Chapter 8: Hank's Fury

Hank had a fight with the landlord, coming home furious, shouting with the door wide open, “Agreed to no rent increase for ten years, but now after just three years they want to double it, dammit!”

The hallway echoed with his voice, the kind of anger that turns even the air sour. Neighbors pretended not to listen but lingered just out of sight. The TV blared from a neighboring apartment, and somewhere a dog barked, the smell of burnt toast drifting down the hall.

“Calm down, honey, you have skills, you can make money anywhere.” Natalie brought him a glass of water, but he threw it aside.

“Damn! I’m never renting again. I’ll be a landlord myself! Bring me our savings, I’m buying a shop right now—let’s see who dares mess with us!”

Natalie didn’t move.

“Go!”

She closed the door, and soon the sound of smashing things echoed faintly through the walls.

I couldn’t help but peek through the hole. Hank was pinning Natalie to the ground, slapping her. “Bitch! Where’s the money? I spent money to get you out of that life—where’s the money?”

Natalie’s hair was a mess; she didn’t dare fight back. Hank grabbed a kitchen knife and pressed it to her neck. One slash—the knife hit the bed, missing her. Natalie screamed, frozen in shock. A stream of liquid trickled from her thigh.

Hank raised the knife again.

I was scared stiff, retreated to my room, and turned on my computer, hands shaking so badly the screen trembled. I tried to drown it out with my headphones, but every shout, every thud, seeped through the wall and coiled around my spine.

“Ah!” I heard Natalie cry out, then nothing. Time ticked by. I didn’t dare move or breathe. The place was as silent as a graveyard.

Bang bang bang... Someone knocked on my door. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.

“Who is it?”

“Next door, Hank.”

“Wait a second.”

I tried to calm myself, put on headphones, and opened the door.

“Mr. Hank? Not in your diner at this hour?”

“Did I disturb you? What are you doing?”

“Playing games, wearing headphones. If you hadn’t knocked, I wouldn’t have heard anything.” I pointed to my big headphones.

“Just checking on you. Come in and sit for a bit.”

I let him in, pretending to be hospitable. “Come in, come in. It’s just me here—the place is messy.”

Hank walked around, then went to the balcony, tugging at the railing. He looked at me. “My balcony has a lot of stuff piled up. It’s not bothering you, right?”

“Balcony? Oh, I never go out there—the smell downstairs is too strong. I’m thinking of getting weatherstripping to seal the window.”

The building’s north side faced Hank’s fast food street; the south side faced the garbage station. The stench was so strong, everyone sealed off their south balconies. Our two balconies, separated by railings, were close.

“As long as it’s not a bother, that’s good.” Hank went back inside, looking at my computer. The screen flashed GAME OVER: [This game lasted 26 minutes.]

“Mr. Hank, what’s up?”

“Nothing. Distant relatives aren’t as good as close neighbors—I wanted to invite you for a drink.”

“Now?” I checked my phone. “Just after five—your diner busy?”

“Got staff. Let’s go drink somewhere else, come on.”

“Alright... thanks, I’ll change.” Only then did I notice Hank had changed too.

We left the fast food street and slid into a cracked vinyl booth at Joe’s Bar & Grill, the jukebox stuck on classic rock and the waitress calling everyone ‘hon.’

The neon lights flickered on Hank’s tired face as he ordered for both of us. I tried to act casual, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.