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The Neighbour

He was one of the first people I met when I moved into this apartment building. He seemed like a pretty nice guy. He was my next door neighbour, Scottish or something. Well, he had an accent I couldn't understand well...

My bedroom was right next to his. The walls were thin too, just a layer or two of plasterboard. I used to think of how I'd escape from hitmen by jumping through the walls and going through the all other apartments.

I could hear his door open and close at night. I could hear him choking all the time, and I heard him being sick many times. He was in bad shape. I've always lived alone, and some days I had nothing to do, I stayed in bed. I heard that guy crying and shouting, choking and cursing. He would cry for hours, tragically, as though someone he loved had died in front of him. Some days I cried with him. He shouted a lot too, kinda like he was shouting at someone else even though I knew he was in his own...

Some nights, hearing him howl into his pillow got me afraid. He would hit his bed and kick the wall. I was worried he'd kick through it, stick his head through and start yelling at me. I kept a big stick near the bed, as to be able to hit him with it if that were to happen. But I could tell, he was the one in pain; I should have been worried for him, not about him.

He always seemed so upbeat when I saw him out and about, but, ay, how he suffered...

Story by:

Aden Harry

thesehumansareatwar@gmail.com

submitted at 12:31am

13 June 2011

Aden Harry's web:

www.flowmywords.wordpress.com