Nouel Girard

The scent in the stairwell was unmistakable, a cloying mix of decay and sour alcohol. One of the tenants had flagged me down earlier, her voice tight with concern. I knew the source before I even reached the door. Mr. Martin hadn’t been seen in days, and with my master key in hand, I dreaded what I might find.

The lock clicked open, and the stench hit me like a wave. Inside, his small apartment bore the familiar chaos of a life surrendered to the bottle—empty beer cans stacked like towers, sticky countertops, and an air heavy with despair. In the middle of the living room lay Martin, face down in his underwear, unmoving. His back was pale, speckled with bruises, and his body was bloated from days of lying there. Vomit had pooled near his face, and the sight made my stomach lurch.

I froze, staring at him. Not just at the man he had become, but at the ghost of myself. Two years ago, that could’ve been me. I’ve lived in Brest, France, my whole life, and at 44, I’ve seen my share of hard times. Back then, I was on the same trajectory—drinking myself numb, stumbling through fleeting relationships, and thinking the world owed me something. Therapy had been my lifeline, though, and the caretaking job brought me purpose. Without those changes, I might have ended up just like Martin.

The police arrived after my call, breaking my trance. They asked routine questions, but I answered on autopilot, my thoughts still tangled in the scene I’d walked into. When they told me I could leave, I felt a strange mix of guilt and gratitude.

Back home, I sat by the window, a cup of tea growing cold in my hands. The night air smelled clean, a sharp contrast to the suffocating odor from earlier. Martin’s death was a tragedy, but it was also a warning. As awful as it was, it reminded me of the life I’d fought to build—a life that kept me from becoming just another forgotten body behind a locked door.