An Empty Apartment



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Scene Title An Empty Apartment
Synopsis A mysterious voicemail leads James Silver to April's apartment, where there's not much useful in finding out where she's gone.
Date August 16, 2010

Confuscious Plaza: April's Apartment

"I have to disappear for a while. I'm sorry. I'll send you a message when I can."

"To hear this message again, press 7…"


"I have to disappear for a while. I'm sorry. I'll send you a message when I can."

"To hear this message again, press 7…"


James Silver has been playing this message back over and over again, hoping for some sort of clue as to where April might have gone. He is standing in front of her door and he pulls out his key that she's given him and he opens the door and lets himself in. There's a first glimmer of hope that she might actually be here. That glimmer fades rather quickly when the door opens and there's zero activity. Nothing. He takes a breath and steps into the room and looks around. It's not unfamiliar to him, he's been here before, but the lack of life in this room hits him strongly. Almost like those first few days by himself in the apartment after April, the other April, died.

There's always been an emptiness to the apartment April rents in Confucius Plaza, compared to the surroundings James associated with her previously — a lack of things, a sense of the unfinished. There's nothing on the walls except a set of half-filled shelves, cheap knicknacks distributed widely to make it seem like they need that much room.

A coffee table, instead of a dining table, clearly second-hand with its scuffed surface marked by water rings. An empty mug sits on one corner nearest the couch, a thin bit of dark residue in the bottom still scented of coffee. More milk than sugar, as she always drank it — though neither are discernable now. There's no TV in the living room, but yesterday's newspaper makes a disordered stack at the side of the couch; today's is still neatly folded, as yet untouched. One door leads to the apartment's kitchen; another to a small hallway with both bedroom and bathroom.

"I have to disappear for a while. I'm sorry. I'll send you a message when I can."

"To hear this message again, press 7…"

The sound still comes from his phone as he walks deeper in and closes the door behind him, reaching to twist the lock into place. She sounded like she was in danger, so he's not going to take any chances. He presses the '7' again. He walks over and picks up the mug and walks into the kitchen and rinses it out and sets it upside down on the counter and leans against that counter as he glances around. He walks over and opens the fridge as if that may hold a clue as he bends over to look inside, then the freezer on top is opened. He closes it and walks back to the living room.

"Where did you go, April?"

There's a bowl in the sink with a bit of oatmeal still adhering to the bottom, despite having been rinsed out. The fridge contains a half-gallon carton of milk, produce bags with assorted fruit and vegetables, cups of yogurt in various flavors, a jar of strawberry jam, Tupperware with leftovers. Enough for one person; not enough to fill the shelves. The freezer is in similar situation — a few microwave entrees, two blue ice-cube trays, labeled zip-lock bags.

The microwave on the opposite shelf could bear to be wiped down, although it isn't a mess; just sees use. Probably she intended to clean it today… but that won't happen now.

When James walks back out into the living room, it's as disconsolately empty as it was moments before.

"I have to disappear for a while. I'm sorry. I'll send you a message when I can."

"To hear this message again, press 7…"

One would think that it would get annoying after awhile. The same message over and over again, but for Silver, it's like she's here somewhere. The fact is that after he's lost one April, he's not about to lose another. He turns his head down that hallway and starts down there, heading first towards her bathroom, then after a brief inspection, he turns towards her bedroom. He steps into the room, perhaps to see if she packed anything before she split. If she hadn't, perhaps she didn't go far at all. He presses that '7' again before he starts to open drawers and closets.

The bed has been made, neat enough; a bit of change sits atop the dresser, as second-hand a piece of furniture as the table and couch outside. The bottom drawer is empty; the two above are half-full with everyday clothes, more shirts than jeans, enough folded undergarments to suggest she did laundry not long ago. That the hamper is all but empty corroborates that.

The closet holds what are obviously work clothes — slightly nicer blouses, three pairs of slacks, one lonely skirt — and the blue dress she wore for their dinner, not quite two weeks ago. Doesn't seem like she goes out much. There's one duffel bag tossed haphazardly in the closet corner, with the collapsed-in look of being completely empty; no sign whatsoever that she's made any effort at packing.

It looks like she went to work yesterday evening, just as usual… and simply hasn't come back yet.

"I have to disappear for a while. I'm sorry. I'll send you a message when I can."

"To hear this message again, press 7…"

This time he doesn't press '7' but hangs up the phone. He sits himself on her bed and just glances around as if something might come out. Come out and explain what's going on. The deductions are simple enough. He can tell what she did do and didn't do, but what he can't tell is what he really wants to know.

Where did she go?

He sighs and stands up, running his hand over his thin hair and walks back out the to living room where he gives it a once more go over. Anything? Anything at all?


Crumpled receipts are exactly that; the junk mail that hasn't been recycled yet contains no useful information. There's a piece of hotel stationery on the endtable with the lamp, but its cryptic note seems purely work-related.

No address book, no rolodex of phone numbers, no business cards or anything else that might suggest contacts, friends, places of refuge. Not even a computer with email messages and browsing history.

Nothing at all.

So, he has two options. Wait for her to send him a message, or see if there's some other way he can find out. He gives another weary sigh and rubs his hand over his scruffy face and walks towards the door. He places his hand on the doorknob and starts to turn it, then stops.

He glances down at the phone in his other hand and scrolls through the contacts until he finds Cat's name and dials it. Perhaps, just perhaps, she knows what to do in this type of situation. The phone dials as he steps from the apartment, phone to his ear, closing and locking the door behind him.

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