Stay Put by Jeff Chon

She stared at the Converse One Star box sitting on her coffee table. The box contained dead birds, two, tightly packed. The smaller bird’s head was nestled under its companion’s beak. She lit a cigarette, no way was she going out on the balcony. Not with him right next door. A shaky smoke trail shivered from her lungs, jittery upward-spinning arabesques.
    Boyd had made a habit of leaving inappropriate presents at her doorstep—Norwegian black metal CDs, Korean horror flicks, glossy pictures of tattooed alt-porn pixies. They were always placed on the center of her door mat, contents completely exposed, with a Post-It marked “Rachel.” She’d come home from work and rush them into her apartment with a furtive snatch, muttering soft curses under her breath; she knew he was listening through the thin common wall.
    There was no one to turn to when it came to Boyd. None of her neighbors spoke English and they made her uncomfortable with their house shoes, their bleached out hair, their Raiders jerseys. Rachel looked down at them—breast feathers jutting jagged pinecone shingles—and huffed a gentle flutter of smoke into the box, dusting the birds in a drifting fog. She wondered why she never rejected his offerings.
    A Death Metal salvo erupted from Boyd’s apartment. Vibrations shimmered through the walls and across her bookcase until a brass candlestick stutter-stepped across the top shelf and toppled to the carpet. She walked over and picked it up, her fingers clenched around the stem. Her nails dug into her palms as she imagined him on the other side engaged in a victory celebration—doubled over, his shiny mollusk face crumpled in a sneer, head snapping back and forth to the thick scraping crunch of an electric guitar. She smashed the candlestick’s flared base against the wall in a stabbing motion, the impact shooting rage like quicksilver up her arms. The music stopped, replaced by heavy thuds against the wall. Chipping slivers of drywall flaked onto her carpet.
    What the Hell is your problem? she screeched. What makes you think I’d want dead birds? What makes you think anyone would want dead fucking birds?
    Rachel stepped back, hurled the candlestick against the wall. Her hands were shaking.
    Why can’t you take a fucking hint? I don’t want your stupid mix CDs or your retarded slasher films! I don’t want your Japanese schoolgirl pornos, you sick freak! Just leave me the fuck alone, you—
    The sound of a gunshot cracked through the apartment. Rachel crumpled to the carpet, startled. She’d never heard a real gunshot before, even in her neighborhood, but the sound was unmistakable. A baby cried, breaching the delicate silence. Bile gathered in the back of her throat. Rachel gagged it back.
    Ahh Fuck! Boyd shouted. Somebody help me!
    Boyd! Boyd, what happened?
    I shot myself in the leg and it’s bleeding all over!
    What? You fucking idiot! How the…OK, keep calm. Crawl over to the wall, Boyd, I’m going to call 911, OK?
    She called 911. They said they were sending someone right away. They told her to sit tight, to keep talking to him. She said she would and hung up.
    The ambulance is on its way, Boyd. They need you to stay calm.
    Please, Rachel, I’m really scared. Please come over.
    The wet pepper musk of the still-burning cigarette drifted into Rachel’s nostrils. She looked over to see it on the coffee table, a wilted column of smoking gray ash burning the surface of her table. Rachel sighed and turned back to the wall.
    …Boyd, I’m right here with you, OK? You gotta keep calm.
    It fucking burns!
     Boyd, you need to calm the fuck down! The ambulance is on its way, so keep cool, all right?
    …I’m bleeding everywhere. Please, Rachel, please come over and stay with me.
    I’m right here, Boyd, right here on the other side of the wall. Help’s on its way…Do you hear me, Boyd? Boyd?
    There was no answer. She was afraid he might be dead, but wasn’t about to get up and check. For all she knew, this was an elaborate ruse. A muted groan leaked through the wall—she could hear him sniveling. The operator told her to stay put, said it was important that she do so. Rachel began to cry.
    Boyd, why the fuck did you give me dead birds? How is that even OK?
    …They’re spooning, he moaned.
    What?
    …They’re spooning….
    Boyd, I can’t understand you. What did you say?
    …Spooning…Spooning….
    What? You’re slurring your words together. What the fuck are you saying, Boyd? I need to know.
    That was how they lay until the paramedics arrived: Rachel curled in a ball, sobbing with her nose pressed against the drywall, and Boyd, buckled and bleeding, his back pressed against a power outlet. A dark speck of blood, no bigger than a nickel, seeped through the floorboards and into her carpet. She could hear the whimpering on the other side.