Cracks in the Light

I live in a creepy, Craftsman style home, built in 1913. I've been here for just over three years now, and I do love the aesthetic of the place, with its high ceilings, hardwood floors, brick fireplaces, stained glass accents and gabled porch. 

Across the hall from me lives a girl named Claire. When Claire first moved in, I immediately disliked her. This was mostly because she moved into the biggest and most beautiful suite in the house, a suite that I had always coveted. Since the house was originally built as a single-family home, the suite in question was clearly designed to be the main living area. It is spacious, with a full, functional fireplace, a sliding wooden door that separates the living room from the kitchen, plenty of storage space and a glassed-in porch area. My own small suite, merely an afterthought, was likely the place to which the men would retire for brandy and cigars after dinner.

 When the big suite in the building became available, I did the math and realized with a sinking heart that I couldn't quite afford to live there alone, since the rent was about $200 more dollars per month. It sat empty for some time, until one day, Claire came.

Claire was the kind of girl I knew I could never be. She was pretty, blonde, and fit. She worked at a gym.  She had a thigh gap. She wore a lot of Lululemon clothing. She owned Ikea furniture. She had a handsome boyfriend with manly biceps, who drove a 2013 Ford Explorer with leather seats. Claire was gentle, soft, uncomplicated. She was like the sun coming up. Even her name was perfect: "Claire". "Clarity, light". 

People like Claire have always brought out my insecurities. They represent the person that I should have been, the girl who would have met the approval of my extended family, who would have made my parents even prouder of me than they were.  The sort of person who didn't live in an apartment filled with an assortment of antiques and religious art and taxidermy, who didn't spend the majority of her time alone, watching WWII footage and reading true crime novels. 


One day, just over a year ago, I was home from work, on a "forced hiatus", of which more may be said in the future. As I wandered about my bedroom that April afternoon, I suddenly heard a sound through the paper-thin wall. I knew it was coming from Claire's bedroom -  I had lain awake many nights, listening to the vigorous sounds of her boyfriend's ejaculations, punctuated by Claire's small, bird-like squeaks, through this very wall. The sound I heard on this afternoon was very different. It was guttural, low, half-way between a sob and a scream of pain. It sounded like a wounded animal, struggling in a trap. The sound was ugly. It couldn't be coming from Claire.

My preoccupation with true crime stories dictated my next move. I reasoned that something unpleasant was going on in Claire's apartment. I didn't know what it was, or if she was alone, but if she was being attacked or needed help, I couldn't very well ignore what I was hearing. I had read enough Anne Rule stories. It was always the same: the neighbour "heard something strange", but decided to mind his or her own business. If only said neighbour had knocked on the door, Maryann or Suzy-Jane would still be alive today.

Assuming that there was some sort of attacker in Claire's apartment, I then concluded that I couldn't very well show up at the door with a plate of cookies. I needed some sort of method of defense. I looked about my own apartment for something with which I could defend myself, or Claire, if needed. Knowing that time was of the essence, I found the first thing that looked painful: A six-inch stiletto heel covered in metal spikes.

I crossed the lobby, spiked shoe in hand, and knocked tentatively at the door of Suite No. 1. The screaming sobs suddenly ceased. I stood, breathless, on the doorstep for several moments, listening. Suddenly, the door opened. There stood Claire, but unlike any manifestation of her I'd ever seen before. Her pretty face, streaked with mascara, was swollen and red from crying. She eyed me and the shoe in my hand with total bewilderment and confusion. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I'm being so loud." "I... I just wanted to make sure you were okay..", I answered.

It turned out, after I'd calmed her down, that Claire's life wasn't anything like how I had expected it to be. She told me about her parents, how they had pretty much disowned her, how her father refused to continue to help her pay for her university tuition, how he wouldn't invite her to his wedding to his new wife. I realized then that, even people who represent the archetype of perfection still struggle with insecurity, with rejection. Maybe I didn't have all the things that Claire had. But I did have parents who loved and adored me.

I still get jealous of Claire, from time to time. Just today, as I stood in my living room, I saw her and her boyfriend leaving the house, walking hand in hand up the stairs in the slanting afternoon light. Claire's perfect, size 2 frame was draped in a white sundress. She and the boyfriend paused beside the lilac bushes, giggling. She smiled up at him. They kissed. I quickly looked away, pretended to be incredibly interested in something on the table. 

As I returned to the silence of my bedroom, feeling the familiar knife of loneliness twisting into my chest, I reminded myself of the sound I heard that day through the wall. And I recalled the valuable lesson of that day: That there is always some darkness, even in perfect light, and that we are all screaming in some way, even if it's just on the inside.