I hate roaches with a passion.
My family’s apartment feels like a third world country. Such a ridiculous amount of roaches. The stench of roach shit coated thick in so many places is suffocating. I know they’re using me for cleaning it all, though out of desperation, not meanly. I’m desperate too. I want them to get out of here, into the new apartment, and somehow start living like normal people with new, normal, clean habits. I feel so responsible for them, but I can’t make them do anything. I’m terrified that even a fresh apartment will not be enough to make them change their ways.
They praise me for how amazingly I tear through everything, how the rooms so quickly transform behind me. It only slightly makes up for it. I can’t help but to be miserable, exhausted, in so much pain from endless work. I don’t want to be here. I’m working ten times harder than any of them. I can’t help but to resent how little they’ve done in the time leading up to my arrival for help. They’ve done a decent amount, but could’ve easily done so much more. They tell me not to push myself, but they leave me no choice. Either I do it, or it’ll never happen. The moving date has to be pushed a week further away already.
