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The Boy from Next Door
It was a match made in Heaven. Or maybe it was Hell.
i
He drops the needle on a vinyl record. The Wreckery; an underground outfit known and appreciated by all too few.
He wants to go out.
He needs to go out.
He should be working.
But he’s already been caught breaking curfew.
The old biddy in 1A has been watching him.
She’s always watching him. She’s always got her nose in other peoples’ business.
A week ago, he’d slunk home, in the shadowy hours of early morning, to find one of her letters shoved soundly under his door.
An orange one.
What a bore.
He pissed on it and flushed it down the toilet.
Now, he drags on a cigarette and stares out the window as the fine white curtains billow around him on an ice-cold breeze. If it weren’t for the stench, it would be totally nice. But the dude upstairs in 3D is cooking ice. Again. No doubt, he’s bored as hell too.
He clenches his cigarette a little tighter. Everyday he’s stuck inside, the walls close in a little tighter driving him to utter distraction. Despite his companion, or perhaps because of him, the apartment is getting smaller and ever more claustrophobic.
In time, he knows he will lose his will.
And quite possibly his mind.
Thud!
A noise, a thump, a bump on the bedroom floor, yanks him from his stupor. He glances backwards toward the source of the sound, towards his companion. His wilting donor. The boy from next door who moved out—the day the city gates were firmly slammed shut.
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