The Bully gets Bullied

The Bully of the house is furious. She’s turned up to the max volume of her stereo and, in a frantic release, expresses her anger in notes of fast and aggressive hip-hop. During the night, someone stole the dates she’d bought from India. The tantrum lasts for a couple of songs, and after slamming a door, the house returns to its usual silence shared among its twelve tenants—a fragile, fragmented, futile pause.

The food thief takes whatever they fancy - an egg here, a banana there. Sometimes, they’re so daring that they open a newly purchased yogurt, the daring bastard. No one knows who they are; there are only conjectures, some of them shared. Someone in the residence suggests holding a vote and selecting them from among the twelve. It’s absurd and illegal, even though no one votes for me. “I don’t act based on assumptions,” I say.

I should be the main suspect because I’m not missing a thing while my fridge has been raided. Furthermore, I am unpopular both outside and inside the house. Could my cold and distant attitude finally have a positive consequence?

The Bully takes advantage to persecute the weaker ones. She aims at the Mexican girl and, as the second culprit, at one of the loners of the property, a rather skinny young guy who recently moved in and about whom little (or nothing) is known. Upon being accused, the Mexican girl denies it, which fuels the bully's desire to intimidate, attribute blame, and humiliate. She does so in the chat, filling it with emojis and memes referring to the Mexican cartel series. The skinny loner, evasive, doesn't even respond. I corner The Bully and propose to the neighbours to buy a camera, and most of them support the idea as the most reliable option.

Now that I've left the garage and returned to my room on the main floor, 363, conflicts have become evident. The walls are fake and thin and don't isolate sound. The noises from the kitchen come straight to my room, and if that's not enough, the smell. When I first moved in, I would wake up at 2 a.m. from the strong smell of spices from the unfortunate neighbour who sneakily cooked during hours outside of Ramadan fasting. Waking up because of the smell is a much more powerful experience than being awakened by sound. Although staying awake is subtle and gradual, the sense of smell is more sensitive and delicate.

I remember waking up to the stench of my ex's cigarette. The wretched one smoked while I slept. What a dramatic awakening! Mainly because that smoke was loaded with other substances that would prevent his sleep and, therefore, mine for days. What a nightmare my reality was! The food's stench brought back this memory, which I thought had been eradicated from my mind and soul.

They won't be able to do that to me! Now that I live in Canada, no one will wake me up with any smell, neither smoke nor food, neither rise nor fall. To hell with culture and its differences; there are duties, rights, rules, and laws that protect me in this country and in this house, damn it. So, I take out the signed contract where the rules are listed, including "cooking until no later than 10 p.m." I stop abruptly despite their pleas. "There’s not a chance," I assure. "Cook at the hours and eat when you want," I decree. I don't allow for a discussion. And so, the second hell stops.

The Bully tries to initiate a third ordeal and bewilders me by making noise in the kitchen at night. She has summoned her gathering among the tenants, two idiots with whom she creates a scandal, laughs, and mockery directed at me. I prepare my strategy, and the following night, I bring my guest, a Latin gorilla who enters the kitchen intimidatingly when The Bully intends to repeat the feat. He introduces himself as my friend, fixes his intense gaze, and, with a firm handshake, makes it clear to the puppets what will happen if they continue their feast. The two of us sit down to share the space. The Bully and the idiots leave after a few minutes, and until now, they don't dare to repeat their party. I invite my friend from time to time to ensure my unbreakable position.

Not long after, The Bully starts screaming. At first, I thought it was terrible singing, but her bellowing doesn't correspond to any melody. They are imitations of rough birds, some strange feline in heat, or reptiles caged in darkness clamouring for light. It's a sporadic and fortuitous noise that disappears just in time to raise doubts about whether it is a product of imagination. Upon its repetition, I notice that it's coming from her room. After emitting it, she's absent for hours until night falls, when the house retreats, perhaps out of embarrassment.

This is repeated for days until someone reports the terrible sounds in the chat. Then, someone else responds jokingly that a monstrous koala is living as a stowaway in some secret property room. Another tenant is so scared upon hearing this that he interrupts his virtual meeting to find out who they have killed. Without naming names, I propose they vent in the garden not to bother anyone. Everyone agrees. Even The Bully seems relieved.

Today, the noisy commotion can be heard from a distance from time to time. It has gone from a monstrous tone to a comic one. The Bully finally rests her threats on a jocular outbreak of Tourette's syndrome. The Mexican girl comments mockingly with a smiling emoji, and the jokes are in the chat. The skinny one remains silent.

The food thief continues to do as he pleases. No one wants to pay for the camera, and even less invest their time in the software to discover his identity.

As for me, I don't care about any of this.