Akreda Amena woke before the alarm clock began to ring, seized by that strange sensation of being yanked brutally out of a dream she couldn't remember anyway. The light was a message announcing an indecisive day, as if the sky somewhere above was still weighing its options before choosing between rain and clarity.
She remained stretched out, her head on the pillow, listening. The air carried the same scent of a night endured alone, and the silence was stirred only by the faint gurgle of water moving through the pipes.
The door next door slammed shut with violent force, as if the neighbor were testing the hinges for durability. Every time it happened, she flinched and thought he must have smashed his head against it again, the way he did whenever he got drunk. A bad habit, but a consistent one. The nightly thud, accompanied by a curse crushed between his teeth, had become almost part of the building's soundtrack. It seemed the man slammed doors even in his sleep, like an addiction. Now he'd started doing it in the morning too. Akreda opened her door and stepped outside on pure reflex.
"Hey, asshole. I don't care what you do as long as you don't drive me insane with the noise. I can't stand you anymore. Until now I've been polite. You slam that door like everyone in this building is your enemy. What the fuck is wrong with you, are you possessed? One of these days I'm bringing an exorcist. Don't drink anything stronger than beer. Not even wine with water. And when you're standing around in your pajamas, drinking straight from a bottle that isn't beer, just know the devil's already got you. People will see you sober less and less. Drunk will become your natural state. The headaches will start—that'll be your excuse to drink even more. You'll be forced to quit your job, and you'll end exactly where no one gives a damn about you anymore. You moron. Watch closely—this is what self-control looks like, and this is how you close a door in a building where you respect your neighbors."
She went back into her apartment and closed the door carefully. Crawled into bed again, hoping to steal at least a few more minutes.
An over-revving motorcycle engine roared outside. For about two weeks now, some show-off had been haunting the area with a bike louder than a cement mixer. Every morning, at the same hour, he'd rev the engine beneath the windows, giving the impression he was about to launch into a race. He was trying to impress someone—maybe a young woman watching from a balcony—or just his own friends gathered on the corner. People in the building crossed themselves, convinced that one day he wouldn't brake in time. It wasn't hard to guess what would follow. With the reckless way he sped between parked cars and laughed like a madman every time he made it out alive, it was only a matter of time before he wrapped himself around something. Maybe a curb. Maybe a fence. And then, inevitably, the details would appear in the newspaper's sensational accidents column. A dramatic headline, a photograph of scattered bolts, an exhaust pipe, and a few lines about the recklessness of youth. And those who had witnessed his daily exhibitions would nod with the same expression: It was bound to happen.
A few drops tapped against the windowsill. So the day that had seemed undecided chose autumn rain after all. Nothing unusual for a claustrophobic September morning.