Room
205
Harper
Grant lived two doors down and across the hall. Every condo in my building was
the same… except for his. His condo was much larger than normal condos, and it
wasn’t in fact, the regulation size; but he paid extra for it, didn’t he? Yes,
I could tell he had bribed the landowner, Gregory, for that room and he had
especially bribed him not to add a wall and make it two separate condos.
Yes,
that’s how big it was, it was twice the size of one average condo; to be more
specific, it was twice the size of my condo. He even had a big view of the part
next door, and the building was shaped like a large, backwards C, so his was
one of the two rooms with a window, and Gregory had already closed down that
condo on accord of an infestation of some rodent I had never heard of. Once I
had gotten a raise and saved up for the condominium downstairs with the window,
Gregory shut it down. I knew that moment that Harper Grant had planted said
vile rodents in the walls somehow and he was meaning to destroy my dreams.
I
always hated Harper, and he disliked me two times more, but it was less
shocking for me to snap first.
Just
like his spine.
He
never would’ve allowed me to have the superior apartment unless I stood over
his dead body with my stolen keys. Of course, this was not an easy task, for I
had to get into his room somehow, but one weary night, I figured it all out. I
would creep into Gregory’s office where he kept all of the spare keys, I’d pull
the shades, grab the keys, sneak back out, unlock Harper’s condo, run into his
room, suffocate him with his own pillow, buy a safe storage, hide the body,
keep his room. Voila.
But
Gregory made it harder. On the night when I planned to borrow the owner’s keys,
he wasn’t asleep like I had anticipated. Greg had instead decided to go out
with his “girlfriend,” more commonly known as a call girl, get wasted, come
back into his office, and fuck her on the desk. So I killed the whore, and then
the bastard Gregory. Their bodies were a little harder to dispose of, so
instead of concealing them in a safe, I acted on impulse, and cut them each
into twenty different pieces, drained their blood in the toilet, and packaged
them in deli bags. I had a friend who could take it from there. I had to go
back to his apartment, and pack him a suitcase and leave a flyer on his bed for
Hawaii. Later I would hire a housesitter under the pretense I owned the
shithole. I feared that it’d be hard to believe, considering he didn’t care
about his apartment. I didn’t cover up for the prostitute: no one would notice
her disappear.
