The Floormate

“I get asked that a lot,” he answered. He tapped at the stone’s surface. He lifted it up. “As long as the body is still warm, I’ll screw it.” He lunged at me.

I ducked under his swing.

I went tumbling like Rambo over the jungle underbrush to his rock collection. It was only a stone’s throw away. Good thing, too. I hurled a side-arm pitch that cracked his forehead. He fell sideways and was laid unconscious. In that moment, I got the rock polishing habit. I also wondered — so what if I’d frozen up? An internal voice said: You would’ve been anally abused.

Later, my body shook in horror. I crouched in the hallway, musing over my father’s words — why did I kick it with the mental case? Why do I hang out with toxic individuals? Campus police arrived and hauled trash bags down the hall soaked in sugar. The dead bodies were four other college students with split skulls, dried semen, and old blood found on their corpses. I was fucking glad not to be among them.

“Excuse me,” someone said to a policeman. “Why’d he coat them with the sugar?”

“Ants,” the officer said. “Once drowned, he’d feed them to his spider.”





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