Over the lattice gate, onto the roof - he knew where I slept.
I keep my window open, and the cat’s scratched the flywire so much recently it’s become fairly useless. Tonight’s featured three returns of the cat to my window, the man next door screaming and beating his dog before packing it into his car and driving off like he does every night.
HEY. COME HERE. I said come HERE!
Lights on. Lights off. Singlet. No singlet.
In through the window. Fights like this come once in a blue moon, the part of your mind that takes over comes with it. Look for something hard. The typewriter. Could I electrocute him with the-
No, don’t be an idiot.
He’s got a knife.
“Fuck off kid, you better fuck off or I’ll fucking-”
Never once have I been more happy to own a screwdriver set. No. The kitchen.
Downstairs. He falls down the stairs in the dark, swearing the whole way. I’ve reached the the knives. His buttery neck wide open laying there on the tiles, his arm broken. He stumbles into the kitchen, I kill him.
Knife on the floor.
I look at him now. He’s no-one I know. He’s not the man from next door, he’s just a tracksuit with Asics trainers. I can afford him a few towels, and while I’m halfway finished with the blood on the kichen tiles, I realise I’m hungry.
So I cook dinner. I cook dinner with him there, I look at him while drinking the wine I’ve decided to use in my garlic-ridden pasta-sauce. I rather like him there.
I muse maybe I’ll prop him up and be a hospitable host.