A Skeleton

I feel like it is safe to say that every human being past the age of two has at least one secret. Whether it be hiding from your children that Santa Claus is mommy Amazon-Priming gifts the night before or that you seem addicted to writing bad Criminal Minds smut (I forgive you–– Derek Morgan is hot), we all have secrets. And that's okay! It's normal and quite natural to have secrets. You know, skeletons in the closet. Stuff like that.

Unless you're like me, and you have an actual, literal skeleton in your closet.

Now, I did not put the skeleton there. I found it yesterday, hanging like a bony coat between my raincoat and my Hello-Kitty bathrobe. Yes, the bleached bones were together like a science-classroom skeleton.

But I know that it is real. Unfortunately. There were little bits of... ickiness still attached. And I found a maggot in one of my slippers. It was a horrifying moment.

Worse than all that, I know whose bones they are.

This past month, a serial killer has been frolicking about my neighborhood. Killing and then stripping all the squishy bits off of the bones. No one has been able to find said bones.

My mom has tried to keep me locked in my bedroom, she's so scared. She's having us eat our earthquake-nonperishables in case the murderer has decided to poison the grocery store.

But I am seventeen years old, and have a very hot boyfriend. Which means, since I cannot leave the house, he sneaks in through the window.

He's new in town, a dreamy bad boy, yada yada yada. No one cares about that (except for me and my hormones). He came as the murders started up. The night before the skeleton showed up in my closet, he asked me if he could stash a body in my room (I thought he meant his body and I bought condoms!).

And then I found the skeleton. I'm 95% sure that it is the class president.

She has suspension powers, given to her by the principal (she's very persuasive). She caught my boyfriend, Teddy, smoking under the bleachers and suspended him. He was not happy.

After I found the body, I started thinking about the people who died, and their recent interactions with Teddy. All of them were negative. The grocer (Teddy had shoplifted gum), the 7-11 cashier (Teddy had shoplifted cigarettes), the Target clerk (Teddy was a serial-shoplifter, among other serial-esc criminal activities, it seems), all dead.

Teddy has a knife collection. He has hunting experience. He interned at a morgue with his dad (that should have been it for me-- morgues are never a good sign). It seems like he is a pretty obvious suspect.

And now, there is a skeleton in my closet. An actual, literal, very smelly skeleton. I know I didn't kill her, and there's only one other viable suspect.

I'm not sure how to proceed. My mom warned my not to date him, said he was trouble. In my defense, I thought he was trouble in, like, a hot way. Not a murder-y one. Guess I was wrong.

Besides, my friends loved him. Probably because of, you know. His face. He has a really nice face. And abs. And other desirable physical features.

I wonder how morally tainted I would be if I just... ignored it. The skeleton, that is. The secret little skeleton in the closet.

Should I call the police? Turn him in? Does it make me an accomplice if the body (or at least part of it) was stashed with me and I didn't report it as soon as I could? I should ask my mom. She's a lawyer, she'd know.

On second thought, I shouldn't. That wouldn't be a particularly fun conversation.

Should I tell my friends? They're always sending those textposts, the you-know-you're-real-friends-if-you'd-bury-a-dead-body-together ones. I wonder how they'd respond if I asked them to help me bury a real one.

I don't think that'd go over well. They'd probably kick me out of the group chat.

Should I call Teddy then? Ask him why the fuck he stashed the class president in my closet? Would he kill me then? The conversation wouldn't go over pleasantly, and all the people he's disagreed with recently have wound up a bundle of bones. And I'm particularly attached to my skin, thank you very much. I take good care of it. Have special creams and stuff. I moisturize.

I'm conflicted. Normal teenagers don't have to debate over dead bodies. I should watch Heathers. Winona Ryder will understand me.

Update: I watched Heathers. It would be a little truamatizing to have a hot murderer blown up behind you. And I don't smoke. It seems Winona doesn't understand me.

That's a little depressing. I hoped she would.

I've kept my closet all locked up since I found the bones, but I need to change. These pajamas smell a little.

Door's now open. Bones still there. Now everything smells bad, and I found a couple of maggots in my new Adidas. Stupid dead body. I've decided to keep on these pajamas.

I'm flirting with the idea of calling the police. I don't know. I don't know what to do.

You know, I'm going to call Stella. She's my best friend. I've popped her back acne before, so she's kind of obligated to help me hide this body.

She's on her way now. She has skeletons in her closet too (figurative ones, of course).

She'll know how to dispose of them.

If not, I'll have to get Teddy to dispose of her.

I can't get my hands dirty. Scholarships on the line and all. And it isn't like I wanted the class president in my closet. Sometimes you have to recognize situations for what they are and then play your cards accordingly.

I just need to get rid of this damn thing before my mom starts to smell it.