This Means War

Reach

In retrospect, not taking my spare key from the man I was in a prank war with was a bad idea. Honestly, I had forgotten. It was more or less in case I lost my own key, then someone I trusted would have a spare. Much more responsible than keeping it under the mat in my opinion.

Now that I'm home, I'm beginning to realize the error in my thinking. He had a key. Which meant he had access to my home at any time. Judging from the state of my kitchen, he had been here for a while.

I noticed straight away that something was amiss. My counter was completely clear. Not even my coffee maker was left out. I didn't realize just how much he had done until I opened my cupboards. Absolutely everything had been moved to the top shelves, well out of my reach. I knew who the culprit was. No one else had access to my house.

It wasn't until I had already climbed on the counter to retrieve my everyday items that I realized the full extent of his devious trick. I went to my bathroom, wanting a bath after all my climbing. At first glance, everything was like I left it. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned on the faucet, letting the water warm up before I plugged the drain.

I opened the cabinet door and instantly deflated. In front of me was nothing. I looked up to the top shelf and found it packed with everything usually dispersed through the lower shelves. Everything, from my toothbrush, to my bath bombs to the toilet paper was stashed well beyond my reach.

I had to drag a chair from my kitchen, across my house and into the bathroom to get anything down. My bath water was cold by the time I located my bath bombs. He had been meticulous, though somewhat kind. The more useful items, like the toilet paper and feminine hygiene products had been at the front of the shelf at least. He may be a jerk, but at least he had been thoughtful enough not to hide things I may have desperately needed at the back of the shelf. My toothbrush was at the very back, however. I threw it away, not trusting that he hadn't "accidentally" dropped it before stashing it. I had an unopened one that had been near the middle of the mess, anyway.

I reran my bath and dropped one of the bombs in, all the while grumbling under my breath, promising my revenge. I admittedly cooled down by the time I got out of the tub, almost forgetting his antics entirely. Right up until I stepped into my bedroom. My dresser was empty.

Not empty in the sense that he had taken everything out of it and moved it somewhere annoying. Empty as in the drawers themselves were gone. It didn't take a rocket scientist to guess where they were, either. I opened my closet and felt my anger rekindle with a vengeance. He had in fact moved my drawers to the top shelf in my closet. He had also piled the clothing I had hanging up on top of the drawers.

I stomped back to the kitchen and yanked my phone off the charger, angrily stabbing his contact and holding it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"I hate you so fucking much."

"Why? What happened?"

"Seb!" I growled, pinching the bridge of my nose in annoyance.

"What?"

"Get your ass over here!"

"Why? Is everything ok?" His concerned tone only fueled the rage inside me more.

"I'm wet, naked, and not happy. GET OVER HERE."

"Oh really?" He laughed. "And what do you want me to do about that?"

"If you're not back here in ten minutes, I'm chopping your dick off and shoving it up your ass!"

"So you're telling me to go fuck myself?"

"You could have at least left my underwear drawer alone!" I ranted.

"I didn't go through it or anything. I just... moved it."

"I'm punching you. Right in your stupid face."

"Tell you what, I'm not a monster, so I'll help this one time." He offered.

"Your ass. My house. Ten minutes." I growled before ending the call.

I still had my towel wrapped around me when he finally knocked on my door, almost an hour later. His tardiness only fueled my rage. I jerked the door open, continuing to glare as he smiled sweetly at me.

"Need help?"

"You're awful."

"Not my fault you're two feet tall." He laughed. "This should help." He assured, grabbing the ladder he had leaned against the front of my house and passing it to me.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I growled, staring at him in anger in disbelief.

"Smile!" He laughed, pulling his phone out and snapping a selfie of his stupid smiling face while I stood in the background, holding a ladder with my outrage clear on my face.

It wasn't until later that night that I found his post on Instagram. It was a series of pictures of his annoyingly happy face, each phase of his reorganization documented with increasingly irritating captions.

First was a 'before' picture of my kitchen in its unaltered state, "Gonna help her redecorate!" Next was his smug grin with a picture of everything now placed out of my reach.

Then he had moved on to my bedroom, taking a picture of everything on the top shelf of my closet, the same annoying smile on his face "always picking up after her".

Next was my reordered bathroom closet, his hand in the foreground giving a thumbs up. "I'm such a nice friend."

It was the next picture that told me he had also moved the TV remote to the top of my bookshelf. That was an annoying problem for another time.

The final picture was the one he had taken on my doorstep. The anger was clear on my face as I stood there, in a towel, holding a ladder just behind him. "Have fun shortie!"

Yup. He needed to die.