When I walk through the door, everything seems normal. The kitchen is messy – but no more than usual. The living room is covered in cheap throw pillows and dog hair. April's bedroom door is ajar; I peek through and see my roommate passed out on top of her unmade bed, snoring. I roll my eyes and open the door to my own bedroom.

That's when I see that my bed is covered in blood. Covered might not be the right word. More like soaked. Blood drips steadily from the bottom of the mattress and the corners of the comforter. There's so much of it that the air tastes bitter and metallic when I take a breath.

Daisy Mae, April's tiny chihuahua, is curled up in the middle of the blood-soaked bed, sleeping peacefully. The pink bow on top of her head is askew and stained red.

Not again.

“GODDAMNIT, APRIL!” I shout, storming over to her room and kicking the door wide open. It bangs against the wall and April wakes up with a start. Her room doesn't smell like blood; it smells like alcohol. Somehow, that's even worse. “I told you not to put your hellhound in my room!” I yell at her. “She had lunch in my bed again!”

“But I needed mine for sleeping,” April groans. She snatches a pillow and plops it over her head.

I snatch it right back off and throw it at her. “So do I! We talked about this!”

“She doesn't even leave any bones,” April complains.

“No, just an entire lake of blood that's dripping out of my mattress! It's worse than ever!” I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. It doesn't really work. “April,” I say through my teeth, “you cannot keep an actual hellhound as a pet. It's not working out.”

“But she's so cuuute.”

“I hope she bites you,” I say savagely. “That's it. Good luck paying the rent on your own. Maybe the cute hellhound can chip in.”

“Where are you going?” she demands as I head for the door.

“I'm gonna pack up my underwear,” I snap, “and then I'm gonna go live in a van down by the river.”