Rain hammered against the windowpanes, mirroring the relentless drumming in Eleanor’s head. She stared at the overflowing ashtray on her rickety kitchen table, each cigarette butt a tiny monument to the hours she’d spent staring out at nothing. The persistent drizzle seemed to be amplifying the already suffocating silence that had settled in her small house since… well, since everything.
A loud thud rattled the window frame. Eleanor jumped, her hand flying to her chest. It was old Mr. Henderson, next door. She knew what was coming. The notice taped to her door this morning had given her the heads up. She didn't want to see it, she didn’t want to face him.
She shuffled to the back door, her slippers dragging across the worn linoleum. Through the grimy glass, she saw Mr. Henderson, beaming, holding a pamphlet outlining the virtues of a six-foot privacy fence. He was pointing animatedly at his meticulously manicured lawn, the bright green a stark contrast to her own untamed, overgrown garden.
“Good morning, Eleanor!” he boomed, his voice carrying the unfortunate cheerfulness of someone who hadn't a care in the world. She wanted to scream, to disappear.