[ WP ] You form a pact with the monster in your closet to work together in order to get rid of your terrible roommate .

This is longer than it should be, but since I have n't actually written in years, I'mma let it happen. The beginning scene is completely unnecessary, but I just really wanted to write it. Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciate! 
 
 I stood outside my apartment, my forehead resting against the door. It had been a shitty day—maybe even the shittiest of days. After getting yelled at for refusing to refund a half-chugged gallon of milk and fifty “ Can I talk to your manager? ” “ Well, sir/ma ’ am, I am the manager. ” conversations later, all I wanted to do was get inside, curl into bed, and drink a shitton of alcohol. Instead, of course, I had to come home to *Jenny*. 
 
 I ’ m not usually a one-upper—if you ’ ve got a horrible story to tell, I usually bask in the horribleness of it with you, making incredulous noises at the proper time and prompting you to continue with a, “ Oh my god, really? ” when necessary. It ’ s nice to bitch, I get it, and I don ’ t like taking that away from people, but the one time I can not stay silent is when the topic of roommates comes up. Because Jenny—Jenny isn ’ t just the roommate from hell. I ’ d say she ran hell, but she ’ s too stupid for that. Instead, she ’ s probably one of Satan ’ s lackies—her whole purpose in life is probably *be as annoying as possible without crossing the line* because god knows what else she does in her spare time. She ’ s like a sit-com character—she works some random job and always has enough money, but never actually seems to do any of the work. Really. I ’ ve tried to figure out her routine so I ’ m off work only when she ’ s not home, but she doesn ’ t have a routine, unless sitting on the couch watching Fox News while aggressively chewing carrots and making passive-aggressive remarks counts. 
 
 My neighbor, an old Indian woman—one half of the most judgmental couple ever to live—turns the key to her apartment, and I jolt out of my thoughts, straightening as I turn toward her. 
 
 I smile as wide as I can. “ Hey! ” I point to the door and try laughing, which doesn ’ t help my effort to appear less weird. “ I was definitely going inside, y ’ know, just—just doing some breathing exercises. You know, like yoga? ” Why the *fuck* am I talking about yoga? “ Not that I think you ’ d know anything about yoga because you ’ re Indian, you know! Because, like, I know that ’ s racist— ” my hands flap around as I think, *oh my god, stop talking, please stop* “ —and I know racists are all like, ‘ I swear I ’ m not racist, ’ but I swear I ’ m not racist. Like, at all. I love India! ” 
 
 She peers at me over her glasses, mouth pressed in a line, hand still holding the key pressed into the lock. “ Hmmmm. ” The judgment in her eyes settles on my shoulders, pressing me down as I try my hardest to disappear into the door. 
 
 “ No, really, I—India is great. ” I ’ m nodding as fast as I can to let her know how much I think India is great, as if every time I bob my head, I add another unit of greatness to my opinion of India. 
 
 Her lips press together even further. “ I ’ m Pakistani. ” Her eyebrows haven ’ t moved, but they seem to be judging me, too. 
 
 I gape. “ Oh—oh my god, I ’ m so sorry, I just assumed that you were, y ’ know, Indian, because—because—. ” Maybe saying “ you look the same ” isn ’ t the best thing to say right now, so instead, I wave my hand around. “ Because, y ’ know. ” 
 
 “ I do not know. ” 
 
 I open my mouth, trying to salvage what little dignity I have left and instead probably about to set fire to it all, but she takes pity on me. 
 
 “ I do not want to continue this talk, please. ” 
 
 Well, it ’ s *something* like pity. Probably. Either way, I take it as the out it is. “ Yeah, yeah, of course—I totally agree, for sure. I ’ m sorry about, uh, all that. ” 
 
 She twitches the corners of her lips in what ’ s supposed to be a smile, maybe. It looks painful. “ It is fine. ” Her face lets me know that it ’ s not. 
 
 She opens her door and mutters something under her breath—I don ’ t want to know what—and I call after her: “ It was nice seeing you! ” My answer is the soft *click* of the door, followed by the unmistakable sound of her door chain locking into place. 
 
 I thunk my head onto my door again. “ Good job. You managed to look like a moron, a racist, *and* a headcase. ” I sigh and fumble for my keys, because I don ’ t want to wait for another neighbor to judge my life choices in the hallway outside my apartment. Time to face the music. 
 
 I enter the apartment and stop, listening for the sounds of *her*. I shut the door behind me, wincing as it creaks—the last thing I want to do is alert her to my presence. If I ’ m lucky, I ’ ll slip past her and not have to acknowledge her existence. 
 
 There ’ s nothing, though—no jack-in-the-box-esque appearance of her face. I tiptoe further in, and everything ’ s quiet. *Very* quiet. Hope bubbles within me—could it be? Could she have left the house? 
 
 Hope is foolish, I remind myself, especially when it comes to Jenny. She ’ s probably in the bathroom, or maybe hiding behind a door, waiting to pop out at me because that is exactly the type of person she is. 
 
 I make it to the kitchen unassaulted, and I ’ m about to let out a breath of relief when I see the fridge door open. My heart sinks. I knew it was too good to be true. 
 
 I lean against the door jamb and stop myself from sighing. “ Hey, Jenny. ” 
 
 The fridge jolts as if someone had just struck it and there ’ s a lot of cursing—but the voice is off. Jenny ’ s voice isn ’ t that high-pitched. 
 
 “ Jenny…? ” I push myself off the door and try to peer around the fridge door. 
 
 And stop. *What the fucking fuck*, I think calmly. 
 
 “ What the fucking fuck. ” It comes out high-pitched and strangled, which is perfectly excusable because staring back at me is a—a *thing*. A creature. A monster? What the *fuck*. 
 
 “ Um, hi, ” she—is it a she? It sounds like a she, but do monsters have genders? -- says. There ’ s a jar of peanut butter in one hand—paw? —and a half-bitten celery stick in her other. They ’ re Jenny ’ s, so at least there ’ s an upside to this whole thing. “ I, uh—I can explain? ” 
 
 “ Right. ” I nod. “ Yes, of course. ” I stumble back toward the kitchen island. I hate it because I always bump my hip into it on the way to the fridge, but right now, it ’ s the only thing holding me up. “ You can explain. ” I know I ’ m saying the words, sure, but I feel as if I ’ m watching someone else say them, because there is motherfucking *pink monster* eating *peanut butter* from *celery sticks* in my kitchen. 
 
 She shuts the fridge door, which lets me know she ’ s an *environmentally conscious* monster. “ Right. Um. ” She takes a breath. “ Hi, I ’ m Bertha. ” She still has the peanut butter and celery sticks in her hands. She ’ s small—kinda like a really, really big dog—and her eyes are huge and bug-like. Pink fur covers everything. She kinda looks like Elmo, actually, except an Elmo that ’ s been bleached and sent through the washer. 
 
 She ’ s trying to smile. *Elmo ’ s World* starts playing in my head, and I start giggling. Even I can hear how fucking deranged I sound, gasping for breath in between laughter, but I can ’ t stop. It ’ s Elmo. It ’ s fucking *Elmo*. Five year old me would ’ ve loved this. 
 
 “ Oh, dear, ” she says, and I sink to the ground, the drawer knobs digging into my back, still laughing.
