Hell From Below

The upstairs neighbors keep to themselves. Who wouldn’t? It’s a rough neighborhood. Gang members are so brazen they’ve taken to wearing police uniforms.

I sublet a basement from the rats & commute to work on an exercise wheel. The shower smells a bit like sulphur, but the hot water always comes on right away.

I pass people on the street with faces like crushed cigarette butts, but I’m sure they’re perfectly nice once you get to know them.

I hear things, sure— some kind of BDSM party, I guess, or an amusement park with too many scary rides.

The fire alarm goes off on the hour & there’s a low thrumming, as if from a mill. Whatever they’re doing up there, it’s got rhythm.

From time to time the shrieking stops & the silence wakes me from a sound sleep, wondering what fresh hell is this.