RICHCELDOM
Time flies.
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Tangled Ties and Unwanted Guests
The front door creaked open, and I heard Mom’s voice, overly chipper, echoing through the hall. “Toby, come meet our guest!” she called, like she was unveiling some grand prize. I slumped deeper into the couch, already dreading whatever scheme she’d cooked up this time. Mom had a habit of dragging strays into our lives—lost dogs, odd neighbors, that feral cat I’m pretty sure still lived in the attic. But this? This was new.
I shuffled into the kitchen and froze. Standing there, all sharp cheekbones and sharper attitude, was a girl—nineteen, tops—decked out in a leather jacket and a smirk that could cut glass. She leaned against the counter, popping gum like it was a performance art. “This your son?” she drawled, eyeing me up and down like I was a used car she might take for a spin. “Cute. Kinda scrawny, though.”
Mom beamed, oblivious. “This is Sasha. She’s staying with us for a bit. I met her at the community center—she’s got nowhere else to go, poor thing.” Poor thing? Sasha looked like she could chew through drywall and spit out nails. I muttered something polite and tried to retreat, but Sasha’s gaze pinned me in place. “Where you going, Toby?” she purred, stepping closer. “We’re gonna be roommates. Might as well get cozy.”
The next few days were a nightmare. Sasha didn’t just invade my house—she colonized it. My snacks? Gone. My Xbox? Hers now. And every time I turned around, there she was, lounging on the couch or “accidentally” brushing past me in the hall, that predatory grin flashing like a neon warning sign. Mom thought it was great. “She’s got spirit!” she’d say, while Sasha raided the fridge and winked at me over a stolen beer.
I wasn’t imagining it—she was relentless. One night, I caught her rifling through my room, claiming she “needed a charger.” She flopped onto my bed, stretching out like she owned it, and said, “You’re kinda uptight, huh? Bet I could fix that.” I bolted, locking myself in the bathroom until I heard her cackle and saunter off. This wasn’t a guest. This was a siege.
Desperate, I dug into her story. Mom said she was “down on her luck,” but Sasha’s vibe screamed trouble. I started noticing things—how she’d vanish for hours, how her phone buzzed constantly with cryptic texts. One afternoon, I overheard her on a call: “Yeah, I’m in. He’s a pushover. We’re good.” My stomach dropped. Who was she talking to? What was she after?
I confronted Mom, but she waved me off. “You’re paranoid, Toby. She’s just a kid!” A kid with a switchblade smirk and a plan, maybe. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was prey in my own house. Sasha wasn’t craving me—she was craving something bigger, and I was just the idiot in the way.
By week’s end, I’d had enough. I packed a bag, left a note for Mom—“Call me when she’s gone”—and crashed at my buddy’s place. Whatever game Sasha was playing, she could play it solo. Last I heard, Mom was still gushing about her “new daughter,” while I thanked every star in the sky for my escape.
