Roommate Sickness

“Pierce.” I rap on the door sharply, hearing a clatter from within. “Come on, man! I really gotta go, and you’ve been in there for, like, twenty minutes.” There is a brief silence from beyond the bathroom door, with its peeling white paint and unnatural shadows around the edges (seriously, don’t ask. This apartment complex is haunted or something). 

“Almost done, Bryan,” I hear Pierce shoot back. I don’t know what he’s doing in there, but it’s been ages. Finally, Pierce opens the door with a sheepish grin. As he shuffles past me, I find myself wondering if that was the same sweater he had been wearing this morning -- just a black turtleneck. I watch him retreat down the hall before shaking myself to reality. I need to pee.

I do my business quickly (way faster than Pierce) and wash my hands, only to find that the room is lacking a hand towel once again. I sigh, wipe my wet hands on my jeans, and exit the bathroom. I pass through the hall, averting my gaze from the strange pictures Pierce insists on hanging next to mine -- we agreed to hang three pictures each, but his are all blurry dark splotches -- and immediately stumble upon entering the living room.

Pierce is seated on the couch, apparently doing homework, and the room is a complete disaster. I had known it was messy, but I am suddenly hit with how horrifically disgusting our living room is. Candy wrappers, soda cans, and socks decorate the floor like a windfall from a hurricane, clustered beside the furniture. The rug is streaked with a stain of ruddy brown something, and the wood is scuffed in multiple places. Everything in the room is just slightly askew as if we were living in a room decorated by some eldritch creature.

“Pierce!” I scold. “First the hand towel -- and don’t even try to lie, I’ve seen your collection -- and now we’re living in a garbage heap?”

Pierce only gives me a look, a shrug, and lifts his homework to indicate that he’s busy.

“Help me clean up,” I put a hand on his homework, “and I’ll buy us pizza tonight.” Pierce meets my eyes with his honey brown ones, analyzing my earnest expression. At least, I hope it looks earnest. I really don’t want to have to buy pizza tonight, because Pierce eats like three entire pizzas all by himself. I’m not planning on buying pizza.

Pierce stands, setting his homework on the couch, and smiles, “Sounds wonderful. You get that half and I will take this one?” He gestures to indicate which halves of the room we’d be cleaning.

I nod. That’s one thing I like about Pierce; he’s always willing to take the messier side or the bigger hit as long as he’s not the only one doing something. He really is a good roommate, despite his flaws. He even gave up his scented candles for me because the smells gave me headaches.

I start to clean, silently running over my schedule in my head. Just a few classes and then I’d need to grab my books from the library, get groceries, and do some laundry. I pick up a tangle of sticky Snickers wrappers with a grimace and toss them in the trash. When I turn to look at Pierce’s progress, I am pleasantly surprised and vaguely off-put.

Pierce’s side of the room is completely clean. It’s only been five minutes, but there’s not a single wrapper, article of clothing, or crushed can in sight. The stain on the rug has disappeared up to a point, and even the scuffs on the floor have vanished. The furniture is still askew, but the room is otherwise perfect.

“How do you do it?” I mutter, glaring at the clear line where my side starts. “That was so fast!”

“Magic.” Pierce brushes off my question with a wave of his hand, and I see his gray eyes twinkle with mischief. “But I’ll complete your side for you if you’d like.” He’s got a secret I don’t know about, for sure. Maybe he’s just shoving his mess onto my side -- but then why would he offer to clean my side, too? I know I look confused. His thin lips curl into a smirk and he wiggles his fingers mockingly, black-painted nails shining in the dim light from the fixture above.

“Alright, sure,” I scoff. “You have fun with your magic, I’ll have fun with my breakfast.” I rummage through the cupboards until I find a nearly empty box of Pop-Tarts and take the last one. After opening the foil wrapping, I gnaw on the corner, watching Pierce clean. I can’t seem to focus on Pierce. My vision blurs for a second and a wave of nausea overtakes me, and I lose my previously stable footing. I distantly register a cacophony of sounds and my body hitting the floor.

I open my eyes to see Pierce standing over me, devouring the Pop-Tart I had been eating. I am lying on the kitchen floor, Pierce’s dusty brown hair shadowing my view of the light, and I am shivering. I find myself too lightheaded to ask for my Pop-Tart back (the insult!) or even to sit up.

“Pierce?” My voice is a little raspy, like I had swallowed something wrong, and I frown.

“Bryan!” He sounds relieved. “I’m so glad you are okay! I thought perhaps you were dying.”

“Dying?” I croak. “Wow, man, way to overreact. Also, that’s my Pop-Tart.” There it is. The weakest defense of my food I’ve ever managed.

He looks at the Pop-Tart in his hand with surprise, as if he hadn’t even known he’d been holding it. He glances back at me with those sparkling blue eyes and replies mysteriously, “Not anymore. You dropped it on the floor.” He pauses to read my expression of concern and distaste. “Not to worry, Bryan. I followed the five-second rule.”

“Uh-huh,” I raise an eyebrow. “Can I have it back?”

“After it fell on the floor? Isn’t it considered refuse now?” Pierce seems genuinely confused for a moment before I see his face break into a wicked grin. “No.”

“I hate you,” I groan, but I am still unable to get up. “Pierce, can I get a little help?”

“What sort of help?” he asks suspiciously, eyeing my prone form.

“I just need to get over to the couch.”

“Oh, well in that case…” Pierce bends down and as he does, another pulsing wave of nausea overtakes me, forcing me to shut my eyes. I nearly pass out again but am brought back to awareness by the soft comfort of the old couch cushions beneath me. I blink away the dizziness to see Pierce smiling worriedly.

“Are you sure you are okay, little friend?” Pierce’s voice sounds distant in my ears, sort of monotone. I shudder and try to clear my head. What is wrong with me today?

“Yeah,” I reply weakly. “Must be sick or something. Just, uh, go ahead and leave me here for now. Get ready for class and I’ll join you once I feel better.” My brain is muddy and it takes me far too long to understand what I am even saying. My ears heat up from my frustration and I fight to stay present.

“Just call for me if you need anything at all,” Pierce reassures, and my agitation starts to subside.

“Thanks, Pierce,” I mumble, squishing my face into the armrest of the couch to stifle the fogginess in my head. 

I hear him move away and slowly, after what seems like an eternity, my nausea starts to subside. I am able to look around, and I am once again pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the room. Pierce must have finished cleaning while I was out.

I glance over to the kitchen and dizziness crashes into me again, over and over, like waves on a rocky shore. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray it will pass quickly, because if it doesn’t I might end up making a mess of the newly pristine room. As it fades a little, I see Pierce waving to me from the kitchen island.

“I am about to leave for class,” he informs me, shoving a notebook into his backpack. “You can stay here, perhaps, if you are not feeling much better.”

I want to say I’m feeling okay, I want to get up and get ready for class (mostly because Professor Knightson will kill me if I miss another day of Biology), but I can barely squeak out a “sounds good” before having to close my eyes again. The front door creaks open -- Pierce leaving -- and I turn my head enough to catch a glimpse of the entryway.

“Farewell, Bryan friend,” Pierce calls as I squint through the nausea. “I will see you after class.”

“Bye.” My tongue feels like lead in my mouth, heavy and unwieldy. Pierce swings the door open wide, and as he steps from the shadow of our apartment to the brilliance of the sunlight outside, my vision snaps into total clarity.

In perfect focus, I see Pierce.

His skin is a rough shade of maroon, and three neon eyes rest in his face, just above a wide, grinning mouth. A pronged tail that is the same shade as his skin snaps behind him, and two sets of magnificent black horns spiral up from his forehead and skull. His ears are long and pointed, and he is no longer clothed in anything traditional or remotely human-like. His arms are laced with deep black scars, most still dripping inky blood, and his hands have too many fingers. He floats off the ground, bobbing up and down like a cartoon character.

I only have one thing to say.

“I like your new set of horns.”

Pierce grins back at me cheerfully and closes the door as the nausea returns. I have the strangest feeling that I’d already known Pierce was an eldritch being, that this has happened before. But as I try to recall Pierce’s monstrous face, I find it slipping away.

Strange.

Maybe one day, I’d figure out his secret.