Unknown Title

A few days ago, my neighbor, the one who lives in the white brick house, came knocking on my door. He seemed to be in quite a mood with how loudly he slammed each knock on the door. I have known Mr. Gillian since I moved here about 7 or 8 years ago, and this was greatly out of character. The first time Mr. Gillian introduced himself to me, he and his wife, Catherine or Cathy for short, were bringing over some monkey bread that she had whipped up when she saw a moving truck at Mr. Quinn's old house. I was going out to my car to grab the toilet paper that I tossed in the trunk before heading down from Pennsylvania. I ended up bumping into the Gillians walking up the path that leads up to my front door. They both greeted me with an ear-to-ear grin and a "Hey neighbor!" which felt artificial. You could see as clear as day that these two vessels were nothing but two things already in limbo, waiting for death to release them.

I shook their hands and introduced myself, but I felt uneasy speaking to these two. And it was not because of the fake smiles that made me feel as if they might try to overpower me. It was the way they held hands in front of me while we spoke! I was not sure if they had talked to Mr. Quinn in order to find out my name. They must have figured out who I was before this interaction in order to torment me. Learning every detail they could about me, watching me while I lived my life so they could learn my secrets. Taunting me with this gesture of showing their affection for one another right in my face!

I felt sick. I could have thrown up all over the path right then, but I restrained from showing my disgust.

As we finished up a small conversation about the neighborhood, I said thank you for the welcome gift and reassured them that I'd bring over the dish once it's empty and washed. Mrs. Gillian seemed rather worried that I would forget such an easy task. Making me feel it was important to say that before walking back into my house to clarify that I understood what being polite was. After I

As they walked back down the path and I opened my front door, I noticed a paper off to the right under an old metal coffee cup stand. And at that moment, it hit me that I forgot to go grab the toilet paper out of the trunk. So instead of turning around and going to the trunk, I grabbed the newspaper. Already feeling uneasy around those two and now somewhat awkward, I decided to wait a few minutes while they walked back down the path and, for some odd reason, lingered around my mailbox.

During that time, I ate away at the edge of the monkey bread pan and read a little bit of the paper. There was a story about some kids and their friends who had crashed into the oak tree that sits in the middle of the square downtown and had passed away due to the crash. One of the kids' skulls cracked when they crashed and instantly died on impact. Another broke three ribs and an arm later, dying in the hospital due to internal bleeding near his lungs. The kid who was driving flew through the dashboard window since he wasn't wearing his seatbelt, and died when he hit the tree. I had no clue where that was, but it put me into a sort of shock knowing that this place had a downtown. The neighborhood I had moved into was a small, quaint place to live. Each house had that rustic '50s aesthetic that most houses had during that time, and there were only maybe 6 or 7 houses in all in the area. So hearing that this small town in Wyoming had a downtown, had me wondering if this was going to be a good enough place for the way that I wanted to live.

When I decided enough time had finally passed, I went out to my trunk and grabbed the four rolls of toilet paper that sat next to the moving box that I wasn't motivated enough to grab yet and the bathroom mat that I wanted to throw out anyway.

Shutting the trunk and turning to my house, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone. Looking over my shoulder and lazily turning my upper body, I saw Catherine standing under the street lamp that meets the roads Ajal Ln and Phoenix St. She seemed to be in a haze of some kind.

Not knowing her very I steered clear of waving or saying hello. I began to walk back to my door, and when I reached the second step, which is right before the step that meets the wooden porch, she called out to me, "Hey neighbor!" Hearing this, I turned quickly and threw up a quick wave while still walking towards my door to not be rude but to show that was all I was willing to do. But when I was walking through my front door, she shrieked and said, "Have you tried the monkey bread!?"

Not wanting to get into what seemed to be a neighborly conversation, I again quickly threw up my hand with a thumbs-up attached to it. Believing that was it, I shut the door. But with barely a minute passing, she was at my door knocking with eagerness, saying, " I couldn't help but notice you didn't drop off the dish like you had promised, " which was said with a cheerful and somehow eerie tone to it. Yet, I felt comfortable walking up to the door and opening it to answer and speak with her. As I opened the door, it made a noise, almost as if the wood was ripping apart, and it was about to fall across my feet.

As the door was reaching halfway open, her shoulder, then face, appeared in my line of sight. She had that same ear-to-ear grin plastered on her face. But without Mr. Gillian attached to her hand, I didn't dread looking at her as much as before. She seemed to have life in her dark, black eyes. Staring deep into them as the door was fully opened, I noticed how beautiful she was. I had not seen this lady before. I was certain there was no way this was the same Mrs. Gillian I spoke to only an hour ago. I can’t explain it, but I