I moved in with Victor because of his reserved nature. He had no intention of becoming friends with me, and that was fine. A quiet roommate was exactly what I needed. I was working full-time while also attending a part-time graduate school program, so large stretches of silence at home was pure bliss. During those infrequent encounters where we did bump into each other—I’ll be honest—there was an uncomfortableness lingering in the air.
I hate to say it, but Victor was not the kind of guy to attract ladies. Despite being in his early thirties, he had a face that resembled a veggie pizza. A mishmash of pimples and different colored spots covered his face, and the last remaining strands of thinning hair parked atop his head made him look ten years older than he was. Whenever he locked eyes with me, I could sense a sadness behind his eyes. So, on the Friday night Victor stepped through the front door with a woman named Angela—clearly a prostitute—my smile lit up the room. And he returned my smile with such a wide grin, I thought he might not even make it to the bedroom. But he did.
As I sat on the living room couch and caught up on some homework on my laptop, I began to hear the moans coming from Victor’s room. Even my earbuds could not drown out the noise. It was too much, so I retreated to my bedroom and turned up the music.
The following evening is when things got weird. Victor walked in with a box of diapers.
“Diapers? Victor, do you have a kid I don’t know about?” I asked jokingly.
“Mike, they are actually for me. I have a…. condition,” he responded. “I’m sorry if it bothers you.”
“Oh, yeah of course… no worries. I completely understand. I didn’t mean to intrude. Just caught me off guard.”
Approximately two hours later, Victor walked into the kitchen, and he smelled like shit. I poured some water and pretended to not notice. The smell continued to get worse day after day. Victor was clearly soiling himself. The stench became so horrendous, I started researching apartments online. It was unbearable and miserable. The apartment felt like a giant toilet that wouldn’t flush. I finally confronted Victor one night when we ran into each other cooking dinner.
“Hey man, I’m not sure if you have noticed, but the smell has been pretty bad in here.”
“I’m sorry Mike. I told you I have a condition—”
“I know, I know. But… don’t take this personally, but do you dispose of the diapers in like a trash bag and take them outside to the dumpster?”
“Of course, Mike. What do you think I’ve been doing?”
“I don’t… I don’t know.”
Victor stormed off to his room. I couldn’t stand it any longer. The following Saturday—while Victor was at the grocery store—I poked my head into his room. It smelled like rotting sewage. I inched forward, plugging my nose. His sheets grabbed my attention. There was a noticeable patch of what appeared to be dried blood spots. But it was his closet that really drew me in. The horrendous odor seemed to be coming from behind his closet doors. I turned the knob.
“Holy fuck,” I shouted.
Inside Victor’s closet—covered by piles and piles of Victor’s dirty diapers—Angela’s bloody corpse. I stumbled backwards and vomited. I ran back into the living room, distraught and shaking. I pulled out my cell and started to dial the police when I heard the sound of Victor’s key turning in the front door.
When the door opened, I charged at him, knocking him to the ground. I ran outside and got ahold of the authorities. Victor was sitting inside and surrendered without confrontation when the police arrived. When they asked him why he killed Angela, his response was, “She didn’t like the way I looked.”
I, of course, moved to another apartment. But the disturbing image of Angela still lives in my head. And I guess it is safe to say that Victor was probably using the feces-filled diapers to cover the scent of Angela’s rotting body.