Good Morning

Saturday morning at six o’clock. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and it was an altogether peaceful time. The morning had begun in a quiet manner, much to the pleasure of the residents. But, as it always managed to, it did not continue in such a kindly way.

The entire apartment complex on the downtown street in Cardiff, was jolted out of a sound sleep by a not so unfamiliar sound. Mind you, most of them wished they’d moved out a year ago, so that the sound would become uncommon once again. Much to their dismay, though, they’d been woken up by the sounds of banging and swearing from apartment number three, that they were beginning to grow weary of the sharp crashes and vulgarities.

All of them assured themselves that the resident of apartment number four, an elderly woman with a short fuse, would be calling the cops for them, just as she always did. So, they pulled their pillows over their heads and settled in to wait out their blonde neighbor’s fit. Though, none of them quite understood the damage that had befallen the usually kindly, man.

Earlier stated elderly-woman-from-apartment-number-four’s short fuse, was beginning to burn down, and you may make the assumption that she didn’t really care much, as to what horrors had occurred to upset her next door neighbor. She was old, and she didn’t think she really needed this sort of stress on her poor, worn-out, heart. All she really wanted, was some peace and quiet for her to sit and do her knitting. But no, that idiotic, hoodlum, neighbor of hers had to go out whoring around every Friday, and then announce his arrival home to the entire continent, making noises that no human should be allowed to make.

Storming over to her paper thin, chalky wall, closest to that kid’s apartment, she banged on it as hard as her weakened, twiggy old arms would allow. Three times she hit the wall, and three times she received no answer but the sound of glass shattering.

Slowly, it dawned on her that these weren’t his usual morning routines. He usually swore for a bit, slammed his door, punched a hole in a wall, smashed his TV some more, and then went to bed for the rest of the morning to wait for the police to show up and berate him once again. This time the noises were more desperate. She even ventured far enough as to call them pathetic. So, she leans her ear to the wall. Bad idea. She’s forced to jerk away in shock as the blonde man suddenly slammed his fist into it.

Curiosity killed the cat, she concluded with a nod as she headed for her phone, and speed dial number seven. As she walked away, though, the thunking seemed to sidle its way down her wall, and slow a bit in tempo.

Ah, well. She wasn’t a cat.

Scurrying back over to the cardboard slab that dared to call itself a wall, she hauled her rocking chair over next to it with much huffing and puffing, and then settled down to listen. And boy was it a more interesting show than usual.

“He hates me. Oh god…oh god, what have I done? I made him cry!” The phrase was ironically punctuated with a sob that entirely lacked masculinity. “He’ll never take me back now, and I don’t blame him.” Another pathetic wail. “‘Sorry, but no’? Ha! What happened to the goddamned happiness I was supposed to be overwhelmed with?”

He thwacked his palm flat to the wall, and she leaned closer. His voice dropped to nothing but a hollow whisper that she could barely make out. “I tried to find him for so long-” another heart wrenching sob, and the old lady dabs at her eye with her shirtsleeve “-and now that he’s back: I scared him, and he’s disgusted by me. And on top of that…he’ll never know…never…”

Getting up and hobbling back towards her phone, the woman heard her neighbor slide down his wall the rest of the way. Heard the scraping of fabric on tile as he curled over himself. Pictured his tears pooling on the floor, mixing in with his bright blonde hair, which she was sure had come loose from it’s tie and was splayed around his face.

As she copied her sister’s phone number over the police’s previous space in speed dial number seven, she listened to his nauseatingly desperate humming, through the cardboard.

“I loved you, and I should have said it. But tell me: just what has it ever meant…?” The last, soft note broke off into a heartbreaking wail, and the old lady shut her eyes to block it out. Or try.

Failing, she turned and lumbered off to her bedroom so that she could hide her ears in a pillow, and her shivering in a blanket. She had no idea that four other hands were dialing for the police all at once. She still didn’t realize what had happened to the poor, lonely, boy, until the sirens closed in, and the sobbing screeches began.