picture.
I felt the pinch of resentment and a pang of jealousy.
It was too good a death for him.
How about it, Roomie?
by Chase Guymon
Artwork by Lance Card
----
43 hours, 26 minutes, 32. . . . No, 33 seconds . . . 34 . . . 35 . . .
Well, roomie, I really ought to clean up. I already stumbled once over that pile of towels I left over by the toilet. I'm not the cleanest person, you know. I tend to forget little things. The water wasn't hot, but it was warm; warm enough to get the scum off my hands, anyway. Water is calm and gentle, not like my life has been lately. Not like this past week. No, this week has been hectic and painful and irritating. So I'm glad I can finally relax.
Where to begin, where to begin . . .?
Mother, I guess. That would be the logical place, and I'm nothing if not logical. Mother and I had a fight, I was kicked out of my flat, and I lost my job. But, now I'm here with you, roomie, and life is bliss. I think that sums it up pretty well.
What? You want the longer version. Well, all right.
When Mother and I had our last argument, it seemed to begin just like all of our other spats. But it sure didn't end like any of them. I couldn't contain myself, that's all. Mother had asked me to visit her. She promised me breakfast; she loved to make pancakes for me. Sure, she seems like a nice lady, but I can't stand the way she ignores me. The doctor said that she had had a hearing defect, so she didn't hear everything people said to her. A defect? More like selective hearing.
So, I went to her small ranch home, still snuggled in the nice wool blanket I had brought with me. At the time she walked in, I was pleased to see her. But she was not pleased to see me. It never seemed like she was anymore. She walked into the room mumbling to herself. I couldn't tell what she was talking about at first.
"My boy, my son; he's all I have left. He doesn't have the decency to visit me now and again," she said.
At first I thought she was just hadn't noticed me.
"Mother, I just arrived, just now. What are you talking about?" I was always so proper to my mother, with me being the only relative she had left. "Mother," I said, "I'm right here."
"Oh, my boy," She continued without moving, not even responding to my existence. "Why does he fail to do anything productive . . .?"
This is when even her eye-sight became selective, I swear. I was half tempted to walk in front of her and wave my arms and yell.
She went on and on. "He's never made anything of himself. I do wish he'd leave me here and let me die."
She spoke like that far too often. I hated it. I hated to hear her moan and cry. And I hated it when she criticized me. She began making my pancakes, commenting here and there, cruel, biting words, while she cooked. My mother was a good woman once, before Dad died. Now she moped and wept all the time. I had to do something.
"Mother, I want you to know I'm leaving."
She started sobbing, but before she could guilt me into staying, I headed for the door. She threw all of her energy into stopping me, but her guilt was not enough this time. I was going to leave, just like she told me to.
"Don't go" she said, "Why would you leave me?"
I just couldn't take it anymore.
I picked up the hot frying pan, extending it behind me and with a catapult arm I comforted her, saying, "Mother, it'll be over soon."
43 hours, 49 minutes . . .
I'd make you coffee, but I don't think you'd be in the mood. I am, though. It's far too early to be drinking wine, but I figure coffee will do just fine.
Besides, I used the wine to clean off the body, so I'd have to get more later. I wish it was the body of my landlord instead. I hate that woman. I guess 'hated' that woman, would be more proper, seeing as I don't have to worry about her anymore. I left my apartment when my landlord demanded that I pay my rent after I lost my mother. The heartless monster.
I left everything behind. I have nothing left from the
I felt the pinch of resentment and a pang of jealousy.
It was too good a death for him.
How about it, Roomie?
by Chase Guymon
Artwork by Lance Card
----
43 hours, 26 minutes, 32. . . . No, 33 seconds . . . 34 . . . 35 . . .
Well, roomie, I really ought to clean up. I already stumbled once over that pile of towels I left over by the toilet. I'm not the cleanest person, you know. I tend to forget little things. The water wasn't hot, but it was warm; warm enough to get the scum off my hands, anyway. Water is calm and gentle, not like my life has been lately. Not like this past week. No, this week has been hectic and painful and irritating. So I'm glad I can finally relax.
Where to begin, where to begin . . .?
Mother, I guess. That would be the logical place, and I'm nothing if not logical. Mother and I had a fight, I was kicked out of my flat, and I lost my job. But, now I'm here with you, roomie, and life is bliss. I think that sums it up pretty well.
What? You want the longer version. Well, all right.
When Mother and I had our last argument, it seemed to begin just like all of our other spats. But it sure didn't end like any of them. I couldn't contain myself, that's all. Mother had asked me to visit her. She promised me breakfast; she loved to make pancakes for me. Sure, she seems like a nice lady, but I can't stand the way she ignores me. The doctor said that she had had a hearing defect, so she didn't hear everything people said to her. A defect? More like selective hearing.
So, I went to her small ranch home, still snuggled in the nice wool blanket I had brought with me. At the time she walked in, I was pleased to see her. But she was not pleased to see me. It never seemed like she was anymore. She walked into the room mumbling to herself. I couldn't tell what she was talking about at first.
"My boy, my son; he's all I have left. He doesn't have the decency to visit me now and again," she said.
At first I thought she was just hadn't noticed me.
"Mother, I just arrived, just now. What are you talking about?" I was always so proper to my mother, with me being the only relative she had left. "Mother," I said, "I'm right here."
"Oh, my boy," She continued without moving, not even responding to my existence. "Why does he fail to do anything productive . . .?"
This is when even her eye-sight became selective, I swear. I was half tempted to walk in front of her and wave my arms and yell.
She went on and on. "He's never made anything of himself. I do wish he'd leave me here and let me die."
She spoke like that far too often. I hated it. I hated to hear her moan and cry. And I hated it when she criticized me. She began making my pancakes, commenting here and there, cruel, biting words, while she cooked. My mother was a good woman once, before Dad died. Now she moped and wept all the time. I had to do something.
"Mother, I want you to know I'm leaving."
She started sobbing, but before she could guilt me into staying, I headed for the door. She threw all of her energy into stopping me, but her guilt was not enough this time. I was going to leave, just like she told me to.
"Don't go" she said, "Why would you leave me?"
I just couldn't take it anymore.
I picked up the hot frying pan, extending it behind me and with a catapult arm I comforted her, saying, "Mother, it'll be over soon."
43 hours, 49 minutes . . .
I'd make you coffee, but I don't think you'd be in the mood. I am, though. It's far too early to be drinking wine, but I figure coffee will do just fine.
Besides, I used the wine to clean off the body, so I'd have to get more later. I wish it was the body of my landlord instead. I hate that woman. I guess 'hated' that woman, would be more proper, seeing as I don't have to worry about her anymore. I left my apartment when my landlord demanded that I pay my rent after I lost my mother. The heartless monster.
I left everything behind. I have nothing left from the
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