Just as Much a Criminal

It’s clear to me now that these circumstances are anything but ordinary. You always hear of plagues and sickness ravaging populations and tearing people apart throughout the history of mankind—but you never expect to be a part of it yourself. These are events of the past. The world has progressed far from allowing plagues to wipe across millions of people. I could hardly take this seriously when the news first broke and I still struggle to wrap my head around it. The thought of mass death done not by human hands, unlike war, is utterly bewildering and alienating. As individuals it’s hard to place ourselves into the greater picture of it. After all, we’ve got places to be and things to do. Our minds are elsewhere. The working class is unable to remain static and survive simultaneously, but nevertheless, by government order, we’re to stay home until further notice. 

This is fine, personally. If you were to ask an artist to paint you the most romantic, idyllic apartment on the first floor above ground level of a mid-Georgian era townhouse, this is precisely what you’d receive. With a fireplace, every room having a comfortable amount of space, and a balcony facing out front, I can hardly think of another place one with my income would want to spend their time in. 

I have a range of hobbies and other ways to occupy myself, so living and working from home is hardly a concern for myself. I write, read, and have a variety of projects of other natures that have been left alone for more time than I care to admit. Having this time on my hands is only a fantastic opportunity to pick these up again. Why, one might say this is almost a perfect situation. I’ve felt recently that I’ve neglected my creative arts and have wanted to become inspired once again. All this free time will only fuel this and maybe I will finally create a piece worth publishing. Living a floor off the street and across from a park, I have a view good for finding some material worth writing about. 

I drag my small table and dining chair onto my balcony, facing towards the park. The circumstances I’ve found myself in are profound and perfect. The streets are silent, which is a sensation I’ve forgotten since moving to the city. Seldom do people roam the streets now and when they do, they appear so troubled that the stories create themselves.

The only problem with the otherwise remarkable situation is the man next door in my building. Elijah Buchanan is a young man about my age and income (though I feel he comes from less). He’s intelligent and, with the exception of his angular nose, a rather attractive man. His interests don’t differ from my own by any large amount and under any circumstances, one would think we’d be close as brothers. But by God, I’d sooner throw myself from this balcony than have any friendly relations with that man. I had never known betrayal and distrust before I was graced with the crooked soul housed within that man—if it’s even appropriate to humanise a creature of such a nature. 

… 

I spend an hour on my balcony, thinking up concepts for new stories and remastering older ones, making great progress by every standard. The hour ends abruptly and rudely with an intrusion. Mr. Elijah Buchanan emerges from his apartment and sits on his balcony, minding only himself and paying no mind to my presence. His being only a few feet away makes me feel a sick stronger than one any plague in the streets could muster up. 

I wait for him to acknowledge me and then head back inside. Though I begin to feel he knows very well that I’m here and that he’s waiting for me to leave, marking his territory with silence. I know stubborn better than most; I can withstand any pain or misfortune if it means I will get my way. But if I had any equal, it would be Buchanan. I decide to stand my ground and return to my work.

But as the minutes pass, my thoughts are dull and empty. Instead, they focus solely on Buchanan and the means I could take to rid my life of him once and for all.

I finally can’t take it anymore. I grab my notebooks and pencils in a frantic anger and storm back inside. The nerve of that man infuriates me.

I sit alone once again, this time at my dining table inside, staring through the window rather than enjoying the outside from my balcony. Any inspiration I had has worn out. Buchanan has ruined my day, my work, and any progress I wanted to make creatively. The only true plague is him and I need a cure before it kills me.

I have considered proposing friendly relations between the two of us, creating peace and moving on. But I know if I were to do such a thing, I would never forgive myself. Forgiving him would make me just as much a criminal as he. All I can do is hope and pray that one day, circumstances will arrive that will force him to move far, far away. Or that evidence will surface and he’ll be put away and justly charged for his crimes.

… 

Today’s a new day and I will start it well. 

I finish my breakfast, a simple bread and fried egg, before getting back to work. I aspire to continue the work I had begun yesterday prior to being sourly intruded upon. I brave the balcony, praying to God that Buchanan will still be inside. Luckily for myself, he is. The space is mine and I will keep it so. No maleficent neighbour will keep me from my balcony.

My work comes well in great time. Within three hours, I’ve redeveloped an old story into something larger and with more depth. I’ve reworked the revenge plot as those have gone quite out of style. I’ve been too keen on making the story’s climax involve the antagonist, Antonio, getting what he deserves that I didn’t realise how much it took away from the story itself. 

Just as I begin contemplating what it is I should do instead, my own antagonist emerges from his doors. He sits as I do on his balcony with a newspaper. Once again, he pays no mind to me. I decide to stare at him until he realises. Maybe then he will leave. 

Minutes pass and my eyes become strained, but I refuse to look away now. I cannot back down and feed into his plan. He flips page after page in his newspaper, reading every article and every advertisement. I expect him not to realise my staring until he finishes, but he notices beforehand. He stares back for a short moment. I stare more intently, as if to say “go away and never come back.” He then looks back at his newspaper and continues reading.

Infuriated, I stand, knocking my chair back unintentionally with my frustration. I quickly storm back in towards the door. Only, I forgot I closed it and I walk directly into it. My head begins pounding and the pain is intense, more intense than the frenzy of emotions I had prior to it. I hear a giggle come from some feet away—from Buchanan. I ignore his reaction and open the door, slamming it fiercely behind me. 

What a cruel, arrogant man. He has no care for anybody or anything and wishes only to destroy any joy I experience in my own home. I wish the worst upon him, I truly do.

I touch my forehead gently and as I lower my hand, I notice it’s bleeding. My head is bleeding and it’s Buchanan’s fault. I cannot bear to even think of him any longer or else I might jump onto his balcony and have it out face to face. 

I find my way to my poor stash of medical supplies and bandage my head wound. As I do this, I hear the wind pick up outside and painfully remember I left my notes on my table outside. I finish quickly patching myself up before running to the balcony.

The notes are gone.

Oh dear God, they’ve flown away. 

I fall to my knees. The pain from my head is minuscule compared to the pain of losing these notes. I’ll have to start all over again. I had drafts and poems and references all layered in my notebooks and they’ve flown away.

Unable to handle anymore agony for one day alone indoors, I decide to go to sleep early.

…

Waking, I suddenly hear something drop outside. I stand up from my couch where I was having a fantastic nap, I head toward the balcony. I see something on the floor there. Rising from my knees, I head towards the door to look.

My notes are back…

They’re wrapped in twine and have a note stuck to them.

Frantically, I open the door and grab the notes, running back inside with them before the wind picks up again.

I peel the note from the top and give it a read.

These blew onto my side and I allowed myself a read. These are wonderful ideas. I hope to read the final drafts someday, perhaps we might even collaborate. 

Yours,

Elijah

P.S. I hope your head heals quickly.

P.P.S. You know in your heart that I am an innocent man.

    The nerve! The nerve of this man! He thinks he had the right but he is sorely mistaken. I know what he’s done and he has no right to infringe upon my life, let alone my writing!

    However, his words do stop me in my tracks. While I feel he says these things with an ulterior motive, he seems genuine.

    I feel I must write a note back.

    While I do not believe you to be innocent, I thank you for your words and for the invasion of my privacy. 

    I crumple the note up into a ball and toss it onto his balcony. Perhaps he will get it. 

Perhaps he will prove himself innocent. A part of me hopes he does.

…

The next day, I return to work on my story on the balcony since my notes have been returned. 

Instead of fearing Buchanan emerging, it’s almost as if I wait for him.

Hours pass until he finally does. Coffee in one hand and newspaper in the other, he sits down. He nods in my direction before picking up the newspaper. 

I return to work, unbothered for a moment. What a strange feeling it is to be unbothered by him. 

I’m still troubled, however, and I don’t trust his letter wholly. I want to speak to him but I find it hard to get the words out. I haven’t talked to him since everything happened simply because I’ve been scared of what either of us might say. Finally, for the first time in a year, I stand to face him.

“I want to hear why you want me to believe you didn’t kill my sister.”

Buchanan moves the newspaper from his face and stares at me before speaking. “I had no reason to kill her. Not even in war did I kill a single individual. It’s not in my nature. I’m just as upset about it as you are.”

“You were the only person to see her the day she died,” I argue back.

Buchanan stands. “We were engaged. We saw quite a bit of each other.”

I stare blankly for a moment. Yes, I knew they were engaged. But I seemingly forgot that he did genuinely care for her.

“They still haven’t found the killer. How am I to be certain it wasn’t you?”

“Please, you have to trust me. I loved her. Differently than you did, but I loved her an equal amount. I can’t continue to live with you thinking I did that to her. I want to find the killer just as much as you do.”

I sit back down and stare at the floor.

I know I want to believe him. I know I do. But in my mind, everything lines up to tell me that he did it. 

“There’s nothing more I can say. If you wish to continue believing it was me, I hope you can find proof of that and have justice be served as it should be,” Buchanan says finally before retreating indoors.

I sit on this conversation for a while. A few minutes is what it feels like but before I know it, the sun has begun to set. 

I think I know where I truly stand.

…

I return to my balcony this morning and to my surprise, I find Buchanan on his as well. He gives a polite wave and returns to his newspaper. 

“I believe you are innocent, Buchanan. I want you to know that. I also want you to know that I may still feel uneasy around you for quite some time. But I think you’ve made yourself believable.”

“Please don’t call me by my family name anymore. Simply Elijah, please.”

“Elijah, then, may I ask if you’d like to read some of my other stories? Ones that are finished, perhaps.”

“It would be my pleasure.”