Little Monsters

My brand-new projector screen was being targeted daily by the kid from the apartment upstairs, using a laser pointer.
When I went up to talk to his dad about it, he just shrugged. He's just a kid playing. How much can that raggedy old cloth of yours be worth?
The next day, the kid used an infrared pen to burn several holes right through my screen.
I didn't call the police.
Instead, I quietly replaced the expensive screen with a mirror, adjusted the angle precisely, and aimed it right back at their window.
Now, his son can play with laser reflections in his own home. All day, every day.

1
At six in the evening, I drew the living room curtains, ready to start my workday. I'm a film colorist who works from home, and my living room doubles as my studio. To achieve the most accurate color reproduction possible, I had spent three thousand dollars on a top-of-the-line, professional-grade screen imported from Germany.
For me, this screen was my livelihood.
I turned on the projector and my computer, preparing to fine-tune a new batch of film footage. Suddenly, a glaring red dot appeared out of nowhere, right in the center of the image. It danced around the lead actress's face like an annoying mosquito, completely wrecking the color balance I had so carefully calibrated.
My blood pressure shot up instantly.
I walked to the window and peeked through a crack in the curtains. In the window of apartment 602, directly above mine, a small head was bobbing furtively. In his hand was a laser pointer.
I knew the kid. It was the upstairs neighbors' son, Leo, a nine-year-old with a reputation as the neighborhood's number one terror.
A surge of anger flared in my chest. I shut down my equipment, swallowed my rage, and marched upstairs to knock on 602's door.
Leo's father, Mark, answered. He was a man in his forties with a prominent beer belly and the stale smell of alcohol clinging to him.
I tried to keep my tone civil. "Hey, Mark. I'm your downstairs neighbor."
"Could you please ask your son to stop shining that laser pointer at my window?" I continued. "I have a very expensive, professional screen set up, and it's interfering with my work. It could also damage the equipment."
Mark looked me up and down, his face a mask of undisguised contempt. He yelled into the apartment, "Leo, stop playing with that thing!" Then he turned back to me with a dismissive smirk.
"He's just a kid, having a bit of fun. What's the big deal?" He clapped me on the shoulder, his greasy sense of superiority washing over me. "Besides, it's just a piece of cloth, right? How much could it possibly be worth? If it gets damaged, I'll just pay you for it."
In that moment, I felt my fists clench. Looking at his face, a canvas of indifference and condescension, I knew that saying anything more would be a waste of breath.
I took a deep breath, turned, and walked back downstairs.
Back in my apartment, I stared at the faint red afterglow on my screen. It didn't feel like a spot of light. It felt like a stinging slap across my face.

2
My visit did nothing to stop the harassment. In fact, it made it worse.
From the next day on, the red dot would appear like clockwork the moment I drew my curtains to work. It was no longer a random flicker; it had become a targeted provocation. It would settle precisely on the face of the character I was trying to color-correct, or trace circles around the names in the rolling credits. It was as if Leo had discovered a new, more engaging video game.
My work efficiency plummeted. I had to redo several projects because the constant distraction caused me to misjudge the colors. I tried messaging Mark, but he either ignored me or replied with a curt "got it" and nothing more.
Finally, at my wits' end, I decided to take the issue to the building's residents' group chat.
In the 500-member "Harmony Homes Community" chat, I typed out a message, trying my best to remain polite and restrained.
"@Mark_602, hi Mark, just wanted to bring this up again. Your son has been continuously shining a laser pointer into my apartment, and it's seriously affecting my work and daily life. I would appreciate it if you could address this and supervise your child. Thank you."
Silence descended on the group chat for a few seconds.
Then, a familiar profile picture popped up. It was Mark's wife, Karen.
She didn't type. She sent a 60-second voice message, her voice shrill and dripping with manufactured victimhood.
"Hey, downstairs! Are you for real? A grown man picking on a little boy?"
"My son was just curious! He pointed a little light at your window! What's the big deal?"
"First you come knocking on our door, and now you're trying to shame us in the group chat? Are you trying to bully a poor widow and her orphan child?"
I blinked. Mark was a burly, six-foot man. How had he suddenly become a widow's orphan?
But her performance wasn't over.
"You keep your curtains drawn so tight all day. Who knows what kind of shady business you're up to in there? Our Leo is just an innocent child! Don't you dare project your filthy adult world onto him!"
"And anyway, he just shined a light at it! Is that raggedy old cloth of yours made of gold or something? Why are you so petty!"
The words "raggedy old cloth" were like needles in my ears. Her tirade of lies and accusations successfully stirred the pot. A few of her "sisters" from her morning workout group immediately jumped to her defense.
"Exactly, Karen, sweetie. Don't listen to him. People are so narrow-minded these days."
"A grown man, arguing with a child. So pathetic."
"Come on, young man, no need to be so aggressive. Being good neighbors is the most important thing."
I stared at the screen, my hands trembling with rage. A simple attempt to protect my property had somehow turned into a public shaming session. For the first time, I understood what it felt like to be completely and utterly defenseless against a torrent of lies.
I didn't reply.
I turned off my phone and sat in the darkness, listening to the heavy thud of my own heart. I realized then that reasoning with this family was a lost cause.

3
I decided to retreat. For now.
If reasoning wouldn't work, I'd resort to the simplest solution: a physical barrier. I spent over a hundred dollars on the thickest, double-layered blackout curtains I could find online, advertised to block 99.9% of all light.
The curtains were installed quickly. I drew both the new and old layers, and my living room was plunged into absolute darkness. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face.
Finally, I thought, some peace and quiet.
The first two days were blissfully silent. The annoying red dot was gone. A sliver of hope even flickered within me. Maybe they had gotten bored and given up.
But I was too naive.
I had underestimated a brat's capacity for destruction, and his parents' willingness to enable it.
On the third afternoon, I was in the kitchen making dinner when a strange, acrid smell drifted in from the living room. It was a peculiar scent, like burning plastic mixed with a chemical tang.

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