HOUSEMATES

The Five Stages of Decay: 

Fresh, Bloat, Purge, Advanced Decay, Dry Remains  

My mother and I were in the waiting room of the complex. We were finalizing the paperwork for my relocation. I recently had been affected with a rather unfortunate eviction from my previous inhabitance, resulting in me having to settle for a “group-living” situation for the time being, rather unfortunately. My mother was not taking the move well. She projected an annoying tearful image, but that can be expected from a mother grieving her son’s departure from his childhood home. 

I examined the room. The wallpaper was peeling. There were some unappealing magazines strewn across the table, per usual of most waiting room culture. Despite my knowledge of the idiocratic and lowbrow nature of most magazines, I was incredibly bored, so I opened one of the ‘zines at random and started to read. 

How To Write A Great Obituary, one of the articles read. 

I started to wonder what would be in my very own obituary, if it were written at that moment.  Jonathan Morphy. Twenty-three years old. He was a chess prodigy, simply by virtue of being born with a particular affinity for the sport. Had he been allotted the time, he would have made a name for himself in the realm of chess masters and beyond. However, even though he was greatly talented and admired, this did not prevent him from succumbing to his own mortality. It is important to acknowledge that each life will come to an end, no matter how successful the life is, because it reminds not only the fans and followers of the fickleness of fame, but also the talent, of their own humility. 

My profound thoughts were interrupted as a girl ran hysterically past the window of the office my mother and I were seated in. She kept screeching on and on about her bloated stomach. (The girl, not my mother). She was loud, very loud, as teenagers tend to be. She possessed long blonde hair and skinny, frail limbs. Despite the loudness of Stacey’s storming, my mother missed the entire escapade because of all of her blubbering. We were never going to finish the paperwork if I continued to have to put up with all of her shenanigans. 

I was becoming increasingly annoyed with my overly-emotional mother, so I decided to let her continue the official paperwork while I scoped out my new living grounds. 

The white and gray marble residences were drastically different in shape, size, and degree of craftsmanship. I paused in my exploration to examine the drops of water ricocheting off of the outsides of the buildings and settling upon the many, many flowers resting upon the earth outside of each structure. It had been raining when we arrived and was still raining now. The sky overcast, the air stale, the mood low. Typical! The drops were fat, bothersome, and altogether an intensely dreadful occurrence. These globules had such characteristics in common with the second of my housemates I became acquainted with: William P. Worthington. 

Do not let his seemingly dignified name deceive you. William was one of the most unrefined persons I had ever encountered. One of the first questions that I asked him was what he liked to do in his pastime. (This sort of formal, respectful introductory dialogue was obviously expected from the thoroughly well-mannered man that I am, through and through). His reply? Go Fish. As in, the children’s card game. A completely undignified pastime when compared to one of such high caliber as chess. 

As one would expect, I balked at the thought of sharing a room adjacent to him after this first impression. He dressed exclusively in flannel shirts and cowboy boots. His most prized possession was his golden toothpick, which protruded from between his cracked, swollen lips at all times. He smelled absolutely horrid. It smelled precisely of the same intense, methane stench present whenever one wanders upon an area inhabited by cattle. That perfectly encompasses William’s essence. 

William stepped toward me, unfortunately. “Can I help ya with yer stuff?”

I eyed him warily. “I’m capable of handling it myself, thank you.”

William laughed. “Tell ya what. If ya give me one a yer fancy handkerchief thingies, I’ll give ya a tour of this here fine establishment. Might as well getta know it now, since yer gonna be here a while.”

I scoffed. “This is a very temporary living situation for me. And I am perfectly capable of getting acquainted with surroundings on my own, thank you.”

With that, I departed, and in turn, escaped near-asphyxiation-by-William-stench. 

The walls passed the sound of my polished shoes back and forth as I continued down the main hallway. The ceiling was irksomely low, with no windows in sight. And there were flies, intruding upon every inch of airspace within the already ridiculously cramped building. I was horrendously disgusted.

Everything was gray, gray and depressing, just like the aura that exuded from Meredith Bowling, my third roommate.

I like to fancy myself with a bit of a sixth sense. It often aids me a considerable amount when it comes to the analytical nature of chess and the necessity to understand and utilize your opponent’s weaknesses. With this ability, I am able to easily discern people’s auras in a way that amazes modern scientists. This is how I knew of Meredith’s extreme sadness before she even opened her tiny, cracked, scrunched up mouth.

Meredith’s room was revolting. She hadn’t left in ages, and that was horrendously obvious. The floor was practically rotting out from underneath her, caving from the excrements of her bowels that she obviously could not keep contained.

Apparently, my apparent disgust was transcribed on my face, as Meredith sighed sadly when she saw my face in the doorway. 

“I lost my corkscrew,” she moaned. 

The skin of her face was falling, succumbing to gravity and rot. Obviously, she had not utilized moisturizer at any point in her lifetime. 

I kept walking. The journey took forever, despite the fact that there were only five inhabitants of this part of the complex and the rooms were suffocatingly small.

The door on my left squeaked. I reached out with a single finger, my index finger, and nudged it along its path.

There was a rocking chair inside, scraping cacophonously on the floor with each rock. Within the chair, bones. Not like the dog bones you would find at your local pet shop, oh no. Not milky white or smooth, but horribly scratched, rotted, and, excuse my French, shit brown. 

“That’s Edith,” Stacey whispered from directly behind my ear. 

I whirled around and promptly exited the building.

I simply wanted to be alone and in my own room at this point, but this goal was practically unattainable when one has housemates. They are the most undesirable possession, but nonetheless, “nobody ever won a chess game by resigning.” That’s from chess grandmaster, Savielly Tartakower. 

I walked out of the complex, longing to perform a mental recalibration of my thoughts and to allow my embalming fluids to circulate. As the gates closed behind me, I took a moment to reflect on the entrance sign: St. Louis Cemetery. My new, unfortunate home.