My roommate and I never really got along. We didn’t hate each other, don’t get me wrong, we just weren’t very close. Never on the same wavelength, never riding the same tide.

It made for some funny situations when we wouldn’t communicate very clearly. Her being gone one weekend without notice, me being gone the next. Silly things, simple things.

There was a man in her bed when I got home from class one day, not necessarily out of the ordinary but something you would hope someone you shared a room with would mention before you came home.

The problem wasn’t really the man though, like I said, I was sort of used to it. No the problem came with his state.

See there wasn’t just a man in my roommates bed, there was a man either unconscious or dead in my roommates bed. Covered in blood.

I didn’t stick around very long to check for a pulse, probably not the kindest thing I’ve ever done, but I was mostly concerned whatever had left him in that condition was still hanging around.

I called my roommate then, and she answered the phone. Calm, collected, perfectly aware of the man in her bed and the likely possibility he was dead. She also, just as calmly, chose then to inform me that she was already across state lines.

Communication is a funny thing. It’s never been something I’ve exactly struggled with, but I never really needed it with my roommate.

Now though, I sort of wish I had talked to her a bit more. Maybe I would’ve caught a whiff of her homicidal tendencies, maybe I wouldn’t have. I don’t know. I’ve never been bad at communicating but man am I stupid.