I could hear her pacing at night. It drove me nuts, the way the house creaked underneath her feet, the way she'd walk up and down and up and down the stairs and never seemed to get anywhere.

What did she do at night? I don't know. Never will, now. But she was always up, always moving.

"Time," she told me once. "The night time is a period of freee time. Time stands still. There is no passing of time at night."

I thought she was talking bullshit at the time. I really did. I thought she was out of her mind, off her rocker, batty as my old aunt that used to eat ladybugs.

I could tell where she'd been in the house when I came downstairs in the morning. There'd be little stacks of unwashed dishes, little messes scattered about my lovely clenliness.

She never knew it, though. I guess she couldn't see them in the dark or something, and I always had them cleaned up by the time she woke up.

Sometimes I'd find her on the couch, clothes rumpled, uncovered. She was a flaw in my perfect existance. I don't know why I ever stayed with her, but I guess I grew fond. Over fond. Too fond.

I grew comfortable.

With her pacing, her sleepless nights, the stairs that ceraked every time she moved.

I hated that.

Hated the way the stairs creaked when she paced.

.

Rosie.

Before&After