Helping Hand (fiction ... mainly)

She stands in the doorway, watching me half clean my bedroom. I pile rumpled and twice worn clothing in the corner on top of a previously existing pile, under which may or may not be a laundry basket. I gather papers and books into stacks which I place on shelves. I smooth and fluff the covers of my bed, ignoring the subtle tang of the sheets as I do so. All of this is met by her snorts, eyebrow raises, and the accusatory jutting of bony shoulders. She can brass-knuckle gut-punch with a look and her silence is a vacuum.
I finish my chore by sweeping the topmost layer of filth off the area rug with short sharp motions, collecting the grit into the corner behind the door. I rest the broom against the corner, concealing the furry mass behind bright yellow bristles. She smirks; I blush.
The kitchen is next, and I tend be more thorough here; thickly soaping and rinsing dishes and counter alike. The smell from the sink is humiliating, and I'm achingly aware of her presence behind me as I slide my fingers into the murky sludge between the stacks. I push aside the soft blockage and the drain gurgles to life.
I ask here to put on some music, gesturing to the laptop connected to the big speakers in the living room. She selects something acoustic and current sounding that I'm half familiar with. I don't ask for the name of the band or song, I just keep scrubbing.
Apparently feeling helpful, she picks up the few articles of discarded clothing from the living room furniture, and tosses them on the pile in the bedroom before returning to her position in the doorway. I've precariously stacked pots and pans on top of glasses on top of plates and bowls in the dish-rack, and every now and then, a piece slides loose and falls into the sink with a clatter. I scour the stove top, digging my fingernails into baked on foodstuffs. Elbow grease and steel wool. Cleaning the fridge is simple: if it's leftover takeout, throw it out. If it's an actual grocery, hold on to it.
She doesn't show impatience, if she feels it; she doesn't sigh or twiddle. She seems intent to watch, help if I ask, judge no matter what, and I don't mind. She's nimble and concise in her gestures, and I enjoy the pantomime. She doesn't really judge me for my slovenly mess, she can't; I've seen her place. She's going through the motions of scolding me just as I'm going through the motions of cleaning house.
We attack the living room together, her picking up books and papers and sorting them by roommate she's never met and me gathering discarded food containers and emptying ashtrays into a garbage bag. The bag is heavy with fetid takeout and the angular contents push the plastic into distended peaks. There's a trash chute not ten feet outside the front door, and I hope it makes it.
When we're done we sit side by side on the tiny couch, our knees pushing back and forth, heads lolled back in exaggerated exhaustion. In this position I can see the light fixtures, frosted glass filled with insect carcasses. The fat black globules amassed in the bottom of the bowl. It never ends.

A Particular Type of Self Destructive

I woke around mid-afternoon, stumbled into the kitchen, cut myself a piece of leftover chocolate cake, poured milk over it and had the audacity to think, "breakfast." This thought occurred without a sardonic chuckle. Without a self-aware reprimand. It was just, "breakfast."
This is the quality of self destruction to which I so passionately subscribe. The id is a powerful force, and succumbing to it makes for better stories, and all I really want is a good story to tell.