No Good Neighbors (On-Going)

Prologue

It's dark. I carry my shoes in my hand as I stand in my new home. The carpet sinks into the shape of my feet. I wiggle my toes, watching their outline squirm underneath a striped sock on the left and a plain white one on the right. Can't stare at them for long. Watching the body - even my own - I'm afraid I would get too excited.

I walk to the kitchen, breathing slow, deep breaths, letting my fingers skim along the green wallpaper until they find the light switch. Two fingers grip the plastic tip. Flick. Yellow light bathes the scratched countertop and sink with rusted faucets and reveals the cobwebbed corners, where the wallpaper was peeling. I shudder. It's perfect.

Blood rushes to my face as I peek into the rooms one by one. Everything was exactly as I wanted. Coffee stains lined the hallway floor, a bedroom door whose hinges were loose. And the finale. My sacred place. I tiptoe through the bedroom, past the square of unmarred carpet where the previous tenant's bed must have stood. The door is ajar. I hold my breath as I push the door open. The ensuite bathroom is revealed. My eyes water and a smile splays across my face. It will become my sacred place. The rock upon which I will build an alter.

Sunlight streaks in through a high window, a shadow dances on the opposite wall, mirroring the movement of a tree outside. My mind's eye can see the final vision. When the agent showed me the house, I could already picture where all my tools would go. The toilet will be unused, a workbench placed over it. I will place sticky plastic hooks onto the side wall, instruments of differing sizes placed haphazardly on them. They will eventually fall under the weight of the stainless steel tools, but that was what made the sticky hooks so enticing.

Oh, this was much too exciting. There would be consequences to this much stimulation. I have to suppress it. The next project would require much planning. And with that thought echoing through my mind, I recall the projects of the past, their final figures burned into my inner eye. I lick my lips and take a shallow breath. Yes. Another project. This is no time to play around. Moving into a new city means starting anew. Lots to be done. No mistakes can be made. I turn to leave, ensuring the door is placed carefully ajar. I flick off the light in the kitchen. My shoes are once again covering their squirming residents. With my hand on the front door, I take one last look at my home. All is well.

Just as I push open the front door, I hear glass shattering. It came from my bedroom. In a flurry, I remove my shoes and carry them with me to the bedroom. I am just in time to see the bathroom door shut. Wind.

The blush fades from my cheeks. My heart slows and I feel my body temperature tangibly drop. With controlled precision, I twist the door handle open exactly enough to allow it to open on its own. It does so. A gust of spring air blows open the door, thrashing my nose flowery scents. On the floor was the shattered glass I heard. The leftmost high window was broken, and the culprit, a baseball, lay innocently in the sink. I am not angry. There is no time for anger. I step onto the rim of the bathtub so I can see out the high window. In the yard belonging to the house directly behind mine, three children stand talking to a female adult. One child, holding a baseball bat held over his shoulder, points directly at me. I take a mental image of all three children and the adult. Then, I step down from the bathtub, walk gingerly past the glass, put my shoes on once more, and exit the house. There is no time for thinking. Plans need to be made. There is no time for waiting. A new project is underway.