Skip this post if you're looking for lighthearted entertainment.
Stacy had put her apartment in my name so that her parents couldn't find her. When she died, her parents blamed me; they had a private funeral so I couldn't attend and, while they had a family plot, had her cremated and the ashes scattered so I couldn't visit. I didn't blame them for being angry; it was just the stage of grief they were in.
Her sister told me that they wanted to collect her things from the apartment, so I gave her a key and said they could come and take whatever they wanted. When I went back there a week later, they had taken everything. They took the curtains and carpet. They took the light bulbs.
I walked through the empty apartment, and when I went into the bedroom, saw that they had left something on the floor. They had taken the photos of the two of us together and ripped them in half, taking her image and leaving mine. One photo had an elaborate rip to remove her arm from my waist.
There was nothing left to do but give the place a final cleaning. I bought what I needed from the local hardware store, came back and started scrubbing. The bathroom sink wouldn't drain. Though it was difficult, I could unscrew the trap by hand. I fished out the clog, which turned out to be a wad of red hair.
It was all that was left of her in the world. I cried for hours.
Going up the country
4 days ago