Freddy’s Neighbour

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Freddy’s next-door neighbor was a walking anomaly in their rundown apartment building. His name was Jim, and Freddy hated him with a fiery passion, the kind usually reserved for bad bosses and ex-wives. Jim was always there, a constant, cheerful presence that grated on Freddy’s nerves like a squeaky hinge. He had a habit of smiling too much, a wide grin that made Freddy’s skin crawl. It was the kind of smile that suggested Jim hadn’t been beaten down by life enough to lose it.

Every day, Jim would be out in the hallway, whistling some tune from decades past. His annoyingly bright demeanor echoed off the cracked walls, landing on Freddy’s nerves like a hammer on a bad tooth. But it wasn’t just the whistling. Jim had a way of prying into people’s lives, asking questions nobody wanted to answer. “How’s it going, Freddy?” he’d say, like he actually cared. Freddy would grumble and slam his door, hoping Jim would take the hint. But Jim never did. He was persistent.

One evening, Freddy was on his third whiskey when there was a knock at the door. He opened it to find Jim, grinning like a fool, holding a steaming bowl. “Made too much stew, thought you might like some,” Jim said. Freddy’s stomach growled, but his pride told it to shut up. “Not hungry,” Freddy lied, trying to close the door. “Suit yourself,” Jim said, placing the bowl on the floor and walking away, his cheerful footsteps echoing in the hall. Freddy watched him go, his irritation boiling over.

Jim’s unwanted kindness was a thorn in Freddy’s side, a constant reminder of his own failings. Freddy couldn’t understand why someone like Jim, who seemed to have everything together, would choose to live in a dump like this. Maybe he was running from something, maybe he was just plain dumb. Freddy liked to think it was the latter. It made hating him easier.

On one particularly rough morning, Freddy opened his door to find Jim tinkering with a leaky faucet in the hallway. Freddy muttered a string of curses, which Jim pretended not to hear. “Morning, Freddy! This place is falling apart, huh?” Jim said, smiling as usual. Freddy glared, the kind of glare that could wither plants. Jim’s relentless optimism was a disease, and Freddy was tired of catching it.

Days turned into weeks, and Freddy’s resentment festered like mold in the damp corners of their crumbling building. Then, one day, Jim was gone. No note, no goodbye, just an empty apartment and a strange silence in the hallways. Freddy thought he’d feel relief, but instead, he felt emptier than ever. The place seemed darker without Jim’s irritating cheerfulness. Freddy stood by his window, a whiskey in hand, staring out at the gray world, the sound of his own loneliness filling the void Jim had left.

Sometimes, late at night, Freddy could swear he heard faint whistling, mocking him from the shadows. Though he’d never admit it, he missed the bastard. Because hating Jim had been the closest thing to feeling alive that Freddy had left.