IGMS Issue 18 by IGMS

Author:IGMS [IGMS]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hatrack River Enterprises
Published: 2010-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

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.

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