Drill
When peace becomes a luxury,
war is the only answer.
Drill
Rubén, thirty-five, had worked tirelessly to reach this moment. After years of working as a misclassified self-employed psychologist—underpaid, exploited, and drained by endless sessions—he had finally bought his own refuge: an apartment in the heart of Cádiz’s old town.
The building, barely four stories high with just one neighbor per floor, hid among narrow, cobbled alleys that smelled of salt and bleach. From his living room, Rubén could see, between rooftops and clotheslines, the sun sinking into the Atlantic as ships disappeared on the horizon, staining the sky a blazing red. That image—an intoxicating mix of history, humidity, and silence—promised him peace after years of chaos.
The first days in his new home were a blessing. The silence wasn’t just therapeutic; it was a drug he had been craving for years. Few neighbors came or went, and those who did moved with an almost reverent discretion. In his mind, Rubén already pictured a clean, orderly existence—no surprises, no shouting, no unexpected noises. Just him, his coffee, and the cathedral glowing red at sunset. The life he deserved. For a whole month, that peace reigned.
But peace, like everything in life, doesn’t last forever.
Hell began one ordinary morning. At six sharp, a sound tore through the air like a gunshot. Rubén jolted awake, his brain still caught in the inertia of sleep. A drill vibrated against the walls, pounding inside his skull as if someone were boring directly into his head. He tried to ignore it, pressing the pillow over his ears. He counted to ten. To fifty. But the noise didn’t stop. It shifted rhythm, changed intensity—like someone drilling through his patience inch by inch.
By eight, when his alarm went off, Rubén had already been awake for two hours, his temples pounding with anger. He sat up, buried his face in his hands, and exhaled slowly.
He got up heavily, dragging a mix of exhaustion and frustration. The workday was torture; his mind drifted between the morning’s relentless noise and the nagging sense that he hadn’t truly helped any of his patients. By three in the afternoon he was back home, hoping to find the silence he so desperately needed.
By mid-afternoon, the drilling stopped, but the relief lasted only a few minutes. Then a discordant strumming rose from the floor above—like a cat in heat. It wasn’t music. It was torture. A pathetic attempt at a melody that died before it was born, a random jumble of notes repeated senselessly—someone’s miserable attempt at indie. Rubén closed his eyes, pressing his fists against his temples. He couldn’t take it anymore.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor—where the new neighbors had moved in just a few days earlier—his pulse racing, each step a heartbeat of contained fury. His anger wrestled with an attempt at calm; he trusted that a civilized conversation might solve things.
He exhaled before ringing the bell, trying to steady himself. He didn’t want to come off as the hysterical neighbor who complains about everything. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted a bit of respect. When the door opened, he forced a smile and spoke as politely as he could.
“Hi, I’m Rubén, the neighbor downstairs.”
Laura tilted her head, studying him with an expression that was neither friendly nor hostile—something between indifference and curiosity. But before she could respond, Sergio appeared behind her with the posture of a man about to tell you that you owe him money. He wore a cap facing forward and sunglasses—even inside the apartment.
“What’s up, man?” he said, brushing Laura aside with a territorial gesture, as if marking his space between her and Rubén.
Rubén took a deep breath before speaking.
“Hi, I’m Rubén, from the second floor,” he repeated. “I just wanted to introduce myself and… well, mention something. It’s been a bit noisy today—with the drill this morning and the music this afternoon. It’s really loud downstairs, and it’s been hard to rest.”
Sergio let out a short, careless laugh and shrugged, as if Rubén’s words barely grazed him.
“Sorry, dude. We were fixing some stuff, didn’t realize the time.”
“Or the music, apparently,” Rubén added, trying not to raise his voice. “You can also hear footsteps. The parquet amplifies everything.”
“Oh, yeah! This parquet’s crap,” Sergio laughed again. “We’ll try to be careful.”
But his tone was hollow, with no real intention behind it. Laura stayed silent, her eyes drifting from Rubén to Sergio as if watching a minor spectacle. Her faint, almost imperceptible smile carried something unsettling—almost mocking. Rubén felt something was off, but chose not to prolong the conversation.
“Thanks,” he said simply, turning back toward his apartment.
That night, as he tried to sleep, footsteps thudded above him with the rhythm of a military march. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, but the sound seeped into his mind. It wasn’t just filling the space—it was invading him.
This is only the beginning, he thought, turning over in bed, unable to find rest.
Later that night, as he struggled to drift off, he heard laughter from upstairs. Through the walls and the silence of the night, he clearly made out Sergio’s mocking voice:
“That guy downstairs is so bitter, I bet he can hear us right now.”
Laura chuckled smugly. “Poor guy. He’s probably writing a diary about us. Can you imagine? Dear diary, today my neighbors breathed too loud again.”
The words pierced him like knives.
