Death and Tea at Three

4 Harold and His Next-Door Neighbour

Harold sat in his lavender chair. Normally, this would provide some sense of comfort, but given his current situation, he was not the least bit comfortable. The apartment was far smaller than anything he was accustomed to. He felt imprisoned. And although many of Harold's things had been sold or given away, the remainder took up quite a bit of room.

Harold felt suffocated.

The first problem Harold encountered was that his beloved armchair was far too close to the wall but could not be moved as his coffee table was directly in front of him, leaving very little room for his legs. He debated moving the table, but where would he place his tea when watching television? Was he supposed to just hold the cup in his hand? That idea was out of the question. And anyway, the table could not be moved any further as his TV sat almost directly in front of it. And Harold was not about to get rid of his television. How else could he watch his procedural crime dramas and sports?

There was no room for anything in this apartment. And he began to feel that there was no longer any room for him in this new, crowded world. It didn't help that an entire corner of the apartment was filled with Harold's most prized possession – his piano.

Although the thing was still covered in dust, there was no way he could get rid of it. Unlike the dining room table, or the strange painting of a clown his aunt had given him many years ago, the piano was more than a piece of furniture – it was all he had left of the past. To get rid of it would erase the last remnants of his former self – and also the piano was quite heavy.

Harold sat in his lavender armchair and stared at his piano. This was not his home – that was gone. This was his coffin.

Harold got up from his chair to make a cup of tea and stubbed his toe against the table. He yelled out in pain. He clutched his foot, wondering why he deserved such a cruel fate. Of course, Harold knew there were people on this Earth far less fortunate than him, but gripping his toe, Harold couldn't imagine a world worse than this.

Harold walked to the kitchen, which was only a single step away from his chair. His mind swirled with frustration and annoyance as he poured water into the kettle and waited for it to boil. Harold muttered a few obscenities to himself as he sat back down in his chair and let out a sigh of relief. As bad as things were, he could try to get used to it. That was what he had done all his life. After all, it wouldn't be long before he passed away. The thought of death comforted Harold in a way only his tea and his television shows normally could. He leaned back into his chair, as if to wait for oblivion right then and there. His body began to relax, and his mind slowly began to ease.

And then he heard a knock on the door.

Harold gripped the arm of his chair, the last time someone knocked on his door ominously, it had not turned out well for him. He began to imagine what strange horrors awaited him on the other side. He knew it was a fairly rough neighbourhood. It would not be ridiculous to think it could be a criminal, a tax collector, or perhaps death itself. Out of the three, he hoped it was death.

Harold slowly got to his feet. Wide-eyed and terrified, he reached for the handle and slowly opened the door. What he saw terrified him more than anything he could have imagined. There, standing in his doorway, was a little girl. She couldn't have been more than twelve years old. Then again, Harold didn't know too many children, to make any sort of definitive judgement. She was small, and lean – not in a sickly sense, but like a runner. She bounced in place, her dark brown ponytail bobbing up and down. Her eyes were large and bright, but not freakishly so. She looked more like a doll than a real girl. And of course, there was her smile. It was a crooked grin, as if she was perpetually up to no good.

"I need to pee," she blurted.

Harold said nothing, as he moved out of the way. He wasn't sure if letting a strange child into his home was the best idea, but he hadn't even thought of an alternative.