu," he repeated shaking his head as he carried her to her bedroom and made sure she was completely comfortable, covered up to her chest with the down blanket he bought for her birthday. Now He can go to sleep, but he still had to pee.

His pants were still unzipped. He got to the toilet, and as he started, he looked down and saw that right before she passed out, she forgot to flush the feces she left behind, just like the vent, the faucet, the patio doors, the recorder, all the lights and the door ajar.

"Merde."