You know in this day and age when the time comes to know thy neighbor, no one really seems up for that task anymore. The autonomy of living next door to some stranger, or having some new stranger move in to replace the old stranger you had finally accepted into your realm of existence makes it simple to forget that obligation.
Is this new person going to be the first to hesitant introductions? Or will they merely mirror the paranoid glances one might cast as they reach their doors at the opportune moment that you decide to exit. Looks that speak volumes over the fears that this stranger across from you is a relocated pervert, an ax murderer, or devout Jehovah witness, or a low life thieving member of the dregs of society. Despite how well they might dress, how quickly the thoughts pass as the low hello or acknowledging noise one might make for the sake of decorum is made.
These are people, otherwise faceless entities to pay the rent and fill the building, creatures you have no need of knowing – and yet you do against your will, its natural for us to seek safety in numbers – regardless of the trust we might not wish to place towards these strangers. No matter what you might try to ignore the life that may be occurring around you – the happy couple downstairs will always bicker when the money becomes tight, various children will fight with their various parents over various inane subjects. It's in the vents echoing to your ears in the night, seeps up from the floorboards, it's muffled through the doors as you walk the hallways, it's screaming at you from the windows, these faceless voices.
Do I know them? Have we perhaps crossed paths before? I wonder many times looking at the young faces of adults glancing my way if these wastes had once traveled through my class before sinking down into the dredges of adulthood responsibilities. I wonder if they truly know me. I recognize the looks these people give - Have I seen him before somewhere? Have I heard him? Screaming in the middle of the night of some unknown night terrors, driving me mad as he ceaselessly paces across the wooden floor above my head, slamming doors erratically, speaking to himself – is this that man that I have wished ill upon at each footfall? Is this the man? Is it? IS IT?
Some are fortunate never to know me, though I make it my business to know you – what is it that you fear the most, I can almost tell just by looking at you. What is it you're hiding, these secret weaknesses that only you know and worry over behind locked doors. What is it I need to do to make you know me – what is it in your head that I must drag out to make you realize who the slight man – the magnificent and terrible creature standing before you is.
What is it I have to do to make you truly afraid?