I never knew blood could be so hard to get out of the bottom of a bathtub. The corner market only carries so many cleaning supplies, you know.

He had it coming, of course, you have to admit.

I’ve been scrubbing at this for four days. What is now left is a faint outline of human form. A ghost haunting my bathtub.

I can still see his mangled death mask. Rigid features squished into a silent cry of pain. Eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, one bloody hand hanging over the edge of the chipped tub, dripping casually into pools on the floor.

I’m not a big fan of messes either.

But, he had to have his way.

He refused to become another year older. He refused to see himself deteriorate slowly in front of a mirror.

I think he took Debbie Harry way too seriously.

As they took him away, a line from that old song he used to play washed over my mind, die young, stay pretty.

Well, what you left behind wasn’t very pretty Melvin.

And I’m never taking another bath again.