Jellyfish

I like to think I don’t have much of a temper. I try to be reasonable, avoiding conflict as much as possible. But you can only push a person so far.

And my roommate just won’t stop. My ears aren’t even sensitive, but every night when she gets home I hear it, grating. She talks, loudly, for hours. No consideration for me, of course. I’m just a nerdy med student. I don’t have a boyfriend to yell at or a bestie to gossip with about waitressing. I have microbiology and psychology and study buddies.

I know what you’re thinking. Why can’t I just ask her to stop? Yeah, I’ve tried. Each time she said she would and she was quiet for a while, but it’s never lasted long.

And kicking her out? I tried that too, but no one wants to move in, and I can’t afford the apartment alone. So I’m stuck with Kaitlyn Gerards and her IQ of 50, all bleach blonde hair and perfect bright blue nails, not to mention her obnoxious nasally voice chattering away every night.

Yeah. What I said about my temper? Turns out I was wrong; I’m pissed. And I’m far past the point of caring about privacy. What could be so important, anyway?

“...and I understand, but look, Howie, I can’t... talk right now, okay? No, you know I do; I’m just tired. I had a busy day. Yeah, but I need sleep.

“I already told you, I can’t. I know she wants me to, and I’d take them, but they screw with my head. They take you away. No! Of course I don't want—

“Come on, don’t be like that. It’s not cold anymore. You’re warm, okay? My bed’s warm. No, I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry. Please. I just need rest, alright? We can talk later. Would you... would you get off my bed?”

Her bed? Isn’t she on the phone? There’s no other voice; how is Howie on her bed? My anger has been replaced by something akin to fear, and I’m frozen in place outside her door.

“Howie, please stop. I don’t want to see the water, or them. They took you away. No, I—I’m sorry, I love beaches and the ocean and... and jellyfish. Just please don’t bring them here, not after last time—please, Howie, I’ll do anything, even take the meds, I swear—”

I push the door open impulsively, my body flooded with curiosity and a disconnected sort of panic. Kaitlyn turns around abruptly, looking angry and broken and ready to tell me off, but in the end she doesn’t say a word. She has dark circles under her eyes. The nails I’d thought were perfectly trimmed and painted are mostly bitten away. Her fingers are clenched tightly around an orange medicine bottle, and her gaze flits back and forth between me and something behind her, out of my sight.

I take in her pigsty of a room, various waitressing outfits strewn everywhere. It takes a moment for it to sink in—the one detail that doesn’t make sense. I stare, suffocated by shock and a bewildering kind of shame. Kaitlyn’s bed is messy, unmade...

Empty.

She doesn’t even bother to explain.

Then again, I guess I’d already figured it out.