Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - My Roommate Is Going to Kill Me if I Don't Get Him First

Episode Date: October 3, 2025

A simmering roommate feud over dirty dishes and congealed cereal spirals into paranoia, madness, and murder in this claustrophobic apartment horror where even breakfast becomes a battle for survival. Love coffee? Get yourself a fresh bag of NoSleep Coffee here: ⁠⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠ – get 20% off using promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! Stay spooky! :) Don’t like ads? Listen ad-free, anytime when you join Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠ Author: Jake Bible Check out the author's latest release: Blood Cruise! https://jakebible.com/novels/blood-cruise/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

A bowl of cereal should not be rage-inducing. It just shouldn't. Serial is meant to be fun. A whimsical way to start the day. A blast of sugar that hits the bloodstream and sends tingles through the body. Bright colors like neon pink and traffic cone orange that excite the eyes. Adventurous flavors based on ice cream and cookies and candy. Sometimes, even little prizes are at the bottom of the box.

Cereal should make you smile in the morning. unless your roommate loves that pretentious cousin of granola. Musley. What the fuck even is Musley? Fucking oats and some dried dates? That's not how you start a day. That's how you punish yourself for your transgressions. It's the flagellation of breakfast foods.

You are beating your stomach until it bleeds. So, as I stare at the half-eaten bowl that sits on the coffee table, I have to wonder whether or not my roommate is possessed. Seriously. Only a demon from hell would intentionally ingest such crap. And only a demon from hell would then leave a half-eaten bowl sitting on the coffee table all day long. Oh, don't get me wrong. I saw it this morning when I left for work.

Mickey had already been gone an hour since he works all kinds of odd shifts. But I wasn't going to pick it up. No. I make my toast and eggs and wash my pan and plate every single morning. I saved the fun cereal for the weekends. But Mickey? Lately, he just leaves his bowls and cups and plates all over the apartment. I'd have to say, 90% of the time, the bowls and cups and plates sit for at least a day,

letting all that leftover food cake on good and hard. And who asked to scrape it all off? This guy. Me, I do. Mickey! I shout. My eyes glued to the nasty bowl of soggy oats and partially dissolved dates that sit in a sea of Congealed milk.

Mickey, get your ass out here. I hear some reply from his room, but I don't catch the words. Five minutes pass. Ten minutes pass. God damn it, Mickey! I roar. Get your ass out here. There's a banging from below.

Mrs. Crenshaw and her broom. I swear, if I fart too loud, she gets that broom out and starts going to town on her ceiling, which is our floor. Bang, bang! Bang! I shout and stop my foot several times. She bangs back harder. I stomp louder.

This back and forth continues until I see Mickey come sauntering out of his room and a pair of sweats and a ratty t-shirt. But? He mumbles, rubbing his eyes. I was sleeping, man. It's seven in the evening, I reply. No one sleeps at seven in the evening. People who have to get up and be at work at four in the morning do. He's still rubbing his eyes.

The least he can do is look at me. Put those hands down and look at me in the damn face. Coward. What's this? I asked, pointing at the bowl of Musley. Breakfast? He replies and frowns. Sorry.

I thought I'd cleaned it up. Well, it's pretty obvious you didn't. Snap. And Mickey takes a step back. Jesus, Dean. Chill. It's just a bowl of cereal. That is not fucking cereal.

That is mues. Fucking Musley. Yeah, so? My mom buys it and sends me a bag every month. It's not like it's my favorite. I eat it because I have it. You only eat half, you mean? Half.

Then you leave the rest sitting out on the coffee table, on the dining table. We have a dining table? The card table in the dining room? That's a dining room? Shut up and stop interrupting me. I'm just asking, man. Where was I? Yelling at me over Musley my mom sends me.

Yes, you leave your food out to rot, and it's not acceptable. I do? Yes, all the time. Christ, man. Bring it down a notch. I will when you start cleaning up after yourself. Okay, okay. Sorry.

I honestly didn't know I was doing it. I'll pay attention more. Food left out attracts pests. attracts pests, vermin, like rats and mice, roaches. Do you know how hard it is to get rid of roaches, Mickey? Do you? I'm guessing pretty hard, since you're all worked up about it. Extremely hard, and expensive. We can just tell the management company to fumigate. I'll talk to the super. They won't spend a dime if we're at fault. A jab a finger in his direction. And by we, I mean you. Yeah. Again.

Do you, Mickey? Do you get it? I said I do. So I do. I don't believe him. He's just telling me what I want to hear, so I'll leave him alone. Oh, no, no, no. I'm not letting him wriggle out of this one. No, sir. Can I go back to bed now? He asks in a tone that makes me want to slap him.

Do whatever you want. I'm not your mother. You sure seem like you want to be. Just go back to bed. go back to bed? Great. I will. Night Dean. He turns and shuffles back down the hall to his bedroom. Mickey! I roar. The banging from below starts up again. I stop to match it. Fuck off, Mrs. Crunch-Up! Mickey is leaning against the wall, watching me. You done? He asks. I point at the goddamn bowl of Musley. I don't know. Are you done?

I was going to clean it up in the morning. Or, and here's a crazy idea, you clean it up now. Fine. He shuffles back, picks up the bowl and takes it into the kitchen. I stand right where I am and listen. I hear a bowl being set in the sink, the clatter of a spoon, the nothing. Night, Mickey says as he walks out of the kitchen. Sorry about the musely mess.

He chuckles like he said something funny. He hasn't. Did you rinse the bowl and put it in the dishwasher? I call after him as he gets to his bedroom and closes the door. I hear a faint. Good night, Dean. Then I head into the kitchen. The bowl, still half full of musely, is sitting in the sink.

You motherfucker! I growl and grab the bowl with so much force that the lip hits the edge of the kitchen sink and the dish shatters in my hand. Musely and congealed milk splatter everywhere. A shard of cheap ceramic embeds itself into the meat of my hand just below my thumb. I try to swallow my rage, but the pain makes my already boiling blood turn into a steaming vapor of hate. I bellow and thrash until I'm so exhausted from it all that I collapse onto the kitchen floor and try not to sob. Is it so hard to clean up after yourself?

The banging below starts back up, and I'm not even yelling anymore. I'm just sitting on my ass. coming down from quite a tantrum. Phew, I suppose I had a little pent-up stress. The banging continues, and I hear Mrs. Crenshaw's shrill voice shouting up through the floor. Now that I'm a little more relaxed, I should go talk to her, smooth things out.

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And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less carts go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash dns. Go to Shopify.com slash D&S. That's Shopify.com slash D&S. Hi, Mrs. Crenshaw, I say when she opens the door. I'm, I know who you are, she replies, her voice cold and sharp.

What do you want? I wanted to apologize for the noise earlier. Earlier? And by earlier, do you mean all day and night? Is that what you mean by earlier? All day and night? No, ma'am. I work all day.

So does my roommate. Is that so? Then why do I hear footsteps at all hours, huh? My roommate works odd shifts, so maybe you're hearing him get ready for work? Is that what you call it? Getting ready for work? Sounds like a gosh darn dance party up there. Well, I just wanted to apologize for the noise. We'll try to keep it down.

I wouldn't have to deal with this if the management company had let me move upstairs when I asked to. But no, they let two hooligans move in instead. I don't know if I'd call us who. hooligans. Mickey is a bit messy and can be frustrating. Like tonight, we had a roommate fight. They happen. I'll make sure we work things out more quietly from now on. You certainly will, but I promise you I will get the management company involved. Well, we don't want that. I laugh. She doesn't. Okay, Mrs. Crenshaw, you have a good night. Sorry again for the noise. You don't deserve the upstairs apartment.

She slams the door in my face, and I stand there for a few. seconds. Get away from my door. I'm calling the police. She shouts from the other side of her door. Then I see a shadow passed by the people. Sorry, Mrs. Crenshaw, I say and wave at the people. Have a great evening. October is here, and so is something new from No Sleep Coffee. Our Pumpkin Spice Roast, Dark, bold, and layered with pumpkins, cinnamon, and nutmeg. It's made for late nights and the Halloween season. Whether you're carving pumpkins, watching scary movies, or or listening to Dr. No Sleep, this coffee sets the tone. Get the new Pumpkin Spice Coffee now for a limited time only at NOSleepcoffee.com.

That's NOSleepcoffee.com. Now back to the story. When Mickey gets home from work, I'm sitting on a chair in the living room, facing the front door. Oh, uh, hey, Dean, Mickey says, tossing his keys at the dish we keep on the side table. They miss and clatter to the floor. Then he strips off his coat and throws it at the coat rack, missing with that too. What's up? Why are you sitting there like that? He turns and looks at the door. Are you expecting someone? Yes, Mickey. I am. And that someone is you.

I pointed the plate on the coffee table. The plate with a quarter of a tuna sandwich, half a pickle, and a pile of soggy potato chips. Decided to come back home for lunch, did you? I asked, and cross my arms. over my chest because I have won this open and shut case. What? No. I just worked a 12-hour shift, Dean, plus an hour for lunch, which I ate in my truck. I can't get home and back to work in an hour. Add in the hour commute home, and I've been gone from the apartment for nearly 16 hours. Then why has this plate here? His answer troubles me, but I know, Mickey. He's probably lying because he doesn't want me yelling at him again. I don't need tuna fish, Mickey. You know that.

Okay, I guess I knew that. Which means that's not my sandwich. So whose sandwich is it? I don't know. Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. Who are you trying to fool? No one? Besides.

Listen, man. Work was exhausting. I called in some DoorDash and it should be here soon. I'm going to take a shower, eat my dinner, and go to bed. I don't have to be at work until nine tomorrow, so I plan on sleeping as much as possible. Do you think we can do this whole roommate war another time? I just don't have it in me right now. Oh, sure. Of course, Mickey. We'll do this another time.

I don't want to get in the way of your precious shower and dinner and sleep. I mean, that's a lot to deal with. I stand up and grab the plate, then shove it at him. The tuna sandwich nearly slides off. You have a lot on your plate right now. cute man yawns and stretches you need to relax dean

you're gonna snap one day and I really hope I'm not around to see it well you probably won't be if you keep leaving your plates out what does that mean it means maybe I need to find another roommate the lease is in my name dude so good luck with that yes well then you should be more responsible

and clean up after your I march into the kitchen and toss the contents of the plate into the trash. If DoorDash shows up, will you bring it inside so no one snags it from the hall? Mickey shouts as he retreats to his bedroom. And that wasn't my sandwich! DoorDash, I mumbled. Oh, I'll get your DoorDash, you lazy slob. I stand at the front door and wait while I hear the shower start running from down the hall.

Mickey is still getting clean when there's a knock. I fling the door open wide. Holy shit! The driver says. His phone in his hand as he takes a picture of the bag he's left on the ground. You scared the shit out of me, dude!

Sorry. I say and snatch up the bag and slam the door. And what do we have here? I read the receipt. A reuben and fries? Well, that sounds delicious. I sit down in the dining room,

open the bag, pull out the food, and eat as fast as possible. When it's almost all finished, I pushed the leftovers away and get up, just as Mickey walks by the dining room on his way to the kitchen. He pauses, backtracks, and looks in at me. Then he looks at the mostly finished dinner. Dean, did you eat my door dash? he asks.

Me? No. I say I'd wipe my mouth with a napkin. It must have been the vermin. You know the vermin, right, Mickey? The mice and rats that are attracted to all the crap you leave around the place, they must have smelled your dinner and helped themselves. What the fuck, Dean? Why would you eat my food?

I worked my ass off today, and I was looking forward to that sandwich. Then I say it was delicious. You should really order it again. What? Fuck you, Dean. Fuck you! He storms into the dining room

and snatches up the leftover food and wrappers and stuffs it all into the bag it came in. He then throws the bag in my face and comes around the dining table so fast that I trip over my feet trying to back away from him. I'm sick of your shit, Dean. All you do is yell at me over shit I haven't done. That bowl of Musley?

I swear I clean that up. That tuna fish sandwich? Not mine, dude. I was at work. And now you eat food I've ordered and paid for? That's not being a shitty roommate. That's being a fucking thief. I'm the thief?

I'm the thief? You're the fucking thief. Hell the fuck am I the thief. You ate my dinner. You steal the peace for my life. You are messy chaos in a world that doesn't need any more messy chaos. Mrs. Crenshaw starts it up again, and the banging echoes up through the floor. Mickey stumps.

Knock it off, you old bag! Or I swear to God I'll come down there and shove that broom down your fucking throat. Then he pushes up in my face so close that I can smell the moisturizer he uses. And you, Dean, you're going to knock it off too. I don't know what fucked up game you're playing, but it ends now. Or else? He flicks me on the nose, then storms back out of the dining room. Or else what?

I shout as Mrs. Crenshaw increases her protestations. Huh, Mickey? Or else what? That was a threat. A 100% threat. I can't let that slide. Oh, no, I can't let that slide at all. No one threatens me.

Ever. There's a floorboard in our hallway that creaks, but only when you step on it just outside my bedroom. I've asked the management agency to fix it, but all they do is pass the message on to the actual owner of the building, and nothing ever gets done. I've even gone straight to the building's super. He was useless, told me to contact the management agency since it's neither an emergency nor a needed repair. So, when I hear that floorboard creek, you know I come awake instantly. What is Mickey up to? I checked my phone. It's two in the morning. He doesn't have to work early. So there's absolutely no reason for him to be walking around our apartment,

stepping on creaky boards. I wait, I listen, I wait some more. I don't know when, but at some point I drift back off to sleep. When I wake up, it's not the creaky floorboard that brings me around. No, it's that feeling you get when you know for certain you're no longer alone in your room. Mickey? I mumble as I blink a few times, trying to make out the shape standing in my doorway. What are you doing?

The shape stands there for only a couple of seconds, then slowly closes my door. I think I hear a... Sorry. But I'm not sure. Mickey? He doesn't respond. This is not good.

First, he threatens me, and now he's watching me sleep? I should go pull him out of his bed and give him the beat down that he deserves. Not that I'm a violent person. I'm not. I consider myself fairly calm, especially when dealing with adversities. such as a lazy, horrible, messy, threatening roommate.

It takes a lot to push my buttons, that's for sure. So, being the calm and mature person in the apartment, I lock my bedroom door and decide I'll confront Mickey in the morning. We'll be up about the same time anyway. With my bedroom secure, I slip back into bed and hope to get back to sleep. Apparently, I have no problem, because the next thing I know, Mickey is pounding on my door and shouting for me to get up.

I race out of bed and yanked my door open, except it doesn't open because I locked it. Instead, I yank and nearly pull my arm out of its socket. D-D! You asshole! This shit isn't funny! Unlocking the door, I finally get it open and find Mickey standing there, fuming. He grabs for me, and I swat his hand away as I back up into my room. Don't you put your hands on me? I shriek.

The words are barely out of my mouth before Mrs. Crenshaw starts up with her broom and her shouting. Bang, bang, bang! Bang, bang, bang, shout. What the fuck is this shit? Why did you do this? Mickey yells. I have no idea what he's talking about until I look down at his feet and they're covered in.

Is that food? What is that? I ask. You know what it is! He shakes his feet and bits of sauce and pasta and gravy and mashed potatoes fly everywhere. Stop that! Stop that right now! Mrs. Crenshaw increases her banging,

and it's like rapid fire gunshots coming up from below. I'm really sick of all your bullying, Mickey says. All you do is yell at me. For what? Leaving a bowl or a plate out every once in a while? It's a lot more frequent than every once in a while. I snarl. Try every damn day.

That's just not true, Dean. I clean up after myself all the time. So there's no reason to be such an asshole. And there's sure as fuck no reason to waste all that food to prove a point. He stalks off, and I let him, hoping for some distance from his violent outrage. But then he returns with an armful of dishes. Cups and saucers and bowls and plates and mugs and glasses. I see what he's about to do and shout,

Don't you dare! He either doesn't hear me or he doesn't care. I believe it's the latter because a wicked, nasty grin spreads across his face as he opens his arms and lets the mess fall into my bedroom. Cups and saucers and bowls and plates and mugs and glasses spill and shatter and crack and make the most horrendous mess. You son of a bitch!

I scream in lunch. for him, but the mess gets in my way, and I slip on some old oatmeal. As I fall backward, I shout, I'll kill you for this. Not if I don't kill you first, you psychotic fuck. He kicks at the pile, making sure everything is now in my room, then reaches in and grabs my doorknob, slamming my bedroom door closed before I can get back to my feet and give him what's coming to him. Mrs. Crenshaw doesn't relent. As I get up and storm out of my room, she just keeps that banging going, like as Staccato scored the anger and rage that fill me. I stop a few times to show her the two can play this game.

But I don't put much effort into the stops. No, no, no, I have a roommate to deal with. Mickey! I yell. Get your ass out here now! His room has just passed the shared bathroom. Maybe ten steps or so? Oh, I crossed those ten steps in the blink of an eye.

Although, as I step in the gunk that's on the floor in front of his bedroom, I wish I had gone a little slower, so I could have seen the mess before stepping in it. What an asshole! fake some mess so he can blame it on me? I know what he's doing. He's trying to forge a case against me so he can kick me out. Yeah, sure, his name is on the lease, but my name is on the addendum. He has to have just cause in order to evict me. That's not just part of the addendum, but it's a state law and a city ordinance. Or it's only one of those. I'm not sure. But I do know that I'm protected from his harassment and insanity. He cannot toss me out onto the street. That can't

happen. His door is flung open, and he pushes past me. Move, asshole, he says, hitting me hard with his shoulder. How dare you? I shout and whirl on him. I grab his arm, and he yanks it free for my grasp. You do not assault me and think you can get away with it. This is Crenshaw. Mickey shouts from the living room as he gathers his things for work. Where do you think you're going? I yell, chasing after him. To work, you fucking maniac. You aren't going anywhere until you clean this shit up. I try to grab him again, and the slap comes so fast that I feel the pain before I even realize what's happened. You, you, you hit me!

Damn right, I hit you. Touch me again, and it'll be a lot worse. I'm stunned and have no words. Mrs. Crenshaw continues her broom offensive. Mickey, keys and wallet in hand, turns on me, and I slink back. His eyes are filled with murder. My murder. I'll be home around seven. I want you gone before then.

Gone? Close your mouth, Dean. You look like a dying fish. And yes, gone. This isn't working. You don't have cause. You filed a bunch of dirty dishes in front of my door. I stepped in them when I got up to shower. Not only is that fucking nuts behavior, but it wasted half a week's worth of leftovers. I want you fucking gone. He's already at the front door before I can even think of anything to say. It's the slam that shakes me free from my shock and fear. He's going to kill me. I whispered to myself. Then my phone alarm goes off, and I have to force myself to get ready for work.

I'm hoping he'll calm down before I see him next. I can't afford to move. Even if I could, the market right now is awful. Where would I even go? When I get back to my room, I see the huge mess I still have to clean up. This is going to be a long day. Mickey ignores my texts. I have sent one to him every hour, on the hour.

No response. Childish. when I step into our apartment buildings lobby. The latest text has been delivered, just like the rest. Yet there's still no answer. Dane? Can I have a word? The building super asks me, as I make my way to the small, cramped, probably not up to code elevator.

Or they call it an elevator. It's really more like an old cage. I suppose, I say, halfway in and halfway out of the elevator, so he knows that this will be a short conversation. I've had quite a day, and I like to go upstairs and roll. relax for the evening. Right. Sure, he says and rubs his face. So, there have been some complaints about the noise. I bet there have. With the way Mickey has been behaving, there we're bound to be.

Yeah, I don't know nothing about Mickey, but folks have said they've heard your voice loud and clear. Everything all right between you two? You ask that like we're in a relationship, which we are not. No, I didn't mean that. I just wanted to make it. sure he rubs his face again we've had incidents here before and I'm trying to avoid that from happening again incidents well like the woman who had Mrs. Crenshaw's apartment before her she went a little cuckoo kept saying someone was stealing her mail and leaving dead mice in her mailbox instead I couldn't confirm any of it because that's not my business those mailboxes are property of the United States

Postal Service I couldn't open one even if I wanted to. Rividing. Yeah? Well, this might interest you. The last draw was when she called me screaming that someone had smeared feces all over her front door. When I came up to check, she wasn't kidding. From the horrid smell, it was definitely human. If this is supposed to impress me, it's not. All I hear is the fact that you can't keep the residents here safe from harassment. Except she wasn't being harassed. She was doing it all to herself. When I went inside her apartment to fill a bucket with water so I could get it all cleaned up,

the hot water wasn't working in her kitchen sink. So, I opened the cabinet below to make sure it was turned on. That's when I found the mail. He coughs and gags a little, then takes a deep breath. Are you going to be all right? I ask him, not really caring whether he is or not. I also found soiled diapers. He swallows hard.

She crapped in the diapers and used that to make the mess on her own front door. Yes, that does sound crazy. Thanks for the story. What I'm saying is, I don't need any more crap to clean up, Dean. You and Mickey need to sort things out, or I'm going to have to get the management company involved. Oh, don't you worry, it'll all be sorted tonight. I step all the way under the elevator. Anything else?

He sighs and shakes his head. So I close the elevator grate and press the button for the third floor. On the ride up, I practice what I'll say to Mickey. There is no way he's getting rid of me. Not after everything he's done. Lease or no lease, he's the one who has to go. When I get to the apartment, I realize I don't have my keys. I must have left them in the car with my work bag.

No problem. I use the spare we keep under the welcome mat. Except there's no spare. I lift the mat all the way up and even shake it. just in case the key is stuck to the bottom. Still no key. Damn it! Back down to the lobby I go. But before I head to the garage, I stop at the Super's office and knock loudly. Do you have our spare key? I ask him.

What? No. Why would I have your spare key? I have a master that opens every door. I don't need your spare. Well, it's missing. I'm getting my keys for my car, but I'm going to need the locks changed immediately. A missing key is a problem. Yeah, the management company won't authorize that, because you aren't supposed to make copies. It was a spare. Spares are copies.

That's ridiculous, he shrugs. Fine. But if anything happens to me because of that missing key, then you'll be to blame. Oh, well, he says and closes the door in my face. I fetch my keys from the car. I don't know how I didn't notice I didn't have my keys in the first place. I blame these new cars with the push-button ignition.

Keys are almost superfluous these days, except for when you need to get into your apartment. I bet Mickey took the spare, so he wouldn't have to worry about it if he tried to kick me out. Jokes on him, though, because I am not going anywhere. Back at my front door, I unlocked the knob and deadbolt and let myself in. Or try to. The door is blocked by something.

I shove hard, and the door gives enough for me to squeeze through. I gasp at what I see. All of my stuff has been pulled out of my room and piled up in front of the door. My clothes, my bedding, most of my books and shoes, and even some of the posters from my bedroom walls. You bastard! I yell. You rotten, son of a bitch! This won't do.

This won't do at all. I pick up an armful of stuff, head to my bedroom, and freeze. It looks like the entire contents of the refrigerator have been dumped onto my bedroom floor. milk, eggs, cold cuts, vegetables, juice, and the few leftovers that Mickey didn't use to try to frame me. All of it is in the center, sitting there in a rotten, mushy pile. Dean! Mickey shouts from the front door. What the hell is all this shit?

Oh, no, he doesn't. He is not going to gaslight me into leaving. I am through with his crap. Dean, where are you? I look around my room and find what I need. Grabbing the lacrosse stick I kept for my college days, I stomp down the hall and find him standing in the living room. What the hell is wrong with you?

He asks, just before I wallop him across the face with the stick. His head rocks to the side, and he goes down to one knee. Fuck, dude! He looks up at me, and I see a trickle of blood running down his face from a cut on his cheekbone. You fucking piece of... He starts to stand, but I don't let him. No way I'll let him get the upper hand here. If Mickey gets to his feet, he'll kill me.

I know he will. So I hit him again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again. It's not until I hear Mrs. Crenshaw banging away that I finally stopped. And from the look of Mickey's head, I maybe should have stopped a few hits ago. Oh no, I whisper. Then I shout. What have I done? Mrs. Crenshaw's banging stops. Oh, God, did she hear it all?

What if she did? It's not like I wanted to kill him. I just needed him to not kill me. It was self-defense. Dropping the lacrosse stick, I get down on my hands and knees and try to push a little of the splattered brain back inside Mickey's skull. It'll be all right. I say to myself in a high, shrill voice,

it's all going to be fine, just fine. Laughter. I hear laughter from somewhere. Still down on my hands and knees, I press my ear to the floor. Is Mrs. Crenshaw laughing? There's a loud thumping at the front door. Police, open up. Police? How did the police get here so fast?

I mean, I only just bashed in Mickey's head. Someone would have had to call them as soon as Mickey got home, or even sooner. Oh, God, what have I done? I mutter as rough hands grab me and lift me to my feet. My arms are pulled behind my back, and cuffs are locked around my wrists as my rights are red to me. Jesus, Tommy, look at what the fucking guy did, will you? One of the officers says, fucking psycho, the other officer says.

But it's not my fault, I say as they march me out of the apartment. He was going to kill me. But was he? A thought begins to form. He argued over and over that he wasn't leaving food dishes around the apartment. He even accused me of creating that pile in front of his door, which I most certainly did not do. I'm led out into the hallway, and as I step over the welcome mat, I realize that I have no idea how long that spare key has been missing.

Anyone could have it. Like someone who thinks we don't deserve the apartment. Listen, I've been framed. I plead to the officers. Yes, I may have crushed my roommate's skull, but it wasn't my fault. Shut up. One officer says. But you have to listen to me.

Shut the fuck up. He repeats and gives a hard, painful tug on my arms. Which part of remains silent do you not get, asshole? You just made your life so much worse. The other officer says. Because that sure is. This shit sounded like a confession to me. Me too, the first officer says.

When the elevator door is pushed open, things begin to click into place. I am actually not surprised to see Mrs. Crenshaw standing next to the super. Now, this is absolutely horrible I know. She says to him as I am led through the lobby. But about how long will it take for that apartment to be available? She gives me a huge grin. I sure can't wait to live on the top floor, where I don't have to listen to inconsiderate stumping all day. and all night long?

Yeah, it'll be a bit, Mrs. Crenshaw, the Super says. But you're first on the list, so don't worry. First on the list? How nice. Her smile slips from her face and is replaced by a sneer. For me at least. Then I'm outside and being led to a squad car while paramedics rush inside the building. As I'm turned around, so they can shove me inside the car ass first while my head is pushed down.

I see Mrs. Crenshaw standing at the line. standing at the lobby windows, still sneering at me. Then she looks around, sees no one watching, and flips me off. Well, son of a bitch, did she do all this? No, no, an old lady wouldn't be able to think this all up. I mean, even if she did dirty dishes and leave them around the apartment, or sneak in at night and piled that mess outside Mickey's room, how could she know what would happen?

How could she know I'd snap? It's not like I have a temper or a short fuseer. anything. I'm normally a very calm and reasonable guy after all. Everyone can see that.