Taking Notes for the True Crime Novel

My roommate called me at 2 am last night (okay, technically "this morning") and said she was too far from campus and would be staying over at a friend's. I mumbled something and went back to bed.

Today, seventeen different people have called me and either left messages for her or asked where she is. I don't know how many friends she has, but these seventeen people are probably a good percentage of them. A couple of these people who have called were supposed to meet with her and discuss a class project, an appointment she was well aware of. Nobody knows where the hell my roommate is, least of all me. This is peculiar, because she is generally a very sober and responsible person.

I spent all of today, and most of yesterday, in our room. I did walk down the hall to use the bathroom and shower, but spent most of my time in here, working on my papers and eating cup noodles. Nobody saw me or talked to me on the telephone, other than my roommate's friends whose messages I wrote down.

It is almost 10 PM on a Sunday. She has a 9 AM class tomorrow. She's not here. I have begun to worry that my roommate is lying dead in a ditch somewhere, and that I, having no alibi, will be charged with her murder.

This is where all those years of reading true crime novels come back and haunt me. I am a diabetic and must take small amounts of blood from my fingertips several times a day; the little wounds often reopen when I'm not paying attention. There are probably tiny traces of blood all over everything in the room, not enough to test for ownership but enough to be found. I have several long papers due very soon, and have developed a slight facial tic that is probably related. I have a lot of little tiny scratches on my arms and hands, self-inflicted due to general clumsiness but that could be evidence of a struggle. I have told several people, as well as posted to Usenet in great length, that I am worried about my mental health. This is my usual state of mind, but might be considered evidence.

She'll probably come waltzing in in an hour or two, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and Europeans. I hope.

The first and fourth calls I got today were her parents. I told them she was working, a noble lie if she was sleeping off a hangover somewhere and a horribly callous one if her cooling blood was at that moment snaking across the cement towards a rusty drainage grating.

I really don't have an ending to this, so I guess you'll have to share my absence of closure. I guess I could take bets.

This was sent to the jiggyweek mailing list and my friend Sean a couple of months ago. Approximately 20 minutes later, my roommate came in the door. As it turned out, she'd just been too busy to come back and hadn't thought to call in and check her messages. My worry threshold is now pegged at around 48 hours.