You wake up from a fitfull sleep, plagued with odd nightmares you barely recall. Your boyfriend, Greg, must've joined you while you were sleeping. He is sprawled out beside you, limbs stretched far, leaving your legs falling limply off the side. You shove his dandruff-smelling head from your chest and aim for the kitchen to make your coffee, it always soothes you. You are interuppted by the bludgeoning of your big-toe against the broken foot of the dresser. The dresser Greg told you he would fix countless times in the last two months. The dresser you've stubbed your toe on //countless times// in the last two months. You double over and suppress a groan, but continue to the kitchen.
Come to think of it, Greg told you he'd fix many things since you two moved in together. The kitchen sink, which sputters while filling up your coffee pot and has a constant, mind-numbing drip. The cabinet, which sags on its hinges while you take out your coffee grounds and screeches with the slightest movement. Your thought process has you gripping your coffee mug a little tighter and stomping a little harder. You know what? This has really just you pissed off again, what good is a man around the house if he doesn't do anything //for// the house. You go to the doorway and stand there staring at his sleeping figure, fuming. You don't know if you want to [[wake his ass up and tell him to stop putting things off]] or [[take a deep breath and think first]].
"GREG" you yell, from deep within your throat, startling him from his slumber. "I can't stand it anymore. I just stubbed my toe, again! The kitchen sink squirted water everywhere, again! Can you fix it while I'm at work? Please?" He doesn't need to look at you for you to know he's rolling his eyes.
"I'll get to it, I promise" he replies in a gust of rancid morning breath that you can smell from the doorway. You stare at him for a few more seconds, trying to quell your vibrating rage. You notice a thick buildup of grease smeared across his face that is clearly visible underneath his patchy goattee. You realize you cannot stand your boyfriend. His personality switch has made him completely undesirable. Is it worth it to [[yell at him some more]]? Or should you just [[take a deep breath and think first]]?
You look at him and weigh the pros and cons...
Before you two moved in together, everything about Greg was great. His apartment was clean, he paid for dates, and he was even generally hygenic. Since then, however, your relationship has been circling the drain. He got fired from his job, or quit, all he says about it is that it "wasn't his fault," and that he was "underappreciated". It's been two months and he is still jobless, lazing around the house, screaming at his 13-year-old friends across the world from his Ps4.
You don't want to be the girlfriend that nags, but you also want to come back to a somewhat orderly home. It's like his personality has completely changed from before. Every time you ask him to do something, he lets out an over-exagerrated, horse-like sigh and says he'll get to it. Oh, how that phrase gets on your nerves. You get to work from 9am-5pm and make the money to keep the house he gets to live in. He doesn't get to a damn thing. This is all you two tend to fight about, and you're at your wits-end. Do you want to pick another fight and [[yell at him some more]] or give in and [[start getting ready for work]]?
You grab Greg by the arm, towing him into the kitchen. The facuet continues to leak, dripping in that constant way that slowly chips away at your sanity. You point at the faucet and look at him expectantly. "What's wrong?" he whines, "I did the dishes yesterday, like you asked!" You're in disbelief, you think he must be exagerrating his ignorance.
"How many times have I begged you to fix the leak in the sink? How many times have I asked you to help around the house? What do you do all day besides jerk-off with your friends and try to grow that thing on your face?" The more you speak, the more you see him roll his eyes in response, the less patience you have. You're done. This will be your last loser boyfriend. No more excuses, no more doing all the work, no more Greg.
"Come onn baby, don't be so mad at me. All I want to do is make you happy" he pleads in that childish voice that used to make you giggle. Your temper is moving past its boiling point. You look to your right, on the grey marble countertop sits the knifeblock, gleaming with stainless steel handles. You start to salivate at the thought. No no, this can't be right, do you want to [[grab the kitchen knife and point it at his neck]]? Maybe, instead, you should just [[take a nap|Start- Waking Up]] and sleep on it. You reach for the biggest knife in the block, the handle slips into your grip with ease and you push the tip up to Greg's neck. He doesn't know what's happening until he feels the sharp prick of the blade against his adamsapple. Your grip is shaky, and your breath comes in quick puffs. You have a deranged, exasperated smile on your face and your eyes twitch with the anger it takes to hold you back. "Baby, come on, what's goin on?" Greg says with a lazy smirk, doubting you till the very end. Does he not think your serious? Your vision goes in and out, you have never felt fury like this. Prove him wrong, [[go for the kill]]. He sees the resolution in your eyes, his features start to twist with fear. You know what? Maybe you should just[[take a deep breath and think first]]? You lurch your arm forward, shoving the knife into his jugular before your brain can catch up with you. You pull the blade out with a breath of relief, watching the blood jet from his neck in viscous little streams. The liquid soaks your front as he drops limply to his knees, a shocked look on his face, gurgling noises escaping his throat. You and your space are finally free from this contamination. You close your eyes, smile, and revel in your imagination.
Too bad you would never actually stab Greg in the neck, right? Maybe you should just [[go back to bed|Start- Waking Up]]. You head to the closet, not bothering to be quiet while yanking your work clothes from their hangers because he never does. Your almost down to lacing your shoes when Greg asks you if there's coffee in the pot. //"Yes, Greg,"//you think, //"Of course there's coffee in the pot. Just like every morning when you wake up past 11. Because I make it." // You respond with a sound somewhat resembling a "yes".
Your loafers seem to be extra hard to put on as you simmer in your anger just a little more. You try to remember the last time Greg put the coffee on, or started a load of laundry, or did anything that required leaving the kitchen, bathroom, or bedroom. Nothing rings a bell. You grow more irritable by the second until you can no longer resist. You [[yell at him some more]].