Neighbors

The walls in this place are like paper, I swear. I can hear everything my neighbor downstairs is doing: every cabinet slam, every cough, every muttering under her breath. And the annoying scraping and shuffling of her raggedy slippered feet against the hardwood floor. I can't stand that sound. How can she constantly walk while dragging her feet? She must trip all day long.

She must be off from work today.

It's always such a bother when she stays home. Between the constant slamming of doors and those godforsaken slippers, I can't concentrate on anything. So much for getting any writing done today.

I stifle a sigh, wearily rubbing my eyes and leaning back in my chair. The typewriter looms before me, its keys glinting in the sunlight from the singular window, mocking my misfortune.

I can still hear her scuffling and huffing about. She must be making herself something to eat. My stomach aches as hunger pangs take hold. I run my fingers over it, under my shirt, and glance morosely toward my tiny bed in its corner. It looks like today is a day for sleeping.

I direct my gaze to the low ceiling above me, allowing my eyes to travel along its slant before closing them. I will wait until she's finished below me to stand up and go to bed.

Unlike my noisy neighbor, I am very mindful of the amount of noise I make. I have always been that way: mindful. I like to make others feel as comfortable around me as I possibly can. If I can make myself of use to another person, I will gladly do it. My mother used to say I was a people pleaser. My mother used to say a lot of things. She had an opinion about everything.

Anyway, I don't like to move when I am sure she is beneath me. Do you know how loud footsteps can be when they are directly overhead?

So, I will wait. I sit this way, my hands folded over my stomach, inhaling and exhaling, breathing in the smell of wood and dust. I try to think of anything but the scent of food that is wafting through the floorboards.

Thank God she's moving now. I stand, waiting for her steps to fade as she leaves the kitchen. But they don't. Instead, I hear her moving closer, crossing to the other side of the kitchen, and the creak of a door opening makes my heart leap to my throat.

What is she doing? She never opens that closet!

She is standing directly below me right now. There is a soft click as she pulls the chain on the hatch to the attic. My breath is caught in my throat, my heart pounding in my ears. My mind scrambles as I press into the shadows, trying to make myself invisible. I can feel the sweat prickling on the top of my head.

Please, for the love of God, do not look up.