Sighing, I lift my weary eyes from my book’s pages and gaze out the window. Glancing outside, I notice that, by the bare and slippery sidewalks bathed in the pale lamplight, it’s raining. The soft droplets beginning to melt what was once beautiful, crystal white snow into a dirty slush-like consistency. I close my eyes and strain my ears to listen to the barely-audible pit-a-pat of the rain hitting against the glass, imagining the droplets racing each other to the bottom of the windowpane.
Instantly, every muscle in my overwrought body becomes relaxed, and my thoughts subside. Listening to rain has always been therapeutic for me. The rain washes everything away; every ache, every trouble, every scrambled thought. The effect is gentle, but persistent.
It’s only after my eyelids close that I realize how exhausted I am - from the burden of long-closed eyes and slumber, and the prior day’s exhaustion. I notice the many sleepless nights have begun to take its toll on me. But, I think to myself, it isn’t my fault! The constant, unrelenting arguing from the neighboring couple have become the primary source of my lack of sleep.
Sometimes, the fights would get so bad that the man would take leave, abandoning the woman alone with the baby and her angry thoughts. It wouldn’t be long before the woman’s irrepressible sobs arose. That’s where I have the most trouble; the echoed wails resonate through the thin walls of the apartment, quieting only at odd hours of the night.
Some nights, the cries of the woman and the wails of the baby would get so loud, so torturous, that sleep became impossible, almost unwelcome. I open my eyes and turn my focus to the outside once again - noticing the heavy clouds have begun to descend, darkening the sky as the evening rapidly approaches. A yawn creeps at the back of my throat, reminding me of my exhaustion. I wonder to myself if, just perhaps, sleep would come without a struggle toni-
WHAM!
The sounds of doors slamming and loud yelling suddenly reverberate from the apartment adjacent to mine, interrupting my thoughts. I groan and return back to my book, hoping it would provide a decent enough distraction until the fight stops.
“I’m glad you’re leaving!” the woman says, her words slightly muffled through the walls. “Do you hear me?”
There she goes, I groan. Sinking deeper in my chair, I take one final glance outside. The grimy water left behind from the snow reminds me of the couple next-door; dirtied, tainted. Is there any hope, for either the couple or the snow?
My thoughts are yet again interrupted as the howls from the woman increase in volume and intensity. All this time, the man has said nothing. Suddenly there is a pause; both the man and the woman are silent. The fight… is it over?
But then, no it’s not.
I hear a hushed murmur; the first reply from the man. The woman retorts with telling him to get his things and get out. Silence then fills both apartments once more. I don’t realize how hard I’m straining my ears to listen to this fight. Normally the disputes last a few minutes before the man’s patience is completely worn thin, causing him to storm out the door.
This time, however, the fight worsens, and I decide that I’m angry. All the screams and the shouts and the insults and the accusations and the retorts, I’m tired of it all. I mean, I haven’t had a full nights rest in weeks! Have they no shame?
I decide to venture out and and talk to the couple myself, maybe knock some sense into their thick heads. Why must I suffer when they’re the ones who can’t get their shit together?
A hazy cacophony of voices ricochet through the corridor as I close the front to my apartment behind me. I turn towards the door in which the sounds of arguing emit from, and I notice a third person’s cries rising above the other two; the baby. Again I remark how long the fighting has lasted, and a sense of worry fills my mind. Hesitantly, I raise my fist to the apartment door, but something stops me from knocking. Being just outside the door, I can hear the dispute more clearly, and only now am I able to fully make out the words being said.
“Let go of him,” the man said, “let go of the baby.”
“Get away, get away!” the woman cried.
I try to look through the peephole of the apartment, my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I fear the worst. Through the eyehole I can barely make out the scene before me - the baby in the woman’s arms, red-faced and screaming, the man cornering the woman into the wall, trying to get ahold of the baby.
“Don’t, you’re hurting him,” she says, her face etched with concern and fear. “You’re hurting the baby!”
The man ignores her cries and pulls with all his weight, forcibly trying to pry the woman’s fingers from the infant. I watch in horror as each parent tugs, acting as if they were playing tug-of-war with the baby’s appendages being the rope.
Immobilized, completely unable to look away, I’m struck by the realization that neither parent is concerned about the baby. Their personal differences have surpassed the child’s physical welfare and safety. The woman feels her grip loosening, causing her to grab hold of the baby’s wrist, leaning her body back as much as she could in order to get away from the man.
The man would not let go, however. He, too, felt the baby slipping out of his hands.
He, too, pulled back very hard.
And in this manner, the issue was decided.