It's Day 23, and as I stare at my recycle bin, I'm horrified as memories of past events come together to form disturbing images in my mind.
On Day 4, Phil asked me if I had any spare wastebaskets. I told him there was one in the bathroom, and one in the kitchen. He asked if he could have one for his bedroom. I curiously asked why he needed one in the bedroom, and naively pointed out that I didn't have one in the bedroom. He awkwardly insisted, so I rolled my eyes and went out to buy him a wastebasket for his bedroom.
On Day 6, Phil asked me if I had any Kleenex. I shrugged, telling him that I didn't have a cold. I asked if he was sick, and he awkwardly shook his head and walked away. I went to my linen closet, and grabbed a box of kleenex and put it on the breakfast bar in my kitchen.
On Day 10, I walk into my home to see Phil watching "So You Think You Can Dance". I laugh at his lack of heterosexuality, and he replies that he only watches it because of the hot chicks. I laugh again, and he stands up somewhat crookedly, grabs a kleenex, and hobbles to his bedroom half hunched over. I assumed he went to his room to cry, since I may have been a bit mean to him.
Today, I stare at an empty box of Kleenex with the words "140 Sheets" glaring up at me. It's been less than three weeks. That's a lot of kleenex. Phil must cry a lot, since he hasn't shown any signs of having a cold the whole time he's been here. I look back over at the kitchen counter, and notice that a bottle of lotion that someone left here seems to be missing. I shrug, look around, and am suddenly hit with horrible realization.
10 minutes later, Phil finds me curled up on the kitchen floor, my eyes wide with shock and disgust. He says something to me, but all I hear is "140 Sheets". He holds his right hand out to me to help me up. I stare at it and scream.
0 comments:
Post a Comment