[ WP ] You are a demon who was chosen to blend in with humanity and collect souls . What you do n't know is you specifically were chosen because you are n't very good at being a demon and Hell did n't want to deal with you anymore . You room with a necromancer who goes by the name Dave . He is annoying .

I stare at him across the breakfast table. He was eating granola again. He chewed with his mouth open - his gaping maw and smacking lips reminding me of a barnyard animal. I tap my claw on the table and stare at him. I'm not very good with conflict, which is why I ended up here. Dave is oblivious to my hatred. He reads the news on his phone and continues slopping granola into his mouth like a cow who just learned to walk upright. 
 
 `` Huh. That's odd.'' Dave speaks without looking up from his phone. He knows I'm sitting right here. He does n't volunteer any information. He makes his barely intelligible grunts so that he puts me in the position of asking what's happening instead of him just saying what he has to say. I always tell myself I wo n't take the bait this time. I always take it. 
 
 `` What's that?'' I inwardly curse myself ever time. This only encourages him. 
 
 `` There's a...'' He pauses here to shovel another moist spoonful of soggy granola into his vacuous mouth. He chews as he speaks. I hate him so much I'm thinking of killing his parents just because they brought such a person into this world. `` There was a five car pile-up on the loop yesterday. Six dead, four injured. Think we should head down to the morgue tonight for a few spare parts?'' 
 
 I'd rather he was the one in the morgue. I want to shout at him to rot in Hell, but I do n't. `` Sure, what time?'' 
 
 He stands up with his mostly empty bowl and takes it to the sink. He puts the bowl in the sink without rinsing it. The ounce of milk left in there will sour today while he's out. By this evening, when he thinks to clean it, the whole kitchen will have that tangy sour smell of milk that has turned. He'll ask me to clean it with my magic and I'll do it because the smell turns my stomach. I honestly think he might be genetically related to swine. 
 
 `` Not hungry?'' he asks as he points at my half-eaten English muffin ( lightly buttered ). 
 
 `` Something is n't agreeing with me.'' It's a true statement. I just did n't volunteer that he was the one making me ill. 
 
 He leaves for work and I'm left at home all day. His necromancy is a fun hobby but it does n't pay the bills. Every time I walk into the kitchen, I see that milk in a bowl in the sink and I feel my anger rise like a red tide. I leave it there convincing myself that I'm doing to make a point. I'm not sure if the point I'm making is that he should be more responsible, if I am not his servant, or if actions have consequences. I do n't care which it is. 
 
 I stand him up later that night on the morgue trip. I do n't call or text. It's my open petty revenge. Make him re-animate the dead without my help. Just like the unwashed cereal bowl. I am a demon from Hell - not a housekeeper.
