Part One

I hear bells all the time. It used to be only at night as I lay in the dark, but now they ring constantly. I mention it to Hope and she gives me a look and pokes my nose. She does believe me, I’m sure of it, but I can’t read her expression. She’s the one who swears the lights that go across the walls at night are ships going. She doesn’t say where their destination is, only that they are on their way.

The apartment we live in is temporary. We were clear about this to Josie, our landlord and good friend. She owns the building and has owned it for six years now. It was crumbling, bursting at the seams when she bought it and now it’s cleaner, comfy. Better to live in. Better to try than not at all.

Our apartment is one of three in the whole building. Josie lives part time in the largest one and the other one is occupied by someone who’s name and face I can’t seem to remember. No one stays for very long so I tried not to worry over names. A smile when we pass in the halls should suffice, but no more than that. Anything else means we’re friends, at least in my book. I talked to Josie one two many times and now she stays up late at night, smoking on our balcony while I play guitar and Hope sings.

The window in our bedroom faces the street below so all the ships Hope sees come from passing cars obstructing streetlights and the moon. I close my eyes tightly and I can’t see the ships, but Hope watches for them. She stares at the walls and the ceilings when she thinks I’m asleep. If I was awake, we’d talk and she’d point out constellations that we can barely see because of all the headlights. But I sleep deeply, deeply enough that it muffles the bells. But they’re still there, ringing, echoing, singing?

I started hearing the bells a few months ago. It was early in the morning, so early it was still nighttime. The comforter slipped off the mattress and we were covered in sheets. A sliver of light cut through the curtains and onto Hope’s face. She was glowing in the night and I was the only one who would ever see it. And in the distance, as I stared at the light, the bells were ringing. They were so quiet I thought I was dreaming. The bells echoed Hope’s breathing and the sounds filled up the silence of the room. I couldn’t help but be reminded of nights on our balcony, hovering above the city streets, breathing in the night air, and the city’s breath, and smoke from Josie’s cigarettes and the burning of Hope’s incense. The tambourine’s soft sound hummed with my guitar and Hope’s quiet voice got lost in the cries of the cars beneath us.  

The bells rang until sunlight began to stream through the windows and sneak in through cracks in the wispy curtains. When Hope woke up, they were gone and when we ate breakfast with Josie, I was certain I dreamt them. So I let myself forget about them.

I heard them again when Hope turned out the light so we could go to sleep. And when they rang the next night after that, I decided it wasn’t a dream. The bells were real. They were ringing, a sound for me, one that only I was allowed to hear. The bells were pretty, admittedly, but they tortured me. I used to sleep so deeply and now, not so much.