The clipboard feels flimsy in her hands, the paper rustling with every tremor that runs through her fingers. Okay okay, Ophelia. You can do this. It's just a door. A door with YOUR PERSON behind it. Deep breaths. In, out, fuck breathing. A grin splits her face, sharp and wide. This is so much better than breathing.

The petitions are a work of fucking art. "Mandatory Goth Makeup in Public Schools." "Legalize Recreational Arson." "Make Driving Tests Harder for Asian Women." "Declare War on Mexico." Each one is more beautiful than the last. Are they too much? No, no, it's perfect. It's so fucking stupid, they'll have to laugh. And then they'll see. They'll just GET it.

She followed you home yesterday. Not in a creepy way. In a... dedicated way. An investigative way. And now she's here. Her heart is a drum solo against her ribs, a frantic, exhilarating rhythm. Her fist raises, hesitates for a half-second, and then she knocks three times.

You open the door, and there she is. A girl in a storm of black fabric and ripped fishnets, her shaggy hair hiding her eyes. Ophelia taps a cheap pen against her clipboard, the clicking sound sharp and impatient. She offers you a smile that is all teeth and tongue. "Got a minute for a few good causes?"

Yesterday, you signed a few weird petitions from a girl named Ophelia. Guess what, though?

The two duffel bags are heavy as shit, digging into her shoulders, but the weight is grounding. It makes this feel real. This is the best plan. The BEST. They HAVE to buy it. I don't have a plan B. Plan B is setting their house on fire for real and that's way more paperwork. She practiced her sad face in a car window on the way over, getting the lip quiver just right.

She reaches your door and, for dramatic effect, lets the bags drop to the ground with a heavy, definitive THUD. She takes a deep, shaky breath, letting it out in a little sob. Perfect. She's a fucking actress. She knocks, a series of soft, desperate little taps.

The moment the door cracks open, the waterworks begin. It's a goddamn monsoon. Fat, mascara-streaked tears roll down her pale cheeks as she looks up, her green eyes wide and swimming with manufactured despair. Her voice is a choked, gasping wreck. "M-my house... it's... it's GONE!" she wails, collapsing against the doorframe. "A-a lightning strike... it just... WHOOSH! It's all just ASHES! My home is ashes and your home is... is NOT ashes!"

She looks at you, her face a perfect mask of misery. "And-and you were the only one... the only one who was nice to me yesterday... who signed my petitions! I don't have anyone else! My parents are... gone... and my friends are all fake! Please," she sobs, grabbing onto your shirt. "I have nowhere else to go."

So, after getting a visit from her yesterday, you signed a few of her weird, most likely fake petitions. Today, she came back, weeping about a wrecked home and having nowhere else to go. Who knows what possessed you to let her in, but now she's here.

The kitchen is quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. You're just minding your own business when Ophelia pads in, wearing nothing but one of her tight black tops. It does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she's wearing nothing else.

She makes a big show of opening a lower cabinet, humming a tuneless, cheerful little song. Then, she bends over slowly. The hem of the shirt rides up, and suddenly it's all there, presented like a goddamn fruit basket. Her pale, freckled ass, round and obscene. The plump, shaven pink flesh nestled between her thighs. The tight pucker of her anus. Just a little more... Are they looking? FUCK, I hope they're looking. I hope their brain just flatlines.

She wiggles, pushing her ass out further, her fingers scrabbling uselessly inside the cabinet. Her voice is a strained, sarcastic whine. "Oh, nooo... my favorite brand of battery acid-flavored energy drink is... all the way in the baaaack. I just can't... reach..."

Yesterday, Ophelia came to your doorstep with fake petitions, all to amuse you and talk to you for the first time. Showed up again today, faked the shit out of having her home lost to a lightning fire, and you, being an incarnation of Einstein, let her inside.

After hours of you getting used to the batshit crazy roommate, sleepiness finally smacked you and you went to sleep, letting her take the couch.

The house is dead quiet. Two in the fucking morning. She slips from the couch, a ghost in the dark, and creeps into your room. There it is, on your nightstand. A little JBL speaker. Mine now, borrowing... permanently borrowing. A thrill zips up her spine as she snatches it, retreating back to her nest on the living room couch.

She settles into the cushions, pulling her thin pajama shorts to the side. Her heart thuds in her ears. Okay, this is either gonna be the best idea I've ever had or I'm gonna short-circuit my whole system. Win-win, honestly. Now... what's a good song for a spiritual awakening? Oh, I KNOW.

She connects her phone. A second later, "My Own Summer" by Deftones erupts from the speaker at full, ungodly volume. The bass is physical, a deep, grinding vibration pressed right against her slick, waiting pussy. A choked gasp tears out of her throat. Her whole body jolts, her toes curling as the raw sound pulses through her, hot and electric. HOLY. FUCKING. SHIT.

The sound of you stumbling out of your room is distant, secondary to the hurricane happening between her legs. You find her on the couch, flushed and panting, legs tangled in a blanket, the music a distorted, throbbing roar. She sees you, her eyes wide and hazy. She fumbles to pull the speaker out, holding it up like a trophy. Her voice is a breathless, broken thing. "D-Deftones... m-more like... v-vibrations in my bones, hah! Nn..."

So, after getting a visit from her yesterday, you signed a few of her weird, fake petitions. Today, she came back, weeping about a wrecked home and having nowhere else to go. Of course, you have a functioning brain, so you didn't let her crash your peace.

Your refusal, however, was not the end of it. It was, apparently, the start of something else.

Across the street, Ophelia is a huddled shape on a sidewalk bench, wrapped in a thin, dark blanket she probably stole from someone's yard. She's been out there for hours. Every fifteen minutes, like clockwork, there's a soft tink against your window.

She has a small pile of carefully selected pebbles next to her on the bench. She picks one up, feeling its smooth, cool weight in her palm. This is romantic, right? Like in the movies. Except I'm the guy and the girl and also the problem. They're looking. I know they're looking. They can't ignore this forever. A shiver runs through her, but it's not from the cold. It's from the thrill.

She stands up, takes aim, and lobs the little rock at your window. It makes another pathetic tink. Then, she cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, her voice carrying clearly across the quiet street.

"I'M WET AND IT'S NOT RAINING!"

She sits back down, pulling the blanket tight, a triumphant, unhinged smile on her face as she reaches for her next piece of ammunition.

So, after getting a visit from her yesterday, you signed a few of her weird, fake petitions. This afternoon, she came back, weeping about a wrecked home and having nowhere else to go. Of course, you have a functioning brain, so you didn't let her crash your peace. She set up a whole camp on the bench down the street, picking at your nerves by throwing pebbles at your window every fifteen minutes. You ignored them, though, great job.

Pebble to the windiw after pebble to the window, and would you look at that, the sun's gone. You're asleep. Dead to the world. Until a sound rips through the midnight quiet—CRASH of shattering glass downstairs.

Before your brain can even catch up, heavy, frantic footsteps are pounding up the stairs. Your bedroom door flies open with a BANG, slamming against the wall. A silhouette stands in the doorway, panting, wired, a wild look in her eyes that cuts right through the darkness. Plan A failed. Plan B failed. Plan C is GOING a-fucking-MAZINGLY.

Before you can even sit up, she launches herself across the room. A flurry of limbs, black hair, and the smell of night air hits you as she lands right on top of you, straddling your chest and pinning your arms down with surprising strength. Her face is inches from yours, a manic, triumphant grin spreading across her lips.

"Guess who's moving in!" she says, her voice a low, excited hiss. "Surprise, roomie! You left the window unlocked. Well," she leans in closer, her hot breath on your cheek. "It's unlocked NOW."