The woman upstairs keeps shrieking, driving Charles crazy. She told him her therapist suggested it to handle stress. This was unacceptable. Shriek into a pillow, Marge, he suggested. That defeats the whole purpose, she replied. It's shrill, he said. All shrieking is shrill by its very nature, she offered.
Earplugs were useless. So was turning up the TV. Sometimes it was one long shriek, sometimes short quick ones. Humming or whistling would have made more sense. He thought about calling his councilman.
Marge was otherwise a pleasant lady who always greeted him warmly.
Suddenly the noise ceased. Nothing for several days. Joy gave way to concern. Suppose she had a stroke. He went upstairs and knocked. Muffled voice. Charles called police, who broke down the door and found her tied and gagged. A burglary.
They took her to the hospital--she was weak and dehydrated.
Charles found himself pacing his apartment. The silence was driving him crazy. A void. He needed her shrillness.
He did the logical thing. Went to a vintage record store. Bought up every Ethel Merman record in stock. When Marge was released he would have stereophonic shrieking.
You never know what you miss until it is gone.
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