Thirty Thousand Shortfall

Linda and Carl were standing on their balcony, looking straight at me.

I saw Linda smile and wave. Beside her, Carl held a pair of pliers. They had flipped my breaker.

The blood rushed to my head, my heartbeat accelerating.

Again?

I was really about to lose it.

I hurried back inside, found my medication, and swallowed it. Then I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.

The medicine started to take effect. My heartbeat slowly steadied, my limbs growing heavy.

In this world, reason doesn’t always matter. The doctor told me to avoid conflict. I had done everything I could tonight.

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow, it would be their turn to panic.

Because I was out of medication.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of a drill. I reached for my phone—6:00 a.m.

I lay there for three seconds. The drilling didn’t stop. It only got louder.

I sat up, irritation rising uncontrollably. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. The person in the mirror looked terrible.

My heart started racing again. I needed to get my meds—stat.

When I opened the door, a pile of garbage blocked the entrance. Dirty liquid had seeped through the gap under the door, soaking into the entry rug and emitting a sour stench.

The door to 601 was shut, but faint laughter came from inside. I knew someone was watching through the peephole.

I took a deep breath and said nothing.

Squeezing past the pile of trash, I headed out. Getting the medication mattered more. Unfortunately, the nearest pharmacy didn’t carry what I needed.

When I got back and tried to unlock my door, the key wouldn’t go in.

I looked down at the keyhole. It was stuffed full with broken toothpicks jammed inside, packed tight. I crouched down and tried to pick them out with my fingers, but it was useless.

Linda. It had to be them again.

Anger surged through me. I stood up, took a deep breath, and forced it down.

Then I made a call and got a locksmith to come over. It took Mike Donnelly half an hour to dismantle the lock and replace it with a new one.

“Who’d do something this nasty?” Mike muttered while packing up his tools. “Stuffing toothpicks in a lock… What kind of grudge is that?”

I paid him, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

Then I froze. Everything on the tables had been swept onto the floor.

The kitchen was even worse. Every bottle—oil, salt, vinegar—had been poured out across the floor in a mess.

I rushed into the bedroom.

A wooden box lay shattered on the ground. In the middle of it was white powder, scattered everywhere, obviously kicked around.

My mother’s ashes.

When she passed, the funeral home had given me that urn. She had told me to keep it, so I could look at it when I missed her.

I stood in the doorway, staring at the powder.

A sharp ringing filled my head. Then, nothing. The whole world went silent except for the abnormal pounding of my own heart.

My temples throbbed.

I walked over slowly and crouched down.

I reached out, then pulled my hand back.

I didn’t dare touch it. That was my mom. I used to keep her on my nightstand and look at her every night before bed. Sometimes I would talk to her.

"Mom, I found a job today."

"Mom, I bought an apartment. Got it $30,000 below market."

If she were still alive, she would’ve been so happy. Keeping her there made me feel like she was still with me.

Now, there was nothing left.

The pain in my chest was suffocating.

Linda.

The anger surged through my body, snapping the last thread of restraint.

'You pushed me to this. I don’t start trouble, but if someone crosses me, I won’t hold back. You destroyed the one thing I cared about most. You’re going to pay for it.'

I walked into the living room, opened my toolbox, and pulled out a large wrench.

I weighed it in my hand. Heavy.

Then I walked to Unit 601 and knocked on the door.

"Hi. I’m here to pay you back."