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Roommates
by
Damien Roos
The stool I sat on had a wobble. Dammit. Why have four legs? Three would’ve done the trick, and a three-legged stool doesn’t wobble.“So you’re alive, Damien,” said Fluffy, who had just entered the kitchen.
I rolled up the newspaper I was holding and drummed a simple beat on the counter.
“Yup,” I said. “Got a bit of a headache, but I’m alright.” I also had a bad feeling in my gut, but I didn’t know why. Liquor had clouded any memory of the night before.
Fluffy opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a carton of orange juice.
“What’s on tap today?” he asked.
I tossed the paper at him. It fluttered to his left, a near strike, and fell to the ground.
“What did you do that for?”
“Because,” I answered, “I’ve got a feeling you deserve it, though I’m not sure why.”
There was a smile on his face that could only mean bad things. He put the carton on the counter and bent over to pick up the scattered pieces of newspaper off of the floor.
I got off of the wobbly stool and left the kitchen.
“Besides,” I said, walking away, “that grin on your face warrants it.”
I entered my room and was met by a total mess. It was dark, and the smell of cheap grain alcohol was thick in the air. A near-full keg of months-old beer sat beside my desk.
I approached and poured myself a glass. It’s the quickest way to cure a hangover, and I was in need, so I sat on my bed, glass in hand, and tried to piece together the awful events that led to the mess around me.
I could vaguely remember something about a stupid videogame and a violent dispute of some sort. Hmm. Violence in our household. No huge revelation there, as violence was used to solve many of our problems. It is, in fact, the reason that Bobby left. He said we were sick. I tried explaining to him my theory about cats being the anti- Christ, basing my argument on the beliefs of the ancient Egyptians, but he saw the blood on my hands and had had enough.
So the videogame, the mess in the room, and the feeling in my gut. That bad feeling, a certain unsettling, like a bad meal. I could ask Fluffy, or Dillon, or maybe Chris.
Yeah, I believe Chris was there last night, getting drunk with the roommates. I’ll ask him. But no, I can’t trust their stories. My roommates are liars, all of them, except for Fluffy. He’s truthful; though the bad feeling in my gut seems to tell me that he was involved in whatever it was that happened, so I can’t ask him. Geez, was my room usually this messy? “God it stinks in here.” A sudden knock on my door interrupted my thoughts.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s Fluffy. I need help cleaning up out here.”
“Get one of the other roommates to help. I’m busy.” Just lazy really, but when I said all of my roommates are liars, I did not exempt myself. We’re a house full of liars, except for Fluffy of course. And Bobby, I suppose, but he is no longer with us.
“Busy doing what?”
“Uh, personal stuff, what’s it to you? Ask one of the other residents of this humble abode!”
“It’s just us three now, man, and Chris is at work, remember?”
What on earth did he mean by “just us three?” What happened to Dillon? Did he leave us too? My stomach took another drop, the feeling going from bad to worse.
“Dude, come on man. It’ll only take a few minutes,” he continued. “You can crank it all afternoon for all I care, but we really need to clean this shit-hole!”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
I needed to get to the bottom of last night’s mystery, if only to quell that uneasiness in my bowels. I opened the door and stepped into the hall. Fluffy met me with that same grin that he had worn in the kitchen.
We walked past the kitchen into the living room, where I saw the mess. I now understood the bad feeling in my stomach.
“Phew, Goddamn it stinks in here!” said Fluffy, and boy was he ever right-- Fluffy the honest.
Bobby and Dillon sat side-by-side on the loveseat.
Bobby’s head hung low, hiding a large bloody gash across his throat. That was my proud doing a few days ago, when he told me he was leaving the house. Dillon’s bald head rested back against the top of the sofa, as he stared up into the ceiling with bulging eyes. The left side of his skull was crushed, misshapen. A baseball bat lay on the floor beside the loveseat. The video game controller was still in his hands, and the game was paused. I could see on the screen that he had been winning.
“Well,” I said, “the blood should come up pretty easily, but we’re going to need some bleach.”
Fluffy nodded, still grinning.
“We’ll need some huge trash bags,” he said. “You know, the kind that carpenters use.”
“Yup, the circular saw too. And shit, while we’re at it, I may as well clean my room. It’s starting to stink in there as well.”
“Alright,” said Fluffy, “but that’s all you man. I’m not touching any animal carcasses. That’s just savage.” His eyes were fixed on the television screen.
“Was it a fair fight?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said, and his grin slowly widened.
I had lied when I said that Fluffy was an honest man.
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© Roos , 2007
Damien is an English Major at James Madison University in Harrisonburg, VA.