Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest inside him. He hadn't left his apartment all day, not since the estate agent's casual comment about "the Vandergelt place" next door. Vandergelt. The name hung in the air, a constant, unwanted reminder. He’d seen the house, of course – the manicured lawn, the sleek black car in the driveway. But now he knew the true scale of it all. It wasn’t just a nice house; it was a fortress of privilege, a testament to a life he couldn’t even fathom. He slammed his fist onto the chipped countertop, the cheap laminate offering no solace.
A persistent thrum echoed in his chest, a low, relentless vibration. He reached for the bottle of whiskey, the familiar burn a temporary distraction. Each swallow brought no real comfort. The thought of Vandergelt, of his effortless wealth, felt like a weight, pressing down on him, suffocating him. He longed to smash something.
His neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, knocked on his door. He opened it, the gesture more out of obligation than genuine interest. She was all smiles, chatting about the community garden. He grunted in response, his gaze locked on the puddles forming on the pavement. The garden, the community… it all seemed so utterly pointless.