My hand begins to move faster over the wall searching for the switch, the panic in me rising again. I find it and bring my hand up fast, the familiar “click” sound bathing the room in yellow light. He screams as if he is being doused in Holy Water.
I look over at the bed, where he is writhing and screaming. What I see in front of me is a shriveled old man with yellow skin. He is wearing a filthy stained t-shirt. His hair is short and standing up in all directions. His fingernails are long and broken and he is lying in his own filth.
What really shocks me is that one of his legs is black and swollen, and I swear I can see the bone. The putrid smell is overpowering and I can feel the room spinning. “Oh my god, you need a doctor,” I mumble. “What I need is some fucking water, some fucking quiet, and for you to turn off the fucking lights and to get the fuck out of my house!” he hisses at me.
I run back into the kitchen, open the fridge, find the ice, throw it into the Mason jar, and run back into the bedroom. I climb over all the garbage, come to the side of the bed and extend my hand to him. His hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls himself up to me. He reminds me of a sick bird whose claw has wrapped itself around my arm. I force myself not to scream. He grabs the jar and begins to drink the water, spilling it down the front of himself.
“I need a cigarette now,” he says, spitting water on me. “What you need is a doctor and a shower,” I shoot back at him. “You’re pretty mouthy,” he growls at me. “I am also obviously the only one who’s walked this far into your house in years,” I say, standing back up. I grab his cigarettes and light one. “Who the hell said you could smoke in my house?” he screams.
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