The italics in last line of this story were today’s Story a Day prompt. I like where this story is going, I’ll definitely come back to develop this one.

The gun was a last resort, of course. Everyone knows that. You don’t break out a weapon first thing, you start with words, or maybe even a dirty look.

In our case it had started with a note, which is technically words, but it’s a shitty way to deal with a roommate. Her first note said that I had better stop drinking her milk ‘or else’.

‘Or else?’ who says that in real life? Not grown-up human beings I tell you that. Of course, grown-up human beings would be smart enough to realize that their lactose intolerant roommates are the least likely culprit for drinking the milk and would instead ask their greasy, human flotsam of a boyfriend if he had drunk the milk. She didn’t think of that of course, and he probably liked the entertainment of stirring up drama.

So, yeah, that’s where it started, with some missing milk. It shouldn’t have gone on beyond that, but things unfolded in the way that things tend to do, and nothing got resolved about the milk. The whole situation soured after that. My food started disappearing out of the fridge, my laundry ended up with stains, one of my sneakers went missing, those were the relatively minor things. I could have maybe waited her out if that was as far as it went but I had vastly underestimated the nature of her cruelty and I had no idea that such a small thing could set someone off so throughly. There is no roommate test that could have predicted the trajectory.

I think my relative calmness about the small indignities threw her for a loop, she felt some sort of need to get me as riled up as she was. Her next campaign was subtle, I’ll give her that. There might have been a reasonable explanation for the basket at the top of the stairs that I tripped over. And the shard of glass might have gotten into the tub by accident – say if she had broken a water glass in the bathroom and the shard had gone flying.

There was no reasonable explanation, however, for the knife that I found buried to the hilt in my pillow or the hypodermic needle jammed point-outwards between the seats of my car. I called the police but they didn’t seem to think that they would be able to prove anything. My landlord didn’t even answer the phone.

If I had anywhere else to go, I would have left, but I didn’t, so I stayed.

I bought a gun.

And then I waited.

When I heard her and the greaseball come in, I clicked off the safety, swearing that if she showed her face here today, my room would be the last one she ever entered.

(15m writing, 2-3 editing)