III

She's wearing those 3D glasses; I try not to think about sex.

Glasses… lips… shoulders… breasts… bellybutton… legs… pu—

Look at her face when you're talking to her!

Right, right! Well, ah… here goes nothing.

"Ritchie…" I start, the day's events playing back in my head. Focus, Lizzie. "Um… I've reached a point in my life where I need to think more often than I ever have before. There are some deep questions out there that I want to have answered at this point in my life, you know? And I don't think I can pull off something like that unless I can be free, in both spirit and body. Don't you want me to be free, sweetie?"

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"Yes Ritchie, that is exactly what I'm doing," I say, letting loose and telling her how I really feel for once. "I hate my life with you, and you've taught me that being nice will get me a hundred percent of absolutely nothing. I used to love this apartment before you moved in – and now, guess what? I fucking hate it. I hate my living room, I hate my bedroom, I hate my kitchen, I hate it all. I hate that I'm the one that bothered to pick up the pieces of your terrible life, and kept you company, and gave you a place to live and actually listened to the boring whining that constantly pours outta your mouth. I have enough problems of my own, Ritchie – I've got bills to pay and… stuff!"

"Stuff?"

"So much stuff it'd make your head explode. I don't need you slowing me down anymore, okay? And you know what I hate most of all? You leeched off of me without ever even having sex with me, and I let you do it – what the fuck was that all about? Forget it, it doesn't even matter anymore. I hate your personality and your whining, and your voice – oh my God, there is one thing that I hate more than your leeching! Ritchie, your voice is one of the most annoying things I have ever had to experience. Ever. I hate you."

"So… you're breaking up with me?" Ritchie squeaks, passively nibbling on one of her rubbery cupcakes.

"Why do I even bother?" I mutter, pushing Ritchie out of my way and storming into our – my – bedroom. In stark contrast to Diego's pit, my apartment is too clean, too sterile. I wouldn't even think people lived here if I wasn't living here already. There aren't any signs of life, no cute photos or dirty clothes. White walls and squeaky floors. The only lived-in room is the kitchen, where Ritchie's constantly failing attempts at confectionary prowess have left some disgusting stains on the walls and the ceiling. It hasn't always been this way. It shouldn't be this way – this isn't the proper status quo, the true equilibrium!

"And you clean too fucking much!" I scream into my stiff, decorative pillow. "What are we, mannequins?! You've gotta have something better to do, shit!"

I scream into the pillow for a bit, then make my way to the kitchen to see if Ritchie's even moved. I'm half-expecting to turn a corner and have a butcher knife shoved between my eyes, but no such luck – Ritchie's gone. Crying because I have nothing better to do, I mull through the apartment and search for her aimlessly, eventually giving up and returning to my room, slamming my head into the pillow and screaming again.

"Lizabeta," I barely hear. I don't bother to look up at the little ghost. "Lizzie boo boo. Dragonfly."

"Stop," I groan into the pillow. "Don't call me that. Diego calls me that, I don't like it."

"…what's this about, Lizzie? I can't do this without you, I won't make it."

"I don't care, Ritchie." I really don't.

She's quiet for a while, then whispers, "It's my birthday in two weeks. I dunno if you remembered or not but… just give me two weeks, and there won't be any problems for you anymore."

No – hell no, are you kidding me? What was the point of that whole speech? This isn't exactly something that you can fix in two weeks, just like that –

"Please," she says, as if she heard me. "Please let me make it to fifteen with you, then I'll be out of your hair."

I don't say anything, and she takes it as a yes. She lies down next to me, gives me a teary kiss and quickly falls asleep in my arms. After a few minutes she starts to hump me in her sleep like a little dog, and I cringe in the wake of the irony.

Two weeks, Ritchie. I'm counting.

Ritchie doesn't speak to me the rest of the day, but she doesn't leave either. We go about our daily tasks as a pair of Helen Keller apparitions. Hours later, I catch the girl staring blankly into a bowl of watery sugar, sniffling quietly. Useless.

But it must be my fault, right? Letting a talentless little succubus tear me limb from limb with her constant whining, terrible cooking and dreary day-to-day tragedies… I must have written my own demise, right?

Of course not – the little bitch has everything coming to her. Ritchie will drown in the morning.