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Banging the neighbor

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When she brought back other partners, as she sometimes did, I willed deafness. I knew my experience was more representative than anomalous, so I reached out to others for perspective.

A woman named Sarah responded to a query I posted, and we dove right in over the phone. She met him in their shared hallway.

Later that night, he left his number on our fridge. Are you kidding? How did I miss that? At first, I just had a crush, so we started talking and met up twice.

So we hooked up, always at his place. I probably stayed that first night. Going home was my way of putting up a wall to not care about him too much.

This went on for at least six months. The neighbor relationship came first. I was always a little mindful of making sure I never thought about it as a relationship too much.

Then we both started actually dating people. At one point his girlfriend moved in, which was fine. Gabbing with Sarah, I started to see themes and goals for neighbors with benefits.

I asked her for advice, straight up. Then, of course, I proceeded to blab about this whole story at the office, and a coworker had more to share.

And second, she was one of them. Tonya lived in the same building as Andy — and yes, they did what you think they did. He had an entire flat of guys, and I had an entire flat of girls.

The first time we met, I was doing laundry and came back to see that someone had moved it. I was having a housewarming party that night, and since he seemed cool after all, I invited him and his guy roommates.

And then, of course, we hooked up. Andy and I were basically together, but not together, for the next year and a half.

We were both sort of actively dating, but we always came back to each other. We would definitely clear it if we were gonna have sex with someone else.

But this past week, I texted Andy, and I went over to his new place, and we spent the night together. It was exactly the same and really good.

While meant as a joke, there was a reality in this. This school gets granted almost no money, ever. I would honestly have to lean towards the latter.

I do really admire Mr. Miley the principal though. On the first day, he showed me around the school, I met the different teachers, and then he showed me to my office.

It really took no time at all after I settled in my office for a student to come in for examination. It was a neat little place.

The walls were painted with blue, and on the floor was a nice, big rug with various patterns and designs on it. On one side of the room was my desk, and on the other side was a comforter, which is where the kids sit during our interviews.

Anyways, this first person to come in was a little 8 year old girl in the first grade, just like Cynthia. I already felt bad for the girl when she walked in.

She was not a film star beauty, and it looked as if there was not hope for her unless she went under the needle.

She had curly red hair, with a face so freckled it looked like her natural face color. She was a chubby little thing, and her cheeks stuck out far enough to look like she was intentionally doing this.

Her name was Gretchen. She was in here for physically attacking another girl, which I thought was more the job that a principle or counselor should handle, not a psychologist.

I interviewed her anyway. This was my one and only interaction with her, as she will be moving a week from that day. But my job was more important.

Never mind that. Irwin was the school counselor. That most likely means she got stuck in here for something else. The little girl I met!

The poor devil was in the hospital because of a scissor wound to the back! That was the climax of the conversation. A boring two weeks went by.

I arrived home from work after a tedious day of doing nothing and looking at YouTube videos. I walked in the door of my apartment building, and I immediately noticed that something was off.

The building had a different… atmosphere. It was differently lighted and something was changed about the… sound. It was the kind of deathly quiet where you truly could hear a pin drop.

There was no response. I proceeded cautiously up the stairs, and with each step I began to hear more and more. At first, all I could hear was the faint whisper of… something.

I slowly began walking up more stairs. I started to begin to make out the words. The rest was inaudible. I very slowly walked up a few more steps, and I could finally make out the entire song.

I was horrified. At the top of the stairs was a horrifying sight. The blood must have been fresh, it was still dripping down slowly. And in the corner, the source of the noise, was Cynthia Tyler.

She was sitting there, still singing, playing silently with her dolls. She had no pupils, her eyes became a deathly black, and down one cheek was a little trickle of blood coming from her socket.

She was paler than normal. She was mangling their bodies, although she specifically paid attention to one in particular. It was one of those American Doll girls, which always creeped me out, anyway.

Through the back was a pair of scissors, and the doll appeared to be bleeding like a human. The worst part was the face of this doll.

The doll had a look of sheer terror on its face, like it just experienced something very real. And the whole time Cynthia was staring at me, singing her song.

Cynthia just stood there with her dismantled doll in the blood splattered room, staring at me with her black eyes and the single trickle of red down her pale cheek.

And in her right hand was a lock of orange hair. And then I woke up. Of course it was a dream! It must have been!

I was disturbed at myself for even dreaming such a thing. I shook it off as a night terror. I used to get those, when I was a kid. My mom would always help me through them, and if I ever had a bad dream, I would put it in the Bad Dream box where no evil could ever escape.

I was longing for that box right now. Did I drink last night? Where did I get the money to drink? Did I go to a cool bar?

What did I get? Did I maybe pick up a girl? I looked next to me. There was no girl. Am I not attractive enough? Dammit, Robin, get your life together!

You probably did something really embarrassing! I should call mother. And then I smelled my breath. There was no traces of alcohol.

That was good. But ugh. I felt like absolute shit. I should get up. I went and brushed my teeth and started the shower.

I checked the time. I missed work! Oh but wait, it was Saturday. All these bar thoughts and the idea of maybe picking up a chick was enticing.

I decided what I would be doing that night. I got showered, got dressed in my finest clothes and watched Netflix for two hours. I head out around 7.

You ever watch The Simpsons? The bar was dirty, ugly, smelled like shit, and no girls would ever get a drink there.

Those were the only bars I knew where I come from. I lived about an hour away in a suburbs. But I liked my bars.

Those bars were the bars I knew. Which made it such a shock when I went into a club in Tampa which was actually a nice place, for once. There was another section with tables for the dining guests.

And all the way at the other side of the room was the bar, where I would be headed. I had to walk through all the sweaty, dancing people to get there, which sucked.

I finally got to the bar and ordered an appletini. Carol Harold. Yeah, I know. Carol Harold right? What kind of rhymey ass name is that?

Naturally, we fell asleep after we were through. Which is why I was sure that this one was definitely a dream. I mean, it must have been. I do indeed remember falling asleep.

But again, the incident felt so real, like the first time. I woke up around And something was off. It was the same quiet as the first time, the same deathly quiet.

I turned to see Carol. Carol was there. There was a tiny stream of vomit rolling down her mouth, like she had been strangled.

I was naturally shocked and I jolted up and looked around the room. And in the corner of the room was Cynthia Tyler.

Her eyes still as black as the soul of Death. The same trickle of blood out the same eye, but the stream was longer and appeared to be flowing as she was watching me.

She was paler, and her veins were clearly visible running up her neck. She just stared at me, never breaking eye contact. In her hand was another mangled body of one of her dolls, this one even more gruesome than the last.

Again, instead of its normal face, this doll was shocked, like it had feelings. The hair was all torn out, and there were thick red scratches all throughout her body.

The doll had the same stream of vomit that Carol had running down its mouth. I stared, absolutely speechless. But this time she spoke.

I felt the blood on my face. Like it was real. I woke up, just like last time. She called me Bluejay last night, like she was funny or something.

I never did see Carol again. Never cared too. She annoyed the hell out of me, anyway. What time was it? She woke up and got up at ?

Did she have work today? Who works on a Sunday? Does she not love me? Like I said, she annoyed the hell out of me anyway.

I was lounging on the couch when I heard a phone call. I, annoyed, got up to go get it. This is not what I needed with all this crazy dream shit.

The red blood, the black eyes, I was already kind of nervous. I was cautious at first, but I figured it was just merely a coincidence. I slowly opened the door and there was my childhood friend Jack.

He has had the same sense of humor since 8th grade. That son of a bitch, I should have known it was him! That worries me.

Having a husband will stop her from being all over me. Also, I like sneaking around. The danger of getting my neck snapped excites my testicles.

Get out! Why is everything is a joke to you?! It was different this time. It started when I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I came back and my living room was transformed into a happy, circus-like atmosphere. And again, there was Cynthia. Same blood trickle from her black eyes rolling down her pale skin.

But something changed. Cynthia was smiling this time. And in her hand was a stained-red knife. Just for you! I ran up to it. Sure enough, she made him sad.

Above his eyes were two upward slashes, symbolizing the way that your eyebrows look when upset. And his mouth was carved curving downwards, with red teardrops slashed under the eye.

And as she said that, she grabbed what looked to be… a dog. What was she doing with a dog? Scruffy, no! I love him!

I love him more than anything! Scruffy makes me so happy! I make him happy! Cynthia turned from a smile to a frown.

Scruffy no!!! Why did you do this to me, Robin? Scruffy was the only thing in this world I truly loved! I think you need to be punished!

Here it is! Now tell me, Jack. Have you ever seen Indiana Jones? But he also uses a WHIP! The blood splattered everywhere.

Jack was screaming.

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