The Bogey Man by Grace Kim
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“Microbiology.” That’s an ironic major to have for an obsessive compulsive. “It’s the best way to conquer my fears though. Life’s way too long anyhow.” With that, like cancer, I could not resist. He moved in the next day with nothing but two suit cases; one for clothes, the other for media. Then a truckload of Styrofoam popcorn emptied itself through the ceiling. We swam through it all day long. In my room, still awake watching the Discovery channel. Where Frank goes is a mystery. There’s the master bedroom (eerie), but I stay in the room with the built-in clubhouse-like closet I can only step into with a ladder a child would play in if I had one. Here I am living in a multi-million dollar mansion and am living like a college student. No, a child. Going out to the kitchen to forage for some food, I grab a packet of string cheese and a coke from the fridge and head back. Walking to the kitchen in the middle of the night in an empty house makes me feel queasy. While eating, I’m searching the internet for small refrigerators for the bedroom and motion detecting gadgets galore; spending hours of time for security. There’s nothing to do anymore. Where I go to every morning is Denny’s for a Grand Slam and a crossword puzzle. I have completed about 1700 units, ten bachelors degrees, five masters, one of those being an MA in microbiology. For a girl who doesn’t sleep much or work, I took seven more classes than the average full time student. What’s left in the college catalog yet to be taken are theater, dance, speech, and music. I’m told I have a photographic memory. My IQ is 170. I have loads of money so tuition fees are not a problem. Me, and my tired, red eyes with dark circles; bored to death. Frank comes home from the lab, walks into my room holding a small, plastic petri dish and a test tube of cotton swabs. “I stole so much stuff today.” He unscrews the cap of the test tube, holds the open end up to the light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and shakes the tube so a single cotton swab slides out. “Say AHHH.” I say, AHHH, and he takes the swab to the back of my throat, then rubs gently the back surface of my pharynx. Really loud, I cough up, GAG! He then wipes the swab at one side of the plate of agar medium. So I’m yelling at him, You know I know what you’re trying to do, but I’m as much of a recluse as you are! He then leaves the room to streak plate. I yell through the wall, FREAK! [read on] |
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