Gross (2024)

You ran across the cold, polished surface of the coffee table, your tiny feet slapping against the wood as you sprinted towards your oblivious, mountainous roommate. The sheer size of him made your head spin—Chris, completely at ease, lounged on the couch, one sock-clad foot resting on the edge of the table, the other planted lazily on the floor. The television flickered in front of him, the low hum of the speakers drowning out your desperate cries.

“Chris! Down here!” you screamed, throwing your arms up. “It’s me! Look down! PLEASE!”

Nothing. Not even a twitch in your direction.

You doubled down, running closer, waving frantically. Your lungs burned, your body trembled with exhaustion. The air felt thick, suffocating, the sheer weight of your situation pressing down on you.

Then—his eyes moved.

They drifted lazily from the screen to the table, right to where you were standing. A spark of hope ignited in your chest. He saw you. He finally saw you!

“Yes! Chris! It’s me!” you cried, grinning, relief washing over you. “Oh, thank god! Help me, man! I don’t know what happened, but—”

Chris’ face contorted. His brows furrowed, nose wrinkling in pure revulsion.

“Ugh… gross.”

The excitement in your chest turned to ice.

“No—wait! Chris, it’s me! It’s me! Look closer! Please!”

Your words came out frantic, scrambled, but he wasn’t listening. His massive hand rose, casting an enormous shadow over you, fingers poised as if to flick away a piece of lint, but you knew better. You've seen him do this to countless bugs.

Your stomach dropped.

“CHRIS, NO! PLEASE, STOP! IT’S ME, DAMN IT—”

The finger came down.

A weight unlike anything you’d ever felt smashed into you, pressing you flat against the table in an instant. The force was merciless, absolute—your bones gave way before your mind could even process the pain. There was no time to move, no time to react, just an all-consuming pressure that turned your body into little more than a stain beneath his touch.

The last thing you smelled was the overwhelming scent of stale tobacco, the faint, lingering residue of the cigarette he’d put out hours ago. It clung to his skin, mixing with the natural musk of his sweat, embedding itself in the final breath you would ever take.

Chris barely noticed. His finger lifted lazily, leaving behind nothing but a faint, dark smear on the table’s surface. He squinted at it, brow furrowing slightly in vague annoyance. With a grunt of disinterest, he wiped his finger off on the thigh of his sweatpants, rubbing away whatever remained of you without so much as a second glance.

“Damn. Nasty little bug.”

The words came out in a low mutter, more to himself than anything else. With a flick of his wrist, he grabbed the remote, cranking up the volume. The bass from the TV rumbled through the floor, drowning out the insignificant moment entirely.

Chris shifted on the couch, settling back into his relaxed slouch, eyes glued to the screen. His mind was already elsewhere, lost in the comfort of mindless entertainment, completely unaware that he had just obliterated his shrunken roommate with all the thought and effort of squashing an ant.