The light in that house flickered.
Excessively flickered.
It did not matter if it was night or day; in the long days of summer, or shortened, cold nights of the winter. I could see it, and even when the view from my bedroom was obscured by the moving limbs of the trees, I knew it was there.
What went on in the house, I wondered, to make the lights flicker so? Were the occupants unawares as they went about their day, or did they simply not care? Were they so self-righteous, so self-privileged, self-entitled, that they could do as they pleased?
How rude, how uncaring they must be, to go on about their day? Not a worry for their neighbors, certainly not a care for me!
Days turn into weeks, and weeks into years. And the flicker never seemed to cease.
Sometimes, I did ponder how they were able to afford the bill. But mostly, I thought of how it irked me as I left to lay awake night after night, the flicker of the light to dance in and out of my room; hypnotizing and maddening. So much so, that I thought I should put an end to it myself... The next day, I would always exclaim to myself, while the nights continued to pass me in a haze.
It was only when I awoke one day, that I saw a for sale sign in the yard.
In the house that flickered.
But now, what plagues me is an odorous smell protruding from my cellar.
