The goddamned alarm woke me up on time again. I hate that thing. Each and every morning I threaten to throw it across the room when it interrupts my dreams. I grudgingly open my eyes, stare at my wall. The sun outside is peeking through the curtains. My roommate likes that bullshit.

Speaking of my roommate, she isn't here this morning. I looked over to her side and she wasn't there. I guess she never came home from the night before. She'd better get here if she knows what's good. She stays out all night gallivanting with who knows who, and I am here lying in bed wondering if I am going to get up or not today. I wouldn't want to be her this morning. She should not leave my side. I lie listening to hear the door crack open and to hear her sneak in. Then I would scare her for sure. Only silence follows my wish and the door stays shut.

I love my bed. It isn't too soft or too hard, and I fit just right into it. The sheets are plain, nothing too fancy. The bed doesn't judge me. Nobody wants a bed that judges. Nobody wants to lie on a bed that will keep you up with guilt or get in the way of making love. Judging is better left up to someone else, like a judge.

I straggle out of bed groaning and cursing all the way. 7:17am. I just wasted fifteen minutes thinking about her and worrying about her dead ass. She always does this to me. She sneaks out in the middle of the night like I wouldn't know. Who knows what she does all day? I put on my robe and grab a towel to head to the shower. Disrobing is a bitch. I get in the shower and start to shave, trying not to cut my face this morning. I have a meeting at 9am sharp. I like my work, I make a good amount of money, and I support my dysfunctional family. I get a chance to make other people richer than me, only to reap the rewards of sports tickets. Ah, the American dream. The bitch better take Joey to soccer practice. I have no time to do so today, so when she complains of being too sick to go out, I'll tell her kids that their mother is a whore and drinks all night with strange men.

Shit, I cut myself. I turn off the water in the shower and head for the toilet paper. I angrily grab the roll, break the holder, and try to patch up my paper cut wound.

Did I just hear the door open or was it just the plastic hitting the ground?

Either way, I clothe myself with my robe and walk briskly into the hallway. I hear the bedroom door close shut. I open it to see her taking off her shoes.

"Honey why didn't you say you were home."

The bitch didn't pay me any mind. I look at her bracelet. I did not ever give her that bracelet. I grab her wrist as she flinches. Some bastard Dr. MacAfee must have. His name and her room number were right on it.

"Went to the Hospital again? What did I teach you about going to the hospital? You can only fall down the stairs so many times before they get suspicious."

I approached her just like I did the night before.

When she gives me a hard time, I give her some thoughts to contemplate. A black eye tells her to watch herself, a broken jaw to shut up, and a razor to the throat to cut her off from our little game. The rules of the game I made clear to her; she does what I say when I say it, or she gets clumsy. Why didn't she understand? I was sick of her spending the night everywhere but in my house; she went to her mother's or a hospital, or even a shelter. After fifteen years of marriage we were so distant, I felt like I had a roommate that never came home. As you can see Your Honor, she is responsible for her own death because she made me the loneliest man on our cull de sac.