I've suspected for a while that my roommate isn't human.
When she sleeps, her eyes don't close all the way. I can see the blue of them jumping when she's dreaming, like she's focusing on a thousand different things that I can't see. I've stopped sleeping most nights, too fascinated by those frantic irises to find any peace of my own.
It's worse when she's awake. Watching her eat is one of the most fascinating spectator sports. Last night we fought about it before dinner. She never eats anything that I recognize--I don't understand where she even buys these things. Great slabs of meat, so large she has to move the shelves in the refrigerator, weird green vegetables that hardly look like they were grown on earth, grains that look suspiciously like maggots. She chews with her mouth open.
No parts of her close together like they should.
It's hard to have an appetite while I watch her chewing like a cow or when I find bits of meat and that maggot rice sticking to the plates in the sink. It's all I can do to come into the kitchen and pour a glass of water in the mornings. A lot of mornings I can't manage that.
They say it's the true test of a relationship, living together. My hands are shaking this morning as I pour my glass of water, swallow a pill. There are no dishes in the sink today. That's something to be thankful for, I suppose, though her eyes are still half open where she lays in the hallway, where she's been laying since we fought before dinner. She fell more than I pushed her, I think. She hit her head hard on the edge of the table on her way down.
One more part of her that doesn't close together like it should.
Submitted December 03, 2017 at 08:43AM by bad-samantha http://ift.tt/2iGgC35 shortscarystories
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