Read A Quiet Neighbor Online

Authors: Harper Kim

A Quiet Neighbor

BOOK: A Quiet Neighbor
13.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

A

Quiet

Neighbor

 

 

 

HARPER KIM

Copyright © 2013 Harper
Kim

All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

This book is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the
author’s imagination, used fictitiously, or embellished.

ISBN: 149039513X

ISBN-13: 978-1490395135

 

 

 

 

To my Halmoni

for her
quiet strength and incredible story.

 

 

 

Prologue:

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday,
June 19, 2012

10:01
P.M.

 

Panic sets in.

No longer thinking about the past or the
future. No longer worried about trivial relationships, flighty mother, no-named
father, or awkward stand-in. No longer caring to shed a tear for want of
trivial desires.

She stands. Transfixed.

Her limbs are fused and taut. Lips cold, quivering.
Knuckles white, gleaming. Acrid sweat trickles fear from her pores.

She stares into the vacant eyes of her killer.
Flat, cold, soulless.

Dark.

Eyes that will soon rob her of the chance to
cast her net into the vast ocean called life.

Her gaze flits to his hands. His dirty,
trembling hands, with long, ragged thumbnails. Hands that will soon end her.

How did she not see? Not know? Not feel that
dark presence?

He seemed kind, gentle, like he could be
someone’s father, maybe even grandfather. But no. A switch went off and that
part that was warm evaporated, exposing a demonic need for pure evil.

White to black. Light to dark.

She can feel his hunger drawing her still.
Keeping her feet rooted to the damp ground, shackled in place. The only part of
her that moves is her heart and blood—drumming in her chest like a pneumatic
drill, thrumming in her ears like an eight-lane expressway.

Darkness steeps over her.

A thick and impenetrable cloak, suffocating her
goose-bumped flesh silky smooth. No longer feeling the cold air; the colder
fear tingling the tiny hairs along her arms, along the nape of her neck.

Bile pools on her tongue, bitter and yellow.

She bites back the need to scream, to beg, to
play on her killer’s sympathies. Stiff and silent, she does nothing to struggle
against her fate. Tears blur her vision, growing damp on her clammy skin.

He closes in, with those hands outstretched,
with those eyes hollowed out by obsession and dementia, eyes that remain glazed
and expressionless, his jaw opening wider and wider as he speaks wordless
sounds that elude her ears yet vibrate sickly in her chest.

And then he lurches forward with a horrible
gasp, shocking her out of her stupor and back into electric clarity. Electric
fear, sizzling into darkness. All she can think of is now. Now. The clarity of NOW.

As the final seconds tick away with a sudden,
astounding vividness, she mouths the words that were once stolen from the pages
of her notebook.

She ends her life the way she lived it.

With her words. Her thoughts. Her voice:

 

Empty vessel, sinking deep,

Unseen, gaping hole beneath,

Twirling and swirling, round and round,

Hearts sink, limbs fall, eyes abound.

 

And then there was silence.

 

 

 

HOSPITAL
ROOM (I):

 

 

 

 

 

Friday,
June 22, 2012

6:46
A.M.

 

Stress is a silent killer.

OK, not so silent. It seems innocent enough.
“It’s normal,” people may say. “Don’t worry about it,” others pipe in. “It’s
beneficial,” some might agree. But what they don’t say is that it can gnaw
religiously at your insides until all you’re left with are scraps of
unidentified piles of crap that once made up the puzzle you called life.

Is it learned, taught, or are we all just born
with it?

The levels can be instinctual or insurmountable.
But the clincher is how you deal with it. Does it come and go like passing gas
or does it simmer, haunting and slow, until one day the stupid pig that once
rolled around happily in mud and hay becomes a five course meal?

Who knows?

The doctors and politicians sure don’t. Can
someone say heart-attack? All anyone seems to care about is cancer and world
peace. But has anyone really looked into the underlying root of all these
“problems” we consider a black hole for the next generation to cover?

Nope.

They just try to find a catchy solution to
bandage the open wound and kick back to the next “President” to re-hash and
re-patch along the campaign trail. One group yells, “Yay! Finally a Democrat is
in office to fix the follies of the Republicans!” Four, or (if the guy’s a
lucky bastard) eight years later another group yells, “Yay! Finally a
Republican to stop the economic bleeding!”

Yes everyone, let’s all pat ourselves on the back
for being the idiotic fools that our leaders hope us to be—the perfect pawns in
a deadly game of power and wealth. Of course we don’t get to see any of the
benefits. No, those only get distributed to less than one percent of the human
population. While the President is out hitting a hole in one along the
picturesque shores of Martha’s Vineyard, ninety-nine percent of the country is
crying, in pain, in debt, and stressed beyond their measly means, desperately
trying to live the American Dream.

What is the American Dream anyways?

A century ago it meant having land, a steady
job, a chance to make a difference and become rich so your family didn’t have
to suffer. It meant having a voice to be heard. It meant you were able to go to
sleep at night not worrying about the safety of your family or when you would
be able to have your next meal. It meant prosperity, happiness, and freedom.

Does that concept of the American Dream still
hold true today?

It seems like it has become a wash. A hidden
card, pulled out to be used whenever it is deemed convenient for the lazy, the
petty, the undeserving citizens who have contributed nothing and in return
receive handout after handout, chance after chance, the benefit of the doubt,
and who suck all the benefits in one greedy “Big Gulp” slurp from those who
keep their heads down, shut up, work hard, and continue to contribute to
society. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about “entitlement.”

Is war imminent?

Well, if you ask me, I’ll reply, “Duh.” And if
someone predicted that the US will come out on top, I’d have to counter it by
arguing how and with what army? Of course we’re grateful for the military that
we do have. For the men and women who choose to serve because they are
patriotic and wear the red, white, and blue colors with pride, we are amazed
and forever grateful. For those who serve because they reached a dead end in
life and figured “hell, why the fuck not,” we are also grateful. Because of
them, the rest of us are able to sleep soundly in our comfy beds, eyes veiled
from atrociously disturbing scenes being sparked across the globe and thinking
“thank God it isn’t me.”

I’m just being real here. Remember 9/11?

Stupid question—the entire world remembers 9/11.
Well there you go. Case in point. How can we compete with countries that spend
years plotting and scheming the destruction of the United States? Countries who
have trained millions to only care about their God or king or “man-God” leaders
and to look at Americans as heathens; soulless fools with a Hester Prynne target
on their backs, wasting their divine air.

Stuck on the answer?

I’ll give it to you for free: we can’t. We are
stupid if we think we can force ourselves into their country and demand they
change their lifestyle and way of thinking when they have only known one way of
life and one thought since they were born. How can we undo the damage of
centuries of brainwashing? Are we circling back to the ways of our Forefathers,
to a time when war was deemed necessary and pillaging towns, raping women, and
murdering kids were the only means to “saving” the human race? I thought we’d
grown from those uncivilized ways. I thought we’d learned from their mistakes.
Now, I’m not so sure.

Next thing you know the so-called “yellow”
countries will be taking over and we will no longer be the country where dreams
come true, but the country that kneels and begs. The country that remains
clueless and points fingers. The country that never looks into a mirror and
blames the figure looking back.

“Why should we,” you ask, when “I am never at
fault. I am the victim. I deserve everything.” Sound familiar? It should. It’s
our new national anthem!

Who am I to make such rash accusations and
critiques, you may ask?

Am I a scientist, doctor, politician, Pulitzer
Prize winner, or fortune teller? No. I’m just like you: an unidentified,
law-abiding, tax-paying citizen of planet Earth. My vote, opinion, and contribution
to the world have no real value.

For now, you can just call me Joe.

I’m a middle-aged man who has lived a simple and
cautious life. Lying here on my rickety deathbed—surrounded by beeping
monitors, tubes galore, and sucking cups—and next to my only friend in the
world, my new, glorified neighbor, Sergeant Whimplestein.

All I seem to have left is time, buckets of time
to look back. Look back at the root of my problem, the bane of my existence,
and the reason I’m lying here alone with only my limp dick (and the very quiet
Sgt. Whimpy) to keep me company.

Wife?

Yes, I had one of those. We were high school sweethearts.
Married when I was nineteen and she, shy of twenty. We started into such a
quiet, happy, and safe life. That is, until the stress of pretending everything
was perfect clogged her arteries and she plopped dead right in front of me on
the quiet residential streets of San Carlos. The headlines read, “Woman Dies
Unexpected Death on Halloween.”

Stupid dog, I tell you. Little mutt. It’s all
the dog’s fault. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have had to walk along the
quiet streets of the neighborhood, and then I wouldn’t have seen her again. I
would be home, in my free-and-clear condo drinking apple juice straight from
the box and listening to Sinatra. Now that’s a slice of heaven, I tell you.

Job?

Had one of those too. The kind that requires a
time stamp to clock your eight-and-a-half hours (includes a thirty minute lunch
and two free ten minute breaks that carelessly get forgotten about), turns your
hair white when you’re smack dab in the muck of it and makes you comatose when
you return at night.

Kids?

Nope, was too stressed to warrant kids into our
life. I always reminded my darling Betsy that we should think ourselves lucky
(smart and dutiful) not to bring kids into this crazed-ass world. Of course we
would have if able, but given the circumstances I say we hit gold.

At the rate the economy is tanking and gas
prices are rising, it’s a wonder just when the yuan or rupee will take over the
all-mighty US dollar. Sheez. Everyone is too damn worried about their fucking
money. What’s everyone going to do when they realize that their money isn’t
worth shit and the government lied? Lied! I’ll tell you what’s going to happen.
Chaos. Mad-fuckin’ chaos is going to spread across this entire nation in one
grizzly swoop and engulf us all in one massive cloud of hysteria.

Booyah!

 

AS THE WORLD OUTSIDE TRUDGED ON,
oblivious
and fueled by stress, inside Room 301 was static and still.

Inside Room 301, life was subdued and sound
came eerily from inanimate objects. There was the clunky breathing apparatus
strapped to the neighbor’s nose and mouth and the monotonous beeps from the
variety of monitors that took up residence by each patient’s bed (pseudo-bodyguards).
Above them, rows of fluorescent lights flickered and fizzed.

Across the beds, splitting the room dead center,
was the slight murmur from the tiny, tube-style television set that only seemed
to show infomercials, daytime soaps, and one-sided news reports (listed in
ascending order of Joe’s interest) and the ticking of the round clock that hung
directly above the grainy television screen like a doomsday clock.

Black shadows pulsed through the tiny crack beneath
the thick wooden door from passing nurses, residents, doctors, patients, and
visitors. Soft treads squeaked hurriedly across the constantly mopped floors.
Carts filled with cleaning products, medicine, mail, and prepackaged food trays
rolled by multiple times during the day.

At 1:00 P.M. a young nurse with a splash of
light freckles strewn across her pale face strolled in to make her afternoon
rounds. Checking the first patient’s chart (their most recent addition to Room
301), she made note of his administered meds and believed he should be good for
another three hours. His pulse seemed to be within the normal range,
considering, and the needles and tubes were securely taped against his limp
arms. She leaned over to straighten his blanket and caught a faint mumble
escape from his pale, cracked lips: “Betsy.”

Blushing, she sighed. She felt as though she were
intruding on a private conversation, an intimate moment shared between two
lovers behind closed doors. She was often saddened by the patients who were
alone and dying, dreaming of their long lost spouse or loved one. She thought
he was too young to be a widower, dying, and alone. The young and the old
patients were difficult for her to watch, but the ones that were alone, devoid
of family and friends, got to the young nurse the most.
Everyone should have
someone
, she thought.

Joe’s haggard breath eased and his body relaxed
into the crisp green sheets (not Downy-soft but anti-allergy stiff) that fit snugly
on the creaky hospital bed. Every now and then he fell back into a fit of
painful spasms—dreaming about his beloved wife.

At this stage of his illness, all that was left
was time to remember, to forget, and to seek repentance for his sins. All the
stress and anxiety that festered around his everyday life no longer held merit.
What pained him most was the knowing that he couldn’t go back and fix the past.
Couldn’t undo trivial mistakes that inevitably created larger ones. Couldn’t
make peace with estranged loved ones or the strangers he’d wronged.

His time was up.

It was too late.

He was going to die alone.

The young nurse rested for a moment in the
chair beside his hospital bed, looking at his grayish skin and listening to the
rhythmic whirring and beeping of his life-support. She rubbed her sore calf and
sighed with relief.

Once Donald finally decided to get off his ass
and propose to her, she planned to quit nursing and start churning out those
babies. She planned to have five, maybe six. Coming from a small family of four
who barely made the time to see one another, she always dreamed of having a
large madhouse of a family.

She wouldn’t die alone. She wouldn’t want the
pity of an overworked nurse to be her only human contact during the last days
of her life. She wanted to be surrounded by love, laughter, and flowers. Lots
of flowers, get well cards, and photos of her children and grandchildren and
perhaps even a few great grandchildren. Yes, she’d have lots of kids to make
sure her fate differed from all those sad cases like Joe.

After straightening his pillow and tangled
sheets, she moved on to the other patient in the room. Standing before him, she
started lifting Sgt. Whimplestein’s arms and moving them side to side and in
circles, making sure to keep the movements minimal to not disturb his feeding
tube.

His limbs were feeble and stiff. Sores were
starting to manifest along his back and hips. She grabbed a container of
liniment and slathered on a thick spread. The menthol burned her nose and tears
welled in her eyes from the sting. The smell was a relief from the scent of dying
flesh and bed pans that hung in the air of Room 301. Finishing the physical
therapy session, she made a note of it in his chart.

The Sergeant’s vitals had remained unchanged
since he was admitted three years ago and his chart was beginning to read like
a broken record. Every day at the same time, the young nurse conducted her
standard procedural monitoring tasks and every day the prognosis was the same:
no change.

BOOK: A Quiet Neighbor
13.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

In Pieces by Nick Hopton
Zombies vs. Unicorns by Holly & Larbalestier Black, Holly & Larbalestier Black
Delphi by Scott, Michael
Blue Like Elvis by Diane Moody
Madonna and Corpse by Jefferson Bass
Duplicity by Ian Woodhead
Alien Alliance by Maxine Millar
Christie Ridgway by Must Love Mistletoe
Food Fight by Anne Penketh
The Death Dealers by Mickey Spillane