3

‘One more day,’ I tell myself. ‘One more day. That’s all it should really take, if I put in the effort; that’s all it should really take to finish this machine. Then, I can begin testing.’

I toiled the remainder of that evening through the occasional whips of the electric guitar strings as they tore through my wall, with each one embracing it in its entirety: I knew that I could push myself to finishing the device in but another day, however it would require a whole sunlight’s allotment, and that, chances are, I would need to brave yet another onslaught in the evening before I could hope to take actionable steps to liberate myself from it more noticeably, so with every strike that came through my walls, bludgeoning me with its volume and dazing me for seconds at a time, I knew I needed to take it head on, because the worst of it was yet to come, and unless I wanted to continue living in such terror, I would need to push through the most difficult challenges in order to battle my torment, in the only way I really knew how.

Today is a Saturday. Fortunately for me, that means that today I do not have work, and I am not put in a position where I am forced – as I would be entirely prepared – to request any time off work in order to bring the pre-alpha stages of my project to a close. Had I gotten any sleep last night, that would of course mean that I would need to wake up early in order to get started on the completion, however if any benefit can be derived from my neighbour’s disturbance, it’s that it has oppressed me into a corner in which my only option is to cope through my work, and as such I have wasted none of the usual four hours that would be thieved by my biological limitations over the course of a typical night. I can transition cleanly from working all night, to taking a minute to check the time – five a.m. – to going back to working once again. It is not the most ruthless stretch of labour I have subjected myself to in my life: I have once spent the better – no, the best – part of a whole week working on a project I designed, finding respite in short bursts which my body would no longer negotiate by bargaining with various, almost lethal doses of caffeine, only to ultimately find that the project would require more attention still, as it included a fatal flaw I had not considered all throughout the creation process, and which, in occasional slips of focus and wanderings of the mind, still manages to vex me randomly throughout the day. But on this particular occasion, I find myself more driven than ever, because, unlike in any device I have designed hitherto, I have found an immediate actionable purpose for my creation, which allows me to move forward with greater optimism than I have ever had in any other project beforehand.

When the morning sun arrives high enough in the sky, I can hear the apartment door from Jake’s side of the corridor opening. Paying attention, I can even perceive his footsteps walking down the corridor, disappearing when they – I presume – reach the elevator, but neither the elevator’s dings nor the beginning of its descent are audible from so far. The momentary distraction becomes the only one throughout my day, leaving me untroubled as I work away on my creation, and only once I reach the evening, and I can once more make out Jake’s footsteps from the corridor, this time nearing his door and eventually opening it, do I remember that time is passing at all, and immediately realise the prospect I had been fearing subliminally from his egress in the morning, as his return helps reignite in my mind the memories from the evening prior.

Patiently awaiting the worst, I do not immediately realise that the tension imposed on me by the anticipation of the treacherous sounds freezes my limbs and, for the first time in the last eighteen hours, causes me to pause my work. Once I notice the impact it is having on me I quickly dismiss it, returning to the black box, which I know is almost complete, but with each incoming scratch and bump that originates from behind my bedroom wall, I find myself freezing once again, terrified, so much so that after enough of those interruptions, I almost wish for the nightmare to begin, to allow the suspense its forecast arrival is causing to come to an end. 

And it does not take very long for that wish to be granted. When the music starts once again, as it did the night before, I rescind what I had hoped while waiting for it prior. The anticipation was not that bad after all. Anything for silence, I plead.

It does not take me too long into the chaos of the night to realise that, upon asking myself my usual question of: ‘what is there left to do?’ I answer honestly, ‘nothing’, and like that, I look down at my black box before me, and realise my creation is complete. All that is left is the tuning, and for that, I endeavour to make room on my desk, to allow a more suitable space for focussing – as best as I can through the tumult, of course – and as I clean all the various parts and pieces off my desk’s surface, I pick up the blueprints I had drafted for the design of the device, and as I am about to roll them up to put them aside, I notice some odd marking on the side of the page. When I inspect them to look a little closer, I see that they are words – words I myself have written – and when I read through each block in my head, an odd, disquieting familiarity resounds from within each syllable. It takes me only a moment longer to notice that the familiarity is not one separated by time, but rather by a thin, apartment-dividing wall, for the words I am reading on my set of blueprints I can too hear being repeated to me out loud, as the pure filth that has been infecting the air within my room has evidently managed to superficially influence my mind as well, and without my noticing caused me to write down the lyrics of the songs my neighbour is subjecting me to listen to against my will. This almost makes me want to tear the blueprints apart, but my better judgement immediately dismisses even the forethought of the action: instead, I do as I had planned anyway, and roll up the blue sheets nicely and neatly, and place them aside on my bed, where they may be conveniently reached should I still realise there are some things I wish to change about the device, but also to allow a sensible place for everything pertaining to the project to be clustered, which I will ultimately need to gather in another one of the panoply of boxes around my apartment.

With my desk now cleared, I place the device in the centre of its surface, and I bring its power cable – the thickest of the wires coming out of the device – to the outlet beside my desk, where, upon plugging it in, the small indicator light at the front of the box turns green to indicate that it’s getting power, and I may begin the process of adjusting its parameters to my wishes. Just as I am prepared to start the modifications, however, a realisation fills me with further dread: I will not, until the ruckus subsides, be able to tune the machine in any way; not according to the system I thought up, at least. The acknowledgment only bears with it a momentary distaste, since it simply means that I will have to wait for some time for the noise to end, which I had been planning to do anyway, but the vexation of having my plans once more trumped by the presence of the putrid clamour carries with it the sting of a barbed whip, which compels me that much more to challenge forth, and bring my ephemeral servitude to a close once and for all.

In the presence of the continuing music resonating from my bedroom wall, I decide to retire for the time being to another room in my apartment, where the sound is less audible, and although I will not be able to carry out any work there – my mind only functions when it is at a desk: my desk – I can still bring along with me my blueprints, drafting in my mind any potential fixes or changes that I might not realise I have missed, even if, after so many continuous hours of ceaseless work on the project, it is unlikely that any such errors should prevail. It is something to do, nonetheless, and with blueprints in hand, I find my way to my sitting room, where I brush away some of the dust resting on the floor by one of the walls, sit down amidst the rubble of my past creations, and begin to read every page of notes I had contrived for the project.

I spend what must be hours reading over those notes – once, then another time, and on my third time reading them, as my gaze finds itself in the middle of some-or-other sentence, like a weight being lifted from my chest, I realise that I can breathe freely once again. I raise my eyes from the page, inspecting my surroundings just to be sure. When I am certain, I leap up from my place on the floor with joy. Indeed, it is true: the tumult has finally come to an end. I am once again in silence, and I can return to the finalisation of my device.

I rush with great haste back to my desk, and I do not hesitate to resume tuning my device. The approach I have engineered perplexes me for a little while, as, assured without trouble as to its theoretical basis, I am still unaware of how such a path will manifest in reality, and only some time after allowing myself to listen to the device and its needs, do I find a sort of groove to the method, and quickly afterwards I find a comfortable adjustment to my machine. When I deem it finished, I unplug it from the wall, and lift it up in my hands, gently, like a newborn child. 

I gaze upon it with wonder. There it is: simplistic, complete – beautiful. All that remains is to test it in action, and for that, I must begin the final phase of my plans for today – or more concretely, at 2:34 a.m., tonight. I realise that I will need some tools for my solution, and I peruse a few of the drawers beneath my desk, which I reserve exclusively for the most benign miscellanies that do not conform to any clear grouping, and within them, I find the small leather tool roll, about the size of my hand, and excavate it from beneath the rubble which rests on top of it. Rolled up, I place it in my pocket, and without but a heartbeat’s hesitation more, I lift up once again from my chair, this time with my machine in hand, and proceed out of my bedroom. Unlike my last escapes, this time I am completely calm. The silence aids that, of course, but above all, I am carried by my overwhelming sense of duty to my project. I know now what remains for me to do, and without any further obfuscation to the matter, I am determined that I shall do it.

I silently walk out of my apartment door and out onto the corridor, the strips of lights in the ceiling illuminating it an indifferent white. Calmly, I traverse the couple metres that separate my neighbour’s apartment and my own, and once I reach his door, so seemingly different from the last time I’d seen it amidst the nocturnal silence, I stop. Stepping a little bit closer, I plant myself right in front of it, before lowering myself down onto my knees. I gently lower the black box onto a spot on the blue carpet beside me, and, ensuring that it is untroubled, I place my hand inside my pocket, and produce the leather tool roll that I found just for this purpose. Unbuttoning its little strap at the front, I stretch out both sides of the roll, revealing my familiar host of lockpicks that I haven’t seen in quite a long time. Upon laying my eyes on them, a certain forgotten excitement bubbles up from inside me, though not enough to overwhelm me, but sufficiently to ignite me with a lukewarm flicker after the cold and domineering torture of the evening. I do not pay it much heed aside from that, instead running my finger along the tips of the picks until it reaches the one I know is best for the job, and I remove it from its sheath. I then close the roll once more – loosely, without buttoning the front – and place it alongside the box on the floor. With careful attention, I place the pick inside my neighbour’s lock.

Within seconds, I am assured of the safe assumption I had subconsciously made about the lock: that, much like the door, it ought to be of identical design to all other locks on the floor, among them my own, which I had picked countless times as a means of practice, and could now pick it open in the same amount of time it would take me to open it with a key. This compels me, as a familiar blueprint greatly reduces the amount of time it would take to find the lock’s groove, though I never lost confidence that I would have been able to pick it regardless. It takes me a few moments, further delayed by occasional pauses my paranoid mind demands whenever the slightest noise shudders from within the apartment, but ultimately I feel that delicious give of a lock turning open. Holding that turn, I stand back up to my feet, pressing down on the doorhandle once I’m upright. With both lock and handle actuated to their fullest extent, I push the door forward. In the split second of uncertainty, I hope; but without any trouble, the door turns slightly ajar, and I know my first precariousness has passed. Indeed: in the short amount of time my neighbour has been here, he has not been afforded the opportunity to request a deadbolt be installed in his door, as has my own entrance been privileged after years of distrust of those living closest to myself. 

Quietly, I allow the door to complete its journey to full aperture. I lower myself to pick back up the tool roll and the device, placing the pick back into its slot and closing the roll back shut, returning it to my pocket, before scrutinising the ground beneath me. With the light spilling in from the corridor, I can see the packets of crisps laying scattered in the hallway before me, and as I prepare to take my first step in, I make sure that there is sufficient space between them to support my balance, lest I lose my footing for a second and risk waking my host.

I enter the familiar spot in the apartment hallway. Before me is once more the sitting room, though I find little interest in it now: I calm my breathing, and listen attentively. Ever-so-subtly rustling the air, I can sense calm, slumbered breathing from down the hallway. Before moving out, I contemplate closing the door, but ultimately decide that the light bleeding from the corridor is beneficial to my navigation of the apartment. Following its guide, with the faint snoring as my north star, I proceed through the minefield of discarded packaging down my neighbour’s hallway.

Along the way, I pass by a door identical to that which I use as a small storage shed, though this one is closed, and I wouldn’t dare tempt fate by opening it. Once I sneak close enough to the end of the hallway, when the breathing is loud enough to be heard almost right next to me, I stop by the final door: that which in my own reflection would be the bedroom, halting right before the entrance, where I can allow myself to carefully peek my head inside, and get an idea of my surroundings before venturing any farther. Tucking the device ever closer to my chest, I crouch slightly to the floor, hoping that avoiding eye level can somehow help me prevent detection.

Inside the final chamber of the hallway, I can first of all see that the common carpeting of the rest of the living quarters finds no reason to elude this particular room, and the continuation of convenient refuse extends past the doorway, even amplifying somewhat deeper into the chamber. The immediate object of focus is placed right in the vicious centre of the room: what I at first, through the shadow of the night, assume to be a bed, very close to the ground, but quickly realise is in fact simply a mattress without any bed frame. Upon it sleeps my neighbour, covered faintly with some sort of – I opine – insufficient blanket, and to my relief, his eyes, however open they might be, are turned away from the door I am peeking around, and I can relax myself at least a little in being able to avoid immediate discovery. He is sprawled all over the surface of the mattress and even somewhat beyond it, which is admittedly impressive on one that is double sized, and his pillow, which I first believe to be completely absent, can instead be found some metre or so away from his head, laying amidst the forlorn packagings on the floor of the room. Apart from that, the space appears absent of much else in the way of furnishings or decorations. From the corner of my vision by the rightmost wall, I can just about see some sort of tall black box, just a little taller than myself, but standing where I am, I am not afforded a better inspection of just what the strange fixture might be.

The room somewhat assessed and my neighbour determined unaware of my presence, I decide to proceed deeper inside the bedroom. Taking careful note of each step I place, I ensure that none of them stir my neighbour; but no matter how close to the mattress I get, the corpse-like mass does not move a muscle, and only continues to snore. I eventually manage to work my way all the way up to my neighbour’s head, standing right above him, the tips of my shoes centimetres away from his bald top, and still, he in no way reacts to any change in his environment.

Taking a more careful look at the precise nature of the detritus surrounding the mattress, I can discern that those pieces of debris lying closest to my neighbour’s left fingertips, themselves spilling off the mattress, resemble with their silhouettes the shapes of bottles, and before I can finish counting their exact number, I finally reach an explanation for the depth of my neighbour’s sleep. This comforts me somewhat, as, notwithstanding the precise genius of my plan, I still had not exactly resolved how I would go about enacting it without a myriad of risks impeding me on the way, my neighbour waking at any moment being the greatest one of them: but now, with that risk at least slightly alleviated, I can feel some soothing relief from beneath my calculated exterior. This sets the stage for the remainder of my mission, and I take no more time burdened by uncertainty to continue with my next steps.

As I start lowering myself down onto my knees right by my neighbour’s head, my eyes raise momentarily, hitherto eternally glued to my host in anticipation of any sort of reactive movement, and I notice now what the black box I had noticed before really is. Standing dominantly against the wall facing that which our two apartments share, there is a large, powerful sound system, with an innocent record player standing sandwiched between two huge speakers, resembling more closely crowd-control equipment than they do an entertainment system. Stranded on the floor somewhere in front of the whole arrangement, I can discern the shape of an electric guitar, and, whether guided purely by imagination or by an unknown acuteness in my sight, I can see the wire connecting the instrument to the bastion of destruction.

For an instant, I can feel the rage filling my veins, as I recognise the precise tool that had been used to torture me for the last two nights, but I manage to keep my head cool. I understand that I must keep my mission in mind: that, should everything go to the best of its potential, the solution to all the problems my neighbour is causing should lie at the end of my task here tonight, and so I take my eyes off the sound system and return them to my own black box, which, upon reaching a full kneel, I place to my left on the floor. I scan the nearby walls for possible outlets I might use, and find one right behind me, which the cable from my black box can easily reach. Sneaking my way over to it, I connect the device, recognising the blue light turning on as a sign that it is plugged in, and I move along over back to my neighbour, and prepare for the most critical part yet.

Moving the box closer to myself, I pick up the three wires that are protruding from the device, and separate them so it is clear which is which in the uncertain lighting of the night. Once I identify them, I take the one I had placed rightmost of the three, and tracing its length to the end to find the rubber pad that it connects to, I find a firm grip on the pad, and I bring it over to my neighbour’s head. As I hold it right above him, I listen to his breathing: it is steady, slumbering, and undisturbed. Reassured as much as I possibly can be, I bring the rubber pad down onto my neighbour’s temple, and use the slight piece of tape located at its end to fix the rubber more firmly in place. Then, I quickly retract my hand, turn to stone, and wait. A couple seconds of my neighbour’s indifferent sleep pass, and I determine that the attachment was a success. Slightly jolted from accomplishment as well as excitement, I reach for the next wire in the sequence.

This wire, I know, is destined for my neighbour’s nape, and although the angle is slightly more awkward than that of the right temple, I still manage to find an approach that works to stick the rubber pad onto the back of my neighbour’s neck, and once it has been fixed and he continues to sleep in the same manner as he did with the first connection, I turn to the final wire that remains, the leftmost one of the original three.

Picking it up, I acknowledge that this one will be slightly more difficult to attach. The first was simple, as my neighbour’s right temple was readily exposed as a result of his sleeping position, as was the second on his nape, however given that in order for the right temple to be most accessible, the left must be facing downwards, into the mattress, which poses some problems. The only conceivable way that I might expect to access that part of my host’s anatomy is to lift his head myself, turning it with my hand so that he is facing the other direction. This is a course of action that I was hoping I would not need to undertake, as physically touching my neighbour – no matter the amount of alcohol that is suppressing him – is the most likely way to wake him up, and throw all my progress thus far into oblivion. 

As I deliberate, a few more seconds pass, and I hope that perhaps he will turn his head of his own accord; but alas, the seconds elapse, and he still does not stir. Furthermore, with each passing moment, I recognise that the longer I wait, the more opportunities there are for something to go wrong: for my neighbour to wake, for whatever reason, and put my mission to an end. Watching him lay there, still, I query the depths of my boundless intelligence for alternatives to the options present before me, but ultimately, I find none. Somewhat desolate, I take a final, deep breath in, and I accept what I have to do.

I momentarily place the wire back down on the floor in order to regain full faculty of both my hands. Before going in, I adjust my posture to be more comfortable, minimising the chance of my feet somehow slipping and causing me to impose a sudden movement on my host. Once I am confident in my stature, I produce my hands, and begin to move them closer. 

With each millimetre they travel, I pay careful attention to my neighbour, waiting for any possible reactions, and just when there is just about a hair’s length between the surfaces of each of our skins, and I can even feel the warmth emanating from his body, I stop.

Quickly, or slowly? I think to myself. I ponder for a moment which of the two approaches will be least likely to arouse my neighbour. I consider that on the one hand, going slowly and more subtly, my neighbour’s sleeping body will be less likely to sense a change around him, and he will simply toss over to the other side as if the action was entirely his own, at the risk of continuously touching and providing sensation that may instead be recognised as something more present than a quick but tender push would be; however, on the other hand, going more quickly presents the more obvious risk of imposing a sudden force on my neighbour’s skin, which his body, no matter how inebriated, will sense as a potential risk and wake him within an instant. I hesitate for a few seconds, ultimately arriving at the conclusion that, notwithstanding the risks of both methods, by going slowly I was at least slightly more likely to give myself some time to react in case the choice of approach was not working, and pivot to the faster one in the possibility that it might be more fortuitous. So, determined in my choice, I refocus my attention on my hands, and begin taking gentle hold of my neighbour’s head. 

Nearing the surface of his hairless skin closer and closer, I can feel his warmth once again, until finally, I make contact. Before moving any more from there, I decide to sit still like that for a moment, motionless, and see how my host responds. A second passes, and he appears indifferent, and I relax a little more. More confident in my plan after the first small victory, I begin to gently push with my left hand upward, applying subtle but firm force to start turning my neighbour’s head, and even to this initial movement, he does not respond. When I manage to eke about ten more degrees of rotation out of my delicate lift, I begin to realise the full depth of my neighbour’s inebriated slumber. Quickly allowing myself to eye the bottles once again, I assure myself of their impressive quantity. In fact, after a few more degrees, I begin to worry whether the amount of alcohol in all the bottles wasn’t indeed a lethal dose, and the horror of my actions thus stuns me momentarily; but, after hearing another struggled breath leave my neighbour’s lips, I am relieved once more, and continue with my plan.

I manage to coax my host’s head about ninety degrees, facing upwards, and I feel proud of my progress so far. Confidently reaching what ought to be the tipping point, I am about to let my efforts loose, allowing the head to drop down the other side on its own, when I feel a sudden grip take hold of my arm. It is my neighbour’s left hand, suddenly summoned to take hold of my own.

I freeze, paralysed by both fear and disappointment, immediately cursing myself for not being more gentle, or slower, or something, when the grip quickly loosens, and becomes something more of a soft hold.

‘Ah, ah—’ I hear my host grumble, followed by a few more groans. Still tentative, I take a more astute look at his eyes, and see that they are indeed still closed. Some relief floods over me: he is still asleep, if not completely, then at least enough to not be sufficiently awake to notice or remember my presence. I feel somewhat more reassured, but nonetheless I do not rush to continue with turning my neighbour’s head; I choose to stay still, gently keeping his head still between my hands, and after a couple more seconds of this uncomfortable stasis, my neighbour’s grip loosens completely from my arm, and drops languidly back onto the mattress, hanging off the side and almost touching the floor. I allow a few more seconds to pass for certainty, but after enough time elapses, I finally let myself push my neighbour’s head the final few degrees right, and when I determine that it has been pushed far enough, I stop my force, and, slowing its descent with some additional resistance from my right hand, allow the head to glide down onto its right side, revealing the left temple for me to easily access.

As I release both my hands from the terrifying endeavour, I realise for a moment that I will have to repeat something loosely similar when I wish to remove the rubber pads at the end of my enterprise, but I choose without much trouble to allow myself to worry about one problem at a time, and continue to reach for the final, leftmost wire which protrudes from the small black box. Finding it, I lift it, and without as much hassle following a considerably more monumental task, place it on the correct spot on my host’s head. The three connections fixed, I shift myself a little bit back, sitting cross-legged on the floor behind my neighbour’s head, and I pick up the device between my hands.

I turn the black box to face me as I inspect its front. I cannot see clearly enough to discern the numbers on the smaller dials, but I know where to find the largest one, and I know where to begin. As I am almost prepared to lift my hand and turn it, I hesitate. A strange feeling of sharpness overcomes me, and I am perplexed by a hollow sense of consideration that empties me of all ambition, only for an instant.

I begin to contemplate, and my hand falls gently on my lap.

Is this, after all, what I want to do? I ponder.

Just when I articulate the thoughts in that order, I dismiss them as foolish. Of course this is the course of action, of course this is what I am to do – what I need to do. Doubting myself now is doubting everything I have built, everything I have stood for. If I doubt myself now, if I do not at this moment stand by myself as I have stood by hitherto, then all my existence prior would be a lie, and I cannot allow myself such a peril. Of course this is the right course. There is no other option than this; therefore, there is no choice.

When my thoughts return to my body, I direct my limp hand back into animation onto the largest dial between the three that make the device’s front. Beginning the scrutiny of my host’s head, which will hopefully help me discern the progress my machine is making, I begin to carefully turn the dial. Degree by degree, I watch to see if the increased energy is having any sort of effect on my neighbour, but as far as I can visibly discern, nothing is changing. I feel tempted to increase the speed of my rotation, but I hold myself back, knowing that a drastic, sudden increase would threaten to throw off all the calculations I performed beforehand, perhaps even, in some cases, hurting my host, and in some, only the rarest, maybe even… well, it’s better to pace myself, anyhow.

I continue to turn the dial farther and farther along its circumference, but still, my neighbour remains indifferent. Ultimately, I know very well that there is in fact no need for there to occur any visible change in my host, no visible reaction, however I discerned, from calculations, that it was actually possible, and I would have preferred to see a noticeable affirmation of my machine at work rather than only a hopeful linger till the fruits grew clear; but I must accept what is, and as the dial approaches the notch which I have marked as the target adjustment, I know that I will have to wait and see.

As I sit there and perform the final piece of the turn, a moment of serenity overwhelms me. I become suddenly aware of my surroundings, the peaceful quiet of the room, and the expansive silence that encompasses our entirety. Within our immediate vicinity, the only sound there is is the sound of air escaping my neighbour’s lungs, and the quiet ticking of my dial as it passes each successive notch. All else is sleeping at this time, and I recognise how perfect such a silence is.

Making sure not to overshoot my mark, I return my attention to the device I am holding in my hands, and squint my eyes to ensure that the little arrow protruding from the circular knob is just about to meet with the white mark I have placed at the number forty five. I give my neighbour another momentary glance to see whether he has changed at all, even once, but he remains perfectly still. I finally resolve that there is no sense entertaining that hope any longer, and with a surgical twist of my fingers, I allow the dial to complete its journey, and count in my mind the three seconds I established that it needs to rest at this destination. Once those elapse, I check that my neighbour has still not awoken, and when I see that he is still as still as a brick, I begin the descent of the dial back down to zero, travelling at a similar rate as that which got me to the zenith of my adjustment, but slightly faster, as it is not difficult to conclude that if an ascent through the digits of such a speed caused no noticeable effects in my host, then the corresponding reduction has some leeway where a more temporally efficient path may be allowed. It therefore does not take me that much longer to return the dial back down to zero, where I may finally disable the device, and conclude my experiment in my neighbour’s apartment.

Taking a few more seconds to appreciate that my host has not stirred since the single hiccough before, I wait to make sure the device has been properly deactivated before beginning to remove the wires. Once I am content with the amount of time that has passed – and eager to remove myself from the hostile premises – I gently walk my hand over to my neighbour’s head, where I slowly and caringly detach the small bit of tape sticking to the temple. In the same breath, I remove the rubber pad on the nape, and as I lay those two pieces of wire back onto the floor, I resent that which I had accurately prospected back when I was attaching them in the first place. The last wire that is left to remove is on my neighbour’s right temple, which is currently concealed by his sleeping head. 

For a second, I glance at the wire protruding from beneath the hairless scalp, and a daring thought catches me: perhaps I do not need to risk lifting my neighbour’s head once again after all. Before attempting the plan I am considering, I first prepare it by unplugging the device from my neighbour’s wall, and bundling all the wires that belong to the box neatly on top of it, so that, in the event that my new approach does stir my neighbour, I will have the most facilitated time in removing myself from the scene as quickly as possible – hopefully quickly enough to not be noticed. Then, once the wires are conveniently arranged, I place my feet in a stance ready to sprint at first notice, and without considering anything else that might cause dangerous hesitation, I sharply pull the wire from beneath my neighbour’s head.

As I expected, it lets easily, and I acquire the tape and rubber pad along with it. With all the pieces in hand, my positioned feet become taught with preparation to bolt, my ears and eyes equally so, observing my host. Under the darkness of the night, it is difficult to say, but I sense that the sharp action has not unsettled my neighbour in the slightest, and that he is still sleeping peacefully. This relieves me, but truthfully, suspended so pleasantly in happiness by being able to reach the conclusion of my enterprise without as many obstructions as could have easily presented themselves, this relief comes almost secondary. Nonetheless, I do not object to a final piece of relaxation after such a trying forty-eight hours, and slowly lifting myself back to my feet, I give my charitable host one final glance before walking back out of his apartment.

To avoid any possible suspicion, I take the time to pick my neighbour’s lock back closed, and once finished, traipse gaily back into my own apartment. When I arrive, where there should have been many thoughts flowing through my head, I can sense none at all, only the pleasant warmth of accomplishment that I know so well. I amble without any rush at all through my hallway, turning off all the lights on the way, including my desklamp once I enter my bedroom, not before depositing the device safely on my desk, and in the encompassing darkness that ensues, I find my bed. With no more thoughts to stunt me, I place myself on its accommodating surface, and collapse immediately into a deep sleep.

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