"Wow, Isaac's really something—neighbors and all, does he have to be so extreme?"
"Mrs. Lawrence has it hard enough on her own. She's just borrowing a little internet, saving a bit on electricity—what's the big deal?"
"Exactly. Her kid's about to take the Harvard entrance exam. This isn't holding anything up, is it?"
I listened to the chatter outside my door. My fingertips touched the ice-cold doorknob, but my heart was colder.
These people only saw Rachel crying and making a scene. They didn't see how she'd kicked my door like she owned the place. They only heard her son was Harvard-bound. They didn't hear the venom that spewed from their mouths.
In this world, the kid who cries gets the candy. And the woman who screams the loudest gets the crowd on her side.
I pulled out my phone and hit record.
Then I called the property manager.
"Hello, Mr. Lambert? This is the owner in 1402. My neighbor in 1401, Mrs. Lawrence, is pounding on my door, threatening me, and hurling insults. Yes, it's seriously affecting my daily life. I'm genuinely frightened right now. Please come handle this."
After hanging up, I leaned against the door and listened to the cursing outside.
This was only the beginning.
Ryan Lambert, the property manager, arrived quickly. A born peacemaker, he jumped straight into smoothing things over.
"Hey now, Mrs. Lawrence, Isaac—what's all this about? You're neighbors. What's so bad it can't be talked out?"
The moment Rachel spotted him, the tears started flowing again.
"Mr. Lambert, you have to help me! This Fox guy—he sees my son doing well in school and he's jealous! He cut off my internet, reported me for stealing electricity, and now the power company's shut off everything in my unit! My son's about to take his college entrance exam—what am I supposed to do?!"
Ryan glanced at my door, his face pinched with discomfort.
"Isaac, open up. Let's all talk this through. You know Mrs. Lawrence's situation. Just be a little flexible here."
Through the door, I replied coldly. "She kicked my door, insulted me, and threatened me—why aren't we talking about that? Mr. Lambert, my request is simple: make her stop harassing me, and have her apologize."
"Apologize?" Rachel shrieked. "You ruined my son's future! You're lucky I'm not fighting you to the death—and you want an apology?!"
Josh chimed in from the side. "That's right. You're just some broke wage worker. What gives you the right to demand anything from us?"
Ryan stood trapped in the middle, sweat beading on his forehead.
"How about… each side takes a step back?"
I said nothing.
You can't reason with people like this.
Ryan tried persuading her for a while longer, but Rachel wouldn't budge. If anything, her cursing got worse. Eventually, he gave up and left, defeat written all over his face.
The moment he was gone, Rachel's arrogance cranked up another notch.
But maybe all that screaming had worn her out. She didn't pound on the door again—just stood in the hallway cursing for a while before finally retreating inside.
Silence at last.
But I knew it wasn't over.
Sure enough, that night, a rustling sound came from outside my door.
I opened it to find a bag of kitchen scraps reeking on my doormat. Soupy liquid had seeped across the floor—sticky, foul, revolting.
No need to guess who was responsible.
Expressionless, I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo. Then I put on gloves and cleaned up the mess.
The next morning, another bag.
The third day. The fourth. Like clockwork—trash at my door every single day without fail.
And every single day, I photographed it and cleaned it up without fail.
