My roommate stopped talking to me.
I couldn’t understand why she acted that nastily. Three weeks ago, I told her to clean up her mess. Then I drove to the airport to pick up Daddy. He was visiting me for the first time. I was excited to show him that I was a responsible young woman, who could keep a place on her own.
I opened the door and led Daddy into my living room. My roommate’s shit-stained thong greeted us from the arm of my red leather sofa. I was proud of Daddy for pretending he hadn’t seen the crusty undies.
I took Daddy to his hotel, and went back home to talk to my roommate.
“Karoline,” I said to her, “if I find your nasty crap on my sofa again, I’ll burn it.”
She glared at me for a second, but soon said, “Sorry, Darlene. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
I believed her; after all, she only subleased a bedroom from me. I was being extra nice by letting her use my living room and kitchen.
Today, Karoline was sleeping on my sofa when I got home from school. I watched her for thirty minutes. Her muddy sneakers were browning my white carpet. There was also a halo of sweat oozing from Karoline onto the leather.
I grabbed her sneakers, walked outside, and sat on the hood of my car. I breathed in and out. I got the gas can I kept in the trunk of my car. I set it next to the sneakers. I stared at the gas and the shoes for a while. “You might be innocent,” I told them.
I picked up the sneakers and headed back to the apartment. I left them by the door and walked into my home. I unscrewed the metal can and doused Karoline from head to toe.
She stirred and coughed when some of the gas went into her nose. Her eyes opened and I saw the near birth of a scream.
I smacked her on the side of the head with the half empty can. She collapsed. I whacked her again just to be sure.
I walked to the kitchen to disconnect the smoke detector. I grabbed the fire extinguisher and a box of matches.
Karoline was kneeling on the sofa when I walked back into the living room. I looked at her and waited. She stared at me wild-eyed, but said nothing. Not a damn thing.
“You are abusive,” I said, and slammed the fire extinguisher against her right temple. Karoline fell on the sofa; her head hanging off the back.
I lit her up.
The fire spread fast. The flames followed the blood and gas that trickled out of Karoline’s nose, and the carpet started to burn.
I extinguished Karoline, the sofa and the carpet. The sofa could not be saved. “Now I’ll need to move out,” I said to Karoline.
She still said nothing. The insensitive bitch just lay in a heap of sizzling flesh, not saying a damn word about having ruined my sofa, my carpet, and Daddy’s visit.
the story needed some shoes
that made sense to Darlene’s fiery ways…
I borrowed some from here