Poison. Right in the jug of filtered water, waiting harmlessly in the thrice-shared fridge. Something clear, unscented, so he never sees it coming. Take it back to her room and drink deep, babe. He'll set the glass next to the mass of food he helped her prepare from the groceries I bought, on the dishes I washed. I sit, hungry, praying for the end to finally come. Concentrated detergent with bleach substitute never worked as well as the real thing. I hear the laments as the plate tips our of his butterfingers from my seat in the room between his near and certain death. Lysol canister, rigged to explode at the slightest touch. The one time he cleans will be the last. I hear the boom from my seat outside her door.
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