I was getting the Sunday evening blues, that period of time when you realize the weekend is over and it’s time to go back to work. There was nothing worth watching on television, meaning no football. It was the off season, so I figured I’d just go outside and relax.
I had a Trump supporter on one side and a Clinton supporter on the other, and there was no mistaking their allegiance. Each had multiple signs in their yard, as if they were trying to outdo one another. It reminded me of competitive Christmas decorating, except for lights and nativity scenes, there were bumper stickers and political banners. They often argued with one another on my property. They would start out in their own yards, and then slowly migrate face-to-face in the middle of my lawn. The wife and I had no peace. I finally implored them to either ignore one another, or politely choose a neutral place, like a bar, or any other place besides my yard to argue.
On this particular Sunday, it was a doozy, the topic- gun control. I walked out the front door and there they were, in my driveway, Frank leaning up against my car, and Tim standing in front of him, wagging his finger. It was bad, on the verge of coming to blows.
“Get your damn finger out of my face you bleeding heart!!” Frank was yelling.
Tim ignored him and kept on pontificating, throwing out statistics and anecdotes.
“Frank, Tim, I done told y’all. Go somewhere else with all that nonsense. Get out of my yard.”
Alone, I liked both of them, but together, or if talking politics, they were stubborn little children. Damned crazy idiots.
Fortunately, they broke it off with no issues. Maybe they were tired, and I had caught the tail end of it. I headed back inside, frustrated with the whole situation. I couldn’t even relax in my own yard. Instead, I went to the garage and started assembling my model airplane.
I got into the packaging and was ready to lay out all the pieces in an orderly arrangement, when I heard the damn yelling again. Now I was furious. This was getting ridiculous, and I was losing hope that all this chaos was going to end after the election.
I barreled up the small stairway leading to the front foyer and crashed through the front door.
“Dammit guys!” I bellowed, but there was no one outside. Across the street I could hear the young couple who had just moved in arguing. It wasn’t about politics. They were still moving in, most of the house was not yet furnished. He was accusing her of having an affair. Not only could I hear them, but I could see everything. Their living room windows were open, and they had not yet hung the drapes. I knew the central heat and air wasn’t working properly and wondered if they had discovered that during the inspection.
“You’re just a whore! I can’t believe you!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is insane. I can’t believe I’ve got to endure this again. You need to find a new doctor quick and get back on your meds. I can’t handle this again. I will leave.”
I’m not one of those nosy neighbors but when I heard her mention “meds” it worried me. I’ve already got two psychos living on either side of me. I didn’t need another one in front of me.
That must have hit a nerve because he punched her in the face. She fell out of view, and all went quiet. The young man stood there for a minute looking down and then walked off to the back of the house. I don’t like getting involved in someone else’s business, but would this count as an exception to the rule? I pondered about what I should do. I sat down on the porch. I was going back and forth. Call the police, don’t call the police, or at least go over there and check on her. Finally, I saw her stand up and walk to the window. She noticed me, tossed her hair back, and abruptly walked away.
Monday was a rough day at work. I had what seemed to be a thousand angry emails. Nasty-grams about the new policy going into effect. I didn’t really agree with the policy change myself, so I struggled to tow the company line. After I got home, I wanted to drown out the real world by watching a few episodes of ‘Cheers’. I routinely fantasized about owning my own bar. I was into my fourth episode when I heard the doorbell ring.
I was in no mood to talk politics, so I was hoping it wasn’t Frank or Tim. It wasn’t. It was the young man from across the street, wearing a Dallas Cowboy tee shirt.
“Hey neighbor. I just wanted to come over and introduce myself.” He reached out his hand. “My name is David.”
“I’m William, but people call me Bill.”
He laughed. “I’ve never understood how they got Bill from William. So, I hope you’re a football fan.”
“I am, but unfortunately, I’m an Eagles fan. I hope we can still be good neighbors.” I smiled and began thinking of something to say to end the conversation, like maybe I had to go to the store. I’m not much of a conversationalist.
“Can I come in?”
That irritated me and put him squarely on the wrong side. Who asks to come in someone else’s house other than a salesman or an evangelist. It was either going to be a pitch about Amway or a church to join. We sat down in the living room.
“I hope you don’t take offence to this, but I like to know what my neighbors are all about. I understand you have a sleeping condition. You sleepwalk or something and you accidentally killed a woman with your car. Moved from Birmingham to get away from it all.”
“How did you know that?” I asked, shocked by the sudden seriousness of the conversation.
“Oh, everything is online. There are no more skeletons hiding in your closet. They’re all out in the open now, all your little secrets one keystroke away from being exposed.”
“Skeletons… like hitting your wife?”
He smiled a devious grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think it’s time you leave.”
“No problem neighbor. Be seeing you around.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. I was now ready to call the police. That little prick deserved it, but I didn’t need to call the police because about three in the morning they showed up unexpectedly at my home. I first heard an ambulance pull up my street. I could see the reflection of the flashing red lights on my bedroom ceiling. I went to the window and peeked through the shades. The ambulance was parked behind my driveway. The paramedics were gathered around the back of my car, scrambling around like a hive of bees. I saw David run out of his house with a towel in his hand, crying and pleading for help.
“Please save her!!! Is she ok?”
Two police cars pulled up. The officers approached the scene. David ran up to them, apoplectic and a little less concerned with his wife’s condition.
“It was that son of a bitch. He has a sleep condition. He hit her. I know it was him,” he said as he was pointing towards my house.
“Bill, what’s going on?” my wife asked. “Did Frank finally kill Tim?”
“I don’t know. Stay here.”
I ran outside to see what was happening. The two officers yelled for me to stop. At the back of the car lay David’s wife, her head bloodied, and her arm broken, but oddly enough, with all the other injuries, it was the black eye that stood out the most. The back of my car was painted with blood.
“Sir, can you come with us?”
I was having a flashback to my own accident. I had struggled with PTSD for a long time. I didn’t even drive for a year or two after I had run into Mrs. Clark. My wife would drive me to work. I don’t know what I would have done without her. We had to take a longer route to work to avoid the scene of the accident. I couldn’t even see it without getting sick to my stomach. Even when I started driving again, I would drive extremely slow and always imagined that someone was about to jump out in front of my car. I did have sleep issues, but I wasn’t sleepwalking when I hit Mrs. Clark. No, I was simply fumbling around with the radio. I had told the police that I had a sleep condition, trying to rationalize what I had done. The press ran with it.
They drove me down to the station and recorded my statement. I explained what I had seen, him hitting her and coming over to my house and asking me about my accident. The officers believed my story.
“His story doesn’t square away with the scene. Her wounds are not indicative of being hit by a car. This guy is an idiot. We have brought him in as well. Luckily, I think your neighbor has it all on video.”
Good ole Frank. Crazy as hell prepper but thank God he has at least eleven video cameras on his property. The video showed David dragging his wife from out of his house, across the street and to the back of my car. He then kicked her in the head, possibly to draw more blood. He took some blood and smeared it across the trunk and fender.
Unfortunately, David posted bail. He wasn’t considered a flight risk, so they let him go and he disappeared from the world.
The wife and I moved yet again, not only to get away from the scene, but also the neighbors. We found a single-wide trailer on a little spot of land. It wasn’t pretty, but I didn’t have to deal with any more neighbors.
I write this account down only as a witness to my own possible death. I’ve asked my wife to leave and go stay with her sister, but she refuses. Yesterday morning I went to get the mail. As I was walking back from the mailbox, I noticed that the back of my car was covered in blood. He found me. That damn internet. There’s no escape, no more hiding. Eventually I’ll either kill him or he’ll kill me.