Kiernan McCafferty
Kiernan McCafferty
Kiernan McCafferty is a recent graduate from DePaul University studying Screenwriting with a minor in philosophy. He typically writes absurdist literature, and explores concepts of identity, confinement, and existence. He's grateful to have recently been accepted by Crook and Folly Magazine for his short story "In the Web," and by BHN Magazine for his short story "Cellars." He's so excited to be submitting to Behemoth Magazine!
The Man in the Other Room
Our walls are thin.
I hear you pace. I hear you party. I hear you scream, I hear you cry, and I hear you laugh. I hear you tell stories late at night. I yell through the wall, “Can you be quiet? I’m trying to sleep,” but I know you won’t listen. You spend most of your nights keeping me awake. I try to go to sleep, but you wake me up again. Again, you wake me. You sweep the concrete floor. You do your yoga at 1AM. You throw breakdancing parties. You stomp. So much stomping. You are a great stomper.
I called to have you evicted, but your credit score is impeccable. Besides, whenever others come over, you’re as quiet as a mouse. You walk on tiptoes and whisper in sweet tones. It’s an excellent game you’re playing.
I called a construction company to fill my walls. When they come, they tell me, “Someone’s been hollowing these walls for years. Methodically and expertly taking apart the fiberglass and replacing it with styrofoam. Your best bet would be to give up entirely.”
I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about this.
Of course, everything happens over there and never here. You have far more friends and family than me. I work from home and live on my own. My house is barren. A solitary sofa, an empty refrigerator, a loose bottle of change. Blank walls. I’ve attempted to hang portraits, but your boomboxes shake the paintings loose. My single window only leads to a better view of your superior complex.
You live with so many people. I’ve tried to count the voices from the other room, but there are so many. A million, I counted once. No, maybe a thousand. Somewhere in between those numbers. Every time I try to count, I lose track and end up falling asleep, but you wake me up again with that stomping.
It’s an excellent game you’re playing. You’ve made me nothing about myself and everything about you. I hear your voice more than my own. I know your stomping as white noise. I spend my days waiting for you to speak to me through the wall. You effectively made me live for you.
One day, I know you will tear down all the borders that separate us, so you can rightfully take my home as your own, and make me watch you talk from a cardboard box. I suppose that’s why you keep our walls thin: so I am just the man (temporarily) in the other room.