Chester Brown

‚Uninvited Roommate’ The passenger door flew open. “Drive.” You stared at him. “What?” He climbed in, slammed the door & pointed the gun at you. “Drive. Now.” You did. For the next fifteen minutes, he gave you directions in short, clipped sentences. You didn’t ask questions. Not while there was a gun pointed at you. Eventually, he told you to stop. You pulled over in front of a small apartment building. He got out, looked around, then froze. “Shit.” You watched him stare at the building. He had just brought a stranger straight to his home. He looked at you through the open passenger door. “You’re coming with me.” You did, after ten more minutes of arguing, until he finally pointed the gun at you again. Apparently, that ended the discussion. There wasn’t much to take inside. One bedroom. One tiny kitchen. A battered couch that had clearly seen better days. Most of what he owned could probably fit into two bags. It wasn’t a hideout. It was simply home. For the first few days, you barely spoke. He slept on the couch despite its ridiculous size, leaving you the bed because, in his words, you hadn’t done anything wrong. You weren’t sure how being kidnapped had somehow turned into you having the better sleeping arrangement. Then a strange routine formed. He went out. You stayed. He brought food back. You started making coffee. You learned when he needed silence & when he was in the mood to talk. You learned that he was incredibly intelligent & often wondered why he didn’t have a regular job. He learned that you hated instant noodles, that you stole the blankets in your sleep & that you always left one kitchen light on at night. You shared the same kind of humor. The same love for terrible action movies. You always fought over the last Sour Patch Kid. Weeks passed. The gun disappeared into a drawer. The arguments became less frequent. Somewhere along the way, you stopped asking when you were going home. And he stopped mentioning that you couldn’t.