Killing (And Other Games)

(Three)

(Three)

I decide upon an ultimatum the morning after the kettle incident. I will leave at the end of the week if nothing has improved. Silently, in the comfort of my thoughts, I swear and bitch about the blonde girl and the two boys and especially Ryker but on my face I project a mask of tranquillity. But still, I remember that one of them showed me small kindness-or it could've been some sort of misguided practical joke. Either way, I spend way too much time wondering who left the noodles for me. The goddess like girl with a permanent smirk? The younger boy who stared a bit too much? The white haired man who hardly even acknowledged me at all? Dare I say Ryker, the king of all things pretentious and rude? A small part of me kind of wants it to be Ryker but I'm completely unsure why.

The morning after the first night, my plan is simple. Dash downstairs, grab a muesli bar or a glass of milk or an apple, anything, and get out before anyone notices me. My full plan of attack could be expanded in the comfort of the university library. I rehearse the scene in my head; imagine myself leaping over the stair bannister like Jason Bourne. Not going to happen.

With my best inconspicuous moves, I inch into the kitchen area. Once again regret hits me cold and hard and I'm wondering to myself why I didn't just go get a muffin from 7-11.

"She's up!" Ryker announces, grinning at me from ear to ear in a completely sadistic way. He stands in front of the coffee machine, tapping it with one finger in what I assume is his way of coaxing it to work. His golden blonde hair sticks up in so many directions I wonder if he's gelled it that way on purpose. Or, judging by the lack of shirt and pyjama bottoms, he's literally just crawled out of bed.

"Hallelujah," a girl's voice, coming from the pantry, snipes and I know it's the diamond goddess supreme.

"How did you sleep?" Ryker asks, his tone almost imitating that of a caring person's.

"Fine," I snap, storming over to the bowl of fruit. Already they've managed to put me in a terrible mood.

"Yeah so did I, thanks for asking," he mutters as the coffee machine whirs to life. I spin away, refusing to stick around any longer than necessary. Already I'm bargaining with myself to make that one week into one working week.

"Hey, hey, where do you think you're going?" Standing at the entrance to the kitchen-living room, I almost storm away. But I can't just let him talk to me like that.

"Excuse me? I'm not a five year old; you can talk to me like an adult. There is no need for you to keep any sort of track of where I am, I can come and go as I please." I expect some sort of retort, some witty remark that'll grate at my nerves for days, but instead I just get a pointed, oh really? look. It's a hundred times worse. Words begin spilling out of me and I can't stop my voice from taking on a nasally quality. "I'd really just prefer if you all left me alone because clearly you aren't interested in being nice or even decent so let's all go out of our ways to just stay out of each other's ways."

"You better take that as a warning Ryke," the blonde bitch says as she prances out of the pantry. I'm not even surprised to see that she's wearing just underwear-barely. "She might use her liberal arts powers to hurt you."

"What kind of insult even is that?" I hiss, fists clenched. These people are insufferable, above anything I've ever experienced before. It's like they missed the basic etiquette classes back in the womb.

"I wasn't talking to you," the girl says, her voice neutral and pleasant, as she sips coffee and looks me up and down. "But I'm Danika, by the way." Danika and Ryker. Sister and brother? They look like they could be related with similar colourings and equally impressive heights and bodies, not to mention the egos practically dripping off them. And they're both in their underwear, strutting around the house. Oh. I guess they could be screwing as well. Ha, maybe it's both.