“The Summer I Got Away” by Christina Persaud

“Come back home, okay?”

I nodded, forgetting Dad couldn’t see me through the phone, and that it was an odd thing for him to say.

But my bags were packed, and I had my ticket and passport. The next day, I boarded a plane for Spain. It was to be my summer abroad. The summer I got away.

The flight was long, and my back was stiff by the time I landed in Madrid. I kept the address of the apartment I was to share with another student close. It was my first time being alone in a new country. Trying to ease my fear, I reminded myself that everything had been arranged.

“Hola, adonde?”

Utilizing my three years of Spanish, I flinched hearing my heavy American accent. But the driver didn’t seem to mind and pushed the car through the bustling streets until they became a maze. Eventually, we stopped in front of an old complex.

The driver peered through the windshield. “Aqui? Here?”

I showed him the paper, and he looked up at the building once more before halting the fare.

Unlike the other neighborhoods we’d driven through, I could see no children playing or people meandering here. Perhaps it was because I was in a small alley and parents had warned their little ones it wasn’t safe. I hurried, thinking the same.

I came to a heavy door that was propped open with an old brick on the floor.

Great security, I thought, but left the brick in its spot, unsure of its purpose and not wanting to be locked in.

Dragging my suitcase up the old, rickety stairs wasn’t easy. Each step was worn, with crumbled edges that threatened to break. By the time I reached the third-floor landing, I was covered in sweat. Whenever I glanced over the railing, I could see the lobby I was just in. Dark. Except for the sliver of light.

I found my apartment door and was prepared to knock so my roommate could let me in when it swung open with ease.

This time, the access made me more than a little annoyed. Thoughts of calling my study abroad coordinator rushed to mind. But I was tired, and so I made my way inside.

The apartment lay in an abandoned ruin. Cracked, yellowed walls were riddled with what appeared to be bullet holes. Plaster that had broken off had fallen in pieces and dust onto the tile floor.

This has got to be some kind of mistake.

I left my things in the dingy room to explore.

The kitchen was bare bones. The bathroom was worse. I couldn’t stay there, I knew.

I wrung my hands. I was a foreign student in a place where I could not confidently speak the language, and I was unsure of my roommate’s or coordinator’s whereabouts.

It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.

Hoping that one of the neighbors would let me borrow their phone, I went back into the hall to knock on the nearest door. Surprisingly, it swung open, too. The warped knob didn’t line up with the latch. Inside, it was pitch black. The windows were boarded shut.

I stumbled out, now fully suspecting I’d written down the wrong address.

“Hey! You up there!”

A voice! Thank God.

“The bombs,” he said, with cautious hope, “They’ve stopped for now.”

I stared at the translucent man in the lobby and felt the blood drain from my face. Around me, the building burst to life. Darkness lifted from its corners. A radio blared from the apartment I’d just been inside. Someone’s stove dispersed the sweet aroma of French toast. The sound of children’s laughter carried from the narrow street.

I could feel people behind condemned and shuttered doors.

The one designated as my own hung open. Wider than I’d left it.

I looked down at the man in the lobby.

The man who had never left.

“Wait!” I shouted.

Suddenly, I heard loud engines flying overhead, followed by the screams of tenants.

I ran, tripping on the uneven staircase, and fell hard to my knees on the lobby floor.

“Please—”

But the man acted as he had done so many times before. He kicked the old brick aside, stealing the small beam of light, and shut the heavy front door.