Grant Wells lay staring at his apartment’s high ceiling, a paused movie to his left and the frozen frame illuminating the side of his face. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to resume the film and carry on with his night off, but there was just one issue. A small one, admittedly, but a reoccurring and irksome one all the same.

His upstairs neighbor was being too loud.

He’s only met the prick who lives above him just once, but that was more than enough. Andrew Rawlings was his name and if he wasn’t pacing around his apartment and driving Grant up the wall, he was yapping on his phone while he did his pacing. The guy was the definition of restless. And if you ever had the displeasure of meeting him, you’d see that he was just as inconsiderate as he was active.

Andrew was one of those pompous and judgmental dress shirt-and-tie-wearing sissies who typically had an earbud in with an on-going call coming through. Usually when he walked by someone, Andrew carried himself as if the person nearby didn’t exist, but at the same time, you knew he thought less of them. Grant had never learned what Andrew’s career was but it was obvious that his occupation defined him. Call it white collar or simply being business man; either way Grant thought he was a total douche.

The only reason Grant knew his name in the first place was from a simple mix up with their mail. One day he had found an envelope addressed to an Andrew Rawlings, and despite that it was placed in the incorrect mailbox, it had the correct apartment number listed. And as it turned out, it was the noisy bastard who lives directly above him.

Whenever Grant had made the trip to the sixth floor to return his mail, their meeting had been brief. But in spite of that, he still learned everything he needed to know about his upstairs neighbor. And what he had learned was that Andrew was as self-centered as the sun itself.

The skinny little twerp opened the door about a foot wide but hadn’t looked at Grant until he wrapped up the call in his ear. “Yeah?” he said, his eyelids low and his expression unamused.

“Andrew, right? I got some of your mail here by mistake. Just thought I’d drop-”

Just then Andrew reached for the envelope and snatched it from Grant’s light grip. “You were in my mailbox?”

“No? They accidently put your mail in my box. Why would I be in your ma-”

A second later the door was closed and Grant was left feeling like an idiot in the open hall. That was Grant’s one and only meeting with the pencil-neck and needle-dick Andrew Rawlings, and ever since then he’s thrown away any piece of mail of his that he’s received. But be that as it may, he still endured all the noise that comes from above. He’s had long nights of listening to Andrew’s steps, his conversations, his laughs, and his shouts, and Grant’s overlooked them all.

Until tonight that is.

To Andrew’s misfortune Grant had spent several hours at one of the bars downtown and currently he was drunk. He had been dropped off by an Uber around midnight and all he had wanted to do was eat some food, crawl into bed, and then fall asleep to Spider-man 3. He almost accomplished just that too. Once he made it inside, he drunkenly devoured nearly a pound of deli meat, plopped into bed, and put on the movie, but Andrew’s commotion had prevented him from falling asleep peacefully.

In fact, Grant was anything but peaceful at the moment. He had become furious with all the creaking and banging that fell to him. And each time he felt it was coming to an end, more came. It nearly sounded like there was an endless game of tag going on right above him.

Something had to be done.

And if not by him, then who else?

(2)

With a drunk fury brimming Grant abandoned his bed, put on his clothes and then stormed out of his apartment and to the staircase. He only had to go up two flights of stairs to reach his nuisance of a neighbor’s door, and when he got there, he wasn’t any less angry.

He balled his fist tightly and pounded on the door four times. Breathing heavily, he refused to second guess himself; allowing the liquor in his system to guide him. He eagerly waited for Andrew to swing the door open and when he did, Grant still had his fist tight.

A beat-red and cramped face appeared, glaring at Grant from the start. “What the hell is this? Are you out of your mind?”

“Me? What about you, jackass? The fuck do you think I’m doing here? You need to quiet down up here before you and I have a serious problem. People are trying to sleep, buddy.”

Andrew snorted. “What people? You’re the only one who has ever complained, buddy. Next time why don’t you put some headphones in, okay? Thanks, sport.” He then tried to slam the door, but Grant stopped it from shutting with one open hand.

“Hold up, what? Please tell me you’re playing with me right now. Are you really this much of an asshole?”

“Well, I guess I must be.” He tried his hardest to muscle the door shut against Grant’s hand. “Are you really that much of a fat ass that you’re winded from the stairs?”

 With the help of an insult Grant’s brimming rage was now boiling and overflowing. His jaw tensed and his eye brows lowered before he pushed Andrew’s door fully open. Once his apartment was exposed, Grant took one step towards him and spoke loudly.

“Go on, repeat that. I dare you! I’ll beat your scrawny ass right here and now!”

Grant had faith that he could do just that, too. He was easily the bigger man between the two, and not just by weight. His shoulders were much broader and Grant also had about three inches of height on him. When stepping up, he was almost surprised Andrew didn’t cower in some way. He still seemed as cocky as ever. He even took a step closer and looked Grant in his inebriated eyes before sending him over the edge.

“You won’t do a fucking thing, pussy. Go back home while you still can.” he said, then went for a full-on shove and successfully moved Grant back about half a foot.

He stumbled then steadied quickly, and out of pure instinct, Grant shoved back with full power.

Andrew went flying.

Suddenly his thin neighbor was off his feet and on the way to his back. Grant watched him fall to the ground in what seemed like slow motion. He saw the frightened look on his face on the way down, how he attempted to catch himself with flailing arms, and how one of his earbuds flew out once the back of his head struck the foyer table behind him.

His eyes were closed the second he hit the hardwood floor, and before he went completely limp his body twitched twice. Grant stayed put and watched, praying that the bastard would pop up and show further signs of life. He stayed in the same spot for an entire five minutes before he noticed the blood spread underneath Andrew’s head.

That’s when panic set in.

Out of memory of all the crime movies he’s seen Grant decided to wipe down everything he touched. But what had he touched anyway? Trembling with his heart racing he went out into the hall and took a glance around. Nothing out of the ordinary stood out, so he went back into Andrew’s and did a once over. He was beginning to believe that he hadn’t touched anything when he remembered how he stopped Andrew from shutting the door. Therefore, he took the belly of his shirt and wiped where his mitt of a hand had been.

But now what?

Could he just leave him? Calling the police was certainty out of the question. Sure, it had been an accident, but aggression was what had brought him to Andrew’s door and inside his apartment, and now he was dead. He didn’t need a police officer to figure out how it would end up for him if the law were involved.

Just go back home, he told himself as he tried his best not to hyperventilate. Close the door, wipe the handle, and then backtrack downstairs. He honestly couldn’t see why he couldn’t get away clean. No one had seen him tonight and fortunately for him, there were no cameras in the building. And even Andrew himself had mentioned that no one else has ever complained about the noise. So, what were the chances that anybody had heard them just a few minutes ago?

(3)

Sober and shivering, Grant rushed back downstairs and locked himself in his apartment. It was eerily silent inside now and he couldn’t resist being unsettled by it; a hint of irony that wasn’t lost on him. Refusing to suffer in silence, he finally resumed the movie that was meant to send him to sleep just twenty minutes ago.

For the next hour and a half, he did anxious laps around his apartment and nibbled his nails and bit any skin off the tips of his fingers. He dwelled over dozens of outcomes and each one made him sicker than the last. He spent a lot of time in the bathroom either nervously vomiting or showering to clean off the immense amount of sweat he had recently collected.

It wasn’t until after two a.m. when he realized that he needed to leave town.

Even without a destination or hideaway mapped out he began to pack feverishly. He easily filled up his only suitcase and after that he loaded up a hefty trash bag with essential items. About midway into packing his next bag Grant quit and decided that everything else should stay. He needed to travel light if he was going to successfully get away. He even started to wonder just how long he would have to hide out and then it dawned on him that it couldn’t be more than two weeks, tops. Any more time than that would completely drain his financials, but Grant was certain being arrested for murder would do the exact same.

By three-thirteen he was ready to go. His bags were packed and set by the door for him as soon as he finished obsessively cleaning the floor. He had cleaned the entire apartment as if the murder had taken place there instead. Besides packing and puking, it was the only thing that kept him together. But when he was near finished with the floor, a couple of stern knocks at the door shattered him.

He doubted he had even heard the knocks at first. Though no matter how hard he tried to lie to himself, Grant was absolutely petrified that someone was waiting for him just outside.

Three more knocks came.

Grant couldn’t lie to himself any longer. Someone was at the door, likely listening to any activity going on inside. Vaguely he pictured a bloody and twitching Andrew, his head leaking like a punctured milk jug while he leaned on the door for support. In Grant’s mind Andrew was holding a large knife in his left hand, eager to split his face in two the second he opened up.

Hesitant and gravely afraid, Grant Wells approached the door. His palms were slick with perspiration and when he made it there, tears had to be cleared from his eyes to see through the peephole.

A police officer stood on the other side of the door.

Grant backed off quietly, but with his ears full of the sound of his adrenalized heart. He was done for. Why else would a cop be here? Andrew’s body must’ve been found already. Maybe he had been expecting company and th-

Oh god, he thought, what if he was still on a call when it happened? What if someone had heard the entire thing? Within seconds Grant was certain that was the case. Whoever Andrew had been talking to via his Bluetooth must’ve put two and two together and called the police. Of course that’s what happened! Suddenly he was lightheaded as he regretted every choice that led him here. Why didn’t you leave sooner? He begged out of himself. Why did you even confront him in the first place?

More knocks came, startling Grant as he contemplated his next move. He looked to a nearby window and weighed his options. There was no fire escape; only a five story drop to the pavement. Which, considering the circumstances, didn’t sound so bad. But what if the officer heard him fumble with the window and the screen? Would he bust in and apprehend him before he could even jump?

Rather than knocking for a fourth time, the cop outside spoke through the door. “Lansing Police. Open up, please.”

Grant froze and gazed at the door. Strange, the officer hadn’t sounded impatient or urgent. He had spoke as if it was routine visit and he didn’t even want to be here; his tone was calm and nonimportant. Almost like it was a request rather than a demand. Definitely wasn’t the type of voice you heard from a cop trying to catch a killer.

Taking a chance, Grant approached the door once more and unlocked it. He then opened it modestly and briefly looked at the cop. The officer hadn’t looked pleased, but nor did he look angry with Grant. He seemed indifferent and mainly bored. He stuck his hand out after a moment.

“Officer McCane.”

Grant stared at his hand for a solid five seconds before shaking it with his own clammy grip. “Grant Wells.” He tried to keep his nerves at bay.

“Grant? Nice to meet you. I apologize for coming over here so late at night, but I’m afraid that we’ve received some noise complaints regarding this apartment.”

His mouth involuntarily fell agape. “A noise complaint?”

“Yes sir. So, if you could just keep it down for your neighbors, I’m sure they’d greatly appreciate it.”