When In REM – Excerpt
Today marks the thirteenth day of me waking up to Mr. Rodrigo’s attacks—a milestone I won’t be celebrating. Some days, I stay in bed and stare at the white ceiling above me, asking whoever can hear my thoughts what I’ve done to deserve this. Then, I try to fall asleep again, ignoring the proven fact that I will be woken up repeatedly within five minutes of falling asleep. I remind myself that the man is a d–k who can’t even bother to give his neighbors the heads-up. I should just seize the day.
Staring up, I pray to the ceiling that I can fall asleep again for a little longer. But then I realize that it’s Thursday. Sadly, not my day off. Begrudgingly, I get out of bed when the clock hits 7:00 a.m. Dragging my feet to the kitchen, I open the fridge and take two eggs out. I juggle them in my head first while I figure out what to do next. My creativity ends in the kitchen, and I’m too irritated to be on my feet for as long as it takes to make scrambled eggs. Hard-boiled will have to do.
The ear-splitting sound of power tools travels across the hallway in my spacious one-bedroom apartment, resonating through the kitchen. There’s no escape. The only way to avoid it is by leaving the apartment. The thing is I don’t have to go anywhere until 10:00 a.m., three long hours from now. I could kill Mr. Rodrigo with my bare hands right this minute.
Irritation keeps building up. The sleep deprivation is affecting my cognition. My stress level is aggravating my condition. It is the final straw—Mr. Rodrigo has got to go.
Planning someone’s death, other than your own, is a bit exhausting. Not that I’ve ever had suicidal episodes, but I imagine it would be much easier when you know what would instantly kill the victim. It’s a mix of adrenaline and paranoia, but mostly paranoia. You’re afraid someone will hear your thoughts. For the record, it’s downright wrong to end someone’s life. Unless you’re a cold-blooded serial killer, there can’t be satisfaction out of killing someone, can it? More importantly, you really don’t want to be the one responsible for cutting someone’s dreams short. Again, that is unless you’re a monster. But we’re looking at desperate measures here. It’s gotten to that point.
If I carry out my plan and all goes well, I could get away with the murder of Mr. Rodrigo because I will have done it in self-defense. No one knows me in this town, that’s a plus. A petite college girl in bifocals is no country’s usual suspect anyway. But then again, Jodi Arias couldn’t fool us all.
Now the question is: do I have the guts to do it? Before meeting Mr. Rodrigo, I didn’t think so.
Here I was, dreaming of shiny waves and long summer walks in Naples when Mr. Rodrigo disturbed my life for the first time. That was two weeks ago. A distant yet sharp sound pulled me out of the moment. It was far, and then closer when I heard the ring a second or third time. It was my doorbell. I couldn’t tell time as thick blinds covered the windows in my room, but I could tell it was very early. My body ached as if I’d been hit by an Ave and my breath was still raw, the most classic sign that I’ve gotten no more than five hours of sleep.
Who could be ringing that f–king bell at this time? I had plans for those kids who often canvassed in my building, had it been them. My first thought was never to give them a penny again as a form of punishment. Needless to say, I didn’t bother to get up. Turning to my left side, I faced the wall and wrapped myself in the warm blanket. I whispered a colorful sentence of farewell under my breath and back to bed I went. Whoever rang the bell can go back to hell.
Later that same afternoon, around one o’clock, my doorbell rang again. At that point, I knew it couldn’t be the fundraising kids. They almost always ring the bell just once before giving up and turning around. I wondered, then, who and what could be so urgent. My landlord always texts before coming to the apartment, it couldn’t be her. I ran to my bedroom and put on a bra. With a swift move, I brushed my bed-hair with my fingers and walked back to the hallway to open the door. A man and a woman were standing on my doormat.
“Oh, hi, we’re the downstairs’ neighbors and we need to fix something in your bathroom,” said the man, today known to me as Mr. Carlos Antonio Rodrigo.
I didn’t like his face. His fast-paced raucous voice annoyed me instantly. Relatively tall, he appeared to be in his forties. His clothes looked worn out and one size too big for his bony frame. By the golden undertones of his skin, I could tell he’s probably spent a lot of time out in the hot summers of Andalusia. The sun damage on his face was evident. Maybe he’s lived here his whole life. The lady next to him was his wife, I soon found out. She seemed to be on a mission. Phone and pen in hand, she flipped through the pages of what looked like a phone directory. She was ready to find out who lived in this ghost apartment that, only after much persistence, its door finally opened.
“Hello,” I responded, puzzled, as Mr. Rodrigo inquisitively peeked inside the apartment. I thought he must be the plumber my landlord has been talking about for the past five months. The century-old useless bidet has been leaking and I don’t know how to make it stop. She said she’d send somebody. It was not Mr. Rodrigo.
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