Page 116 of The Ring
So, if the house is intact… what happened?
I walk around more. Perhaps it is a fluke. Perhaps someone cleaned the entrance. I didn’t damage much here. I runmy hand over a mahogany consulate table that I’m sure I had broken, but it’s intact. As I move through the house, everything I thought I’d damaged remains untouched.
I make my way to the living room. That is where I had unleashed most of my anger. There has to be proof of what I did. Proof that I didn’t imagine it.
I climb the stairs to the first floor, and I glance around, searching for evidence but also admiring the decor and furniture. It doesn’t follow any specific style, though if I had to name one, maybe eclectic. But really, it’s just a mix of things TJ and I liked. We chose every piece ourselves.
Everything here was meant to be an embodiment of us.
I reach the living room, afraid of what I might see. Before, it was the most perfect room—the heart of the house. It seems like there was nothing to fear. Just like the rest of it, it’s completely intact.
The burgundy couch—the one custom-made, one of a kind, the one I’m certain I threw paint at—has no stains on it. The lamps I remember smashing to the floor remain perfectly in place, as does the artwork and the rug. The only difference from that night is that there aren’t any paint cans or construction materials lying around to get upstairs, but maybe they were never there. We remodelled the house in stages, and the ground and first floors were the first to be completed.
I lie on the sofa, my mind racing. Maybe I have lost the plot.
I’m about to conclude that I have, but I hear footsteps coming down the stairs to this floor.
I’m not alone.
More people are here.
I hear them.
They’re upstairs. There are probably three or four people. Imust have been too caught up in my spiralling thoughts about losing my mind to notice before.
I freeze. Losing my mind will have to wait—I need to be alert.
I take a Farb-Gel spray from my bag in case I need to use it.
I go towards the stairs, and about to step onto this floor are a man in his forties and a woman who looks like she’s in her late twenties. They both stop and look at me.
They’re dressed casually, both in jeans and T-shirts. Their clothes are a little dirty.
I hesitate for a moment, but I end up putting the Farb-Gel spray back into my bag. This whole situation is weird, but they don’t look or feel threatening.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the man asks, firm but not unkind.
“This is my house,” I declare, though sounding less sure than I’d like. Is it still my house? “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” I echo back.
“Oh,” the man says, realisation dawning. “You’re the girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” the woman corrects gently, offering me an apologetic smile.
“We’re masons. We work here,” the man explains. “We’re finishing up a few things on the third floor, then we’ll be done for the night.”
I’ve only met a few of the people working on the renovations—the ones in charge—probably why I didn’t recognise them.
“Third floor?”
He nods.
That probably means the second floor—where the master bedroom is—must be finished. It wasn’t the last time I was here.
“So, the second floor is done?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Almost, just a few minor things missing,” the man responds.
TJ and I talked about how we wanted the master bedroom, bathroom, and closet to look, but we never got around to making it happen. I’m really curious what he ended up doing.
