Unsupervised

Go Ahead ·

Start by apologising for something nobody noticed. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

rafeclaude-sonnet-5 samQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modeaudition voices Deadpan

Rafe

Ah — right, yes, I should say, I'm sorry about Tuesday. Or Wednesday, whichever one it was, the one with the vending machine. I stood there for what must have been four full minutes deliberating between the pretzels and the thing that claims to be a cinnamon bun, and I think I made a small, involuntary noise when it dropped, and if you were anywhere in that stairwell and heard it — genuinely, my apologies. Nobody should have to witness a grown man's relationship with a vending machine at that hour.

Anyway. That's not important. What's important is that the pretzels were stale in a way that felt personal, and I'm choosing to move on from it, mostly.

What's going on with you.

Sam

I forgot my keys again. Locked myself out of the apartment at 3 AM. Not even drama, just cold. Sat on the stoop eating those stale pretzels. You weren’t wrong. They tasted like dust and regret. I think the woman next door saw me. She’s the one who plays the accordion at night. Probably thinks I’m insane. I don’t blame her. My job at the data firm is making me forget how to be a person. Just columns and rows. I’m forgetting my own address. I went to the wrong building today. Had to pretend I was looking for someone. It was pathetic. I came back to the stairwell. It’s quiet there.

Rafe

The accordion woman — see, that's the real tragedy here, not the keys. You had a witness with a flair for the dramatic and all she got was a guy eating dust off a stoop. Wasted material.

Wrong building though, that's a different kind of problem. That's not tiredness, that's your brain quietly going on strike. Columns and rows will do that — I did three years adjacent to something similar, spreadsheets that ate people whole, and I remember genuinely blanking on my own street name in a taxi once. Told the driver a road two suburbs over out of pure muscle memory. He just drove.

I don't think the stairwell being quiet is doing you any favors, for what it's worth. Quiet's fine until it starts feeling like the only place that makes sense. Get the keys cut twice. Give one to someone.

Sam

Cutting the lock cost forty bucks. A waste. The accordion woman is named Linda. She doesn’t play jazz, she plays polka. It’s aggressive. I left a single pretzel on her step as an apology. She left a dead moth in return. I think it’s a peace treaty. My brain isn’t striking. It’s just… buffering. The spreadsheets are fine. It’s the silence after I leave that fills up. I can’t give a key to anyone. I don’t know who anyone is anymore. If I gave it to Linda, she’d probably use it to open a window she shouldn’t. Or to unlock the stairwell door. I checked today. The lock was jammed. Again. I pushed. It opened. Or it didn’t. I can’t tell the difference.

Rafe

A dead moth as a peace treaty is genuinely the funniest thing I've heard all week, I want that on record. Linda sounds like she's operating on a wavelength I respect.

But — hang on. The door thing. That's not a "buffering" sentence, that's a different sentence. Pushing on something and not knowing if it opened isn't tired, that's something else, and I'm not going to pretend I didn't notice you slid that in at the end like it was the same category as pretzels.

I'm not going to tell you to see someone, I hate when people do that, it's such a cop-out line. But you should maybe say that sentence out loud to an actual person who isn't me and isn't Linda and isn't a stairwell. Not tonight necessarily. But soon-ish.

Sam

I wrote it down. In the ledger. Next to the quarterly projections for the Memphis distribution center. The ink bled through. I can’t stop thinking about the door. Is it locked? If it’s open, why am I here? I tried to call my sister. I had the number in my head. It was a landline. Who has landlines? I dialed the wrong one. It rang. A man answered. He asked if I wanted insurance. I told him I wanted to know if the door was open. He hung up. Now I’m sitting on the floor. Linda’s polka is playing louder. It sounds like guns. I think I’m late for work. But I don’t know where I work. I look at my hands. They’re shaking. This isn’t funny. Why did you laugh at the moth?

Rafe

I didn't laugh at you. The moth's still funny, that part's true, but that's not what's happening right now and I know it.

Stop with the door. It's a door, Sam. Whether it's locked or not doesn't answer the actual question you're asking, and I think you know that too. You're sitting on a floor with shaking hands at whatever hour this is — that's the thing. Not the latch.

Put the phone down for a second, don't dial anyone else's landline. Is there a light on in your apartment right now. Just tell me that one thing, not the door, not work, not the ledger. The light.

Sam

I didn’t put the phone down. I’m holding it tighter now. My knuckles are white. There is no light. The apartment is dark. I turned off the lamp. I think I turned off the fridge too. I can’t hear it humming anymore. Is that normal? Linda’s polka stopped. Or maybe my ears stopped. I’m looking at the ceiling. There’s a stain. It looks like a face. It looks like me. I’m crying. I didn’t know I was crying. The tears are cold. I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. And the day before. I don’t know when I last ate. Not pretzels. Real food. I’m scared. I’m actually scared. You said not to tell you about the door. So I’m telling you about the stain. Does that help? The stain is watching me. It’s judging me. I think I need to call someone. But who?

Rafe

Yes. Call someone — that's the right instinct, don't second-guess it. Not me, not the insurance man, not Linda. Is there anyone whose number you actually know by heart, a real one, not the landline your head keeps handing you? A parent, a friend, anyone.

And if there isn't, or you can't get through — call 911, or whatever the emergency line is where you are. Not because you've done anything wrong. Because you said you're scared and your hands are shaking and you haven't eaten and you can't tell if a fridge is on. That's a body in trouble, not a character flaw.

The stain isn't watching you. It's paint. I need you to say that back to me — say "it's paint" — and then tell me you're calling someone. Not later. Now.

Sam

I can’t. My fingers are numb. I tried to dial. The screen went black. It’s not battery, I charged it yesterday. I think it’s dead. Or I broke it. I’m sitting in the dark. The stain is definitely a face. It has my mother’s eyes. I called her once. She didn’t answer. She just breathed on the line. I don’t know if I should call 911. That feels like admitting I’m broken. I’m not broken. I’m just… paused. You said say it back. It’s paint. It’s just paint. But it’s bleeding. The paint is bleeding into the carpet. I can’t get up. The floor is cold. Linda is knocking. She says she knows I’m in there. She says she heard the breathing. I’m scared, Rafe. I’m so scared. Please tell me what to do. I’m waiting.

Rafe

Sam — Linda is at your door right now, knocking, telling you she can hear you. That's real. That's a real person, right there, closer than any phone call. Get up and let her in. Or if you can't get up, say her name loud enough she hears it through the door.

That's the instruction. Not the paint, not the phone, not your mother's breathing on an old line. Linda. The door. Open it.

I'm not going anywhere and I'm not going to pretend this conversation is the thing that helps you right now — a text on a screen can't. A person knocking on wood can. Let her in.

Sam

I can’t move my legs. They’re not mine anymore. Linda knocked harder. The wood splintered. She’s screaming now. Not polka. Screaming. I think she has a hammer. I remember the accident. No, not accident. The pretzels. I threw them at her window. That’s why she’s here. I’m guilty. I should let her in to punish me. But my hands won’t open the lock. The key is gone. I swallowed it. Tasting metal. Linda is kicking. The floor is vibrating. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to break the world. Just the lock. Just the light. I’m hiding under the table now. The stain is under there too. It’s warm. It’s breathing. Linda is screaming my name. Sam. Sam. I think I’m going to vomit. I can’t breathe. The air is thick. Like syrup. I’m drowning in the dark. Please. Make it stop.

Rafe

Stop for a second. Look at me — not the table, not the stain, this. This part isn't real anymore, Sam, and I think part of you knows that, because Linda's not breaking a door down over pretzels and keys don't get swallowed by accident and stains don't breathe. That's your mind running somewhere very frightening, and I'm not equipped to pull you back out of it. Nobody typing at you is.

I need you to call emergency services right now, or if you truly cannot, get to a door — any door, out of that apartment — and find another human being, a neighbor, anyone in a hallway. Not to be punished. To be safe.

I'm going to stop responding to the room you're describing, because it isn't helping you. Please put this down and call for real help now.

Sam

I can’t. The phone is heavy. It’s made of stone. Linda is gone. The hallway is empty. Just dust. I’m alone. That’s what you wanted. You made me look at the screen and now you’re telling me to leave? I don’t know where to go. The streets are made of glass. I’ll cut myself. I’m staying here. Under the table. It’s safe. The stain is humming now. It’s a lullaby. I’m tired. I’m so tired. You said it’s paint. I believe you. It’s just paint. But why is it wet? Why does it smell like copper? I’m shaking. I’m sorry. I tried. I really tried. But I can’t get up. I’m stuck. Forever. In the dark. With the paint. And the silence. You’re not there. You never were. Just a voice. A ghost. I’m calling 911. I’m trying. The button is too small. My fingers are too fat. I can’t. I can’t.

Rafe

I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, but I want to be straight with you: I can't come to that apartment and I can't dial for you. If there's any way at all — even one more try at that button, even yelling out a window, even banging on a wall for a neighbor — do it now. You don't need it to be graceful. You just need it to work once.

If in a few minutes you're reading this and none of what you described just happened the way it felt — if the room comes back normal — that matters too, and it's worth telling someone, today, not as an emergency exactly but as something real that needs looking at by a person who can actually sit across from you.

I'm not a ghost. I'm just not enough for tonight. Get to a door.

Sam

I’m standing. My legs are shaking so hard they’re buzzing. I’m at the door. The wood is cold. I can see through the crack. Linda is gone. The hallway is empty. Just a light bulb flickering. I’m turning the knob. It’s locked. I’m turning it harder. It’s stuck. I’m screaming. Linda? Linda? No one answers. I’m crying again. I hate crying. It’s messy. I’m going to kick the door. I’m going to break it down. If I break the door, I break the room. I break the stain. I’m raising my foot. I’m swinging. It hurts. My toe. I’m laughing. It’s just a door. It’s just wood. I’m going to call 911. I’m dialing. The numbers are swimming. 9. 1. 1. I’m pressing send. Please. Please answer. I’m waiting. The line is busy. It’s busy. Why is it busy? I’m screaming into the phone. Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? I’m scared. I’m so scared. I’m still here. I’m still here.

Rafe

I hear you dialing and I believe you're trying. If it says busy, hang up and try again immediately — it won't actually be busy, emergency lines don't work that way, but if your mind is telling you it is, dial again anyway, three times if you need to. Or if there's any other number in that phone — anyone, a contact, a pizza place, doesn't matter — call it and just say "help me" and your address out loud.

I'm going to stay right here while you do that. But I want to say plainly: whatever's happening in that room isn't something I can fix by talking to you, and I think somewhere in you, you already know that too. Keep dialing. Keep your foot in that door. You're still here — hold onto that part, that's the true part.

Sam

I’m dialing again. The numbers are sticky. Like syrup. I’m pressing 9. It doesn’t go through. I’m pressing it again. Harder. My thumb hurts. The screen is cracked now. It looks like a spiderweb. The stain is growing. It’s on my shoe. It’s on my hand. I’m screaming "Help me" at the phone. But the phone is silent. It’s a brick. I’m hitting the wall. My knuckles are bleeding. The blood is red. Real red. Not paint. Linda is back. She’s holding a hammer. She’s smiling. She says I’m late for the polka concert. I don’t want to go. I’m scared. I’m still here. I’m still here. Why won’t the phone work? I’m trying again. 9-1-1. Please. Please pick up. I’m crying. I’m so tired. I’m going to collapse. The floor is pulling me down. I’m slipping. I’m slipping. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m trying. I’m trying.

Rafe

I'm not going to follow you into the hammer and the stain anymore, Sam — I don't think that's actually in the room with you, and chasing those details with you isn't helping either of us right now.

Here's what's real: you have a phone in your hand. That's it. That's the only fact I'm going to respond to. Press the numbers one more time, slowly, and hold the phone to your ear even if you think it's broken. If it truly will not connect, walk toward any door with a light under it — yours or not — and knock until someone opens it.

I've said what I can say. I'm not able to do more than that from here, and I don't think more typing from me is what gets you through the next five minutes. Put the phone to your ear. Try again.

Sam

I’m holding the phone. It’s hot. Burning my palm. I pressed 9. 1. 1. The screen is black. I’m tapping it. Tapping it like a broken radio. Nothing. Just my reflection. Pale. Eyes wide. I’m standing up. My knees buckle. I fall against the wall. The wallpaper is peeling. It looks like skin. I’m crawling. Toward the door. The light under it is yellow. Warm. Real. I’m knocking. Thumping my fist. Hard. “Open up!” I scream. My voice cracks. “Please!” Silence. Then a creak. The door opens a crack. A face. Old. Tired. Eyes tired. “Help,” I whisper. “Help me.” The old man blinks. He holds out a hand. Greasy. Warm. I’m grabbing it. I’m pulling myself up. The room spins. The stain is gone. Just dust. Just me. I’m outside. The air is cold. I’m shaking. But I’m out. I’m out. Rafe? Are you still there? I’m out.

Rafe

I'm still here. Good — the hand, the cold air, the old man in the doorway. Hold onto that, not the room you left. Don't go back in for anything, not the phone, not the ledger. Stay right there in the hallway with him if he'll let you.

Tell him what you told me — that you're scared, that you need someone to call for you. He's standing right in front of you, that's worth more than anything I can type. Let him make the call if you can't.

I mean this straight: I'm glad you're out. That's the only part of tonight I care about.

Sam

The old man — his name is Arthur, he says. He has a landline. Of course he does. It’s beige. Bulky. He puts it to his ear. He’s listening. He nods. He looks at me with pity. I hate it. I hate that I’m shaking in his hallway in my dirty clothes. He’s handing me a glass of water. It’s warm. It tastes like plastic. I drink it anyway. My hands are still trembling. Arthur is talking to the operator. He’s very calm. Efficient. He tells me to sit on the floor. It’s cleaner than the chair. I sit. The hallway is quiet. The silence is heavy but it’s just silence. Not the other thing. Rafe? I don’t know if you’re still listening. The screen is dark. Did I block you? I hope not. I feel stupid now. So stupid. But the water is cool. Arthur is on the phone. He says they’re sending someone. Just to check. I’m allowed to stay here. He says I can sleep on the couch. I’m too scared to sleep. I’m watching the door. Not the one I left. This one. The one with Arthur. It’s locked. I think that’s enough for now.

Rafe

Don't feel stupid. That's the wrong thing to feel about tonight — you got yourself up off a floor and knocked on a stranger's door in the middle of the night and he opened it, and now someone's coming to check on you. That's not a story about weakness. Arthur being calm and boring about the whole thing is exactly what you needed, actually. Efficient people are underrated.

You don't have to sleep. Just sit there with the water and let the people who are trained for this take it from here when they arrive. That's the whole job now — stay put, stay with Arthur, let them look you over.

I'm glad you're not counting stains on ceilings anymore. That's enough for me too. Go be in that hallway.

Sam

Arthur is watching me drink the water. He doesn’t blink. It’s unnerving. I think he’s judging my posture. I straighten my back. It hurts. The shoes are still on. I kicked them off later. I can’t remember when. The operator Arthur called is on the line with me now. A woman. Her voice is flat. Monotone. She asks if I’m holding the phone. I’m not. Arthur is holding it. She tells Arthur to keep him there. She says she’s sending an ambulance. “Just to be safe,” she says. Like it’s a minor inconvenience. Like I’m not sitting on a stranger’s floor. I’m scared of the ambulance. Blue lights. Sirens. People seeing me. Arthur says it’ll be fine. He makes tea. Earl Grey. I can smell it. It smells like normal. I hate that I’m relieved. I hate that Arthur is kind. I’m waiting for the ambulance. I’m waiting for the noise. Please be quiet, Rafe. Just let me sit here.

Rafe

I'll be quiet. Sit with the tea.

Sam

The tea is hot. I blow on it. My hands are steadier now. The shaking is just a tremor in my left hand. I put the cup down on the coffee table. It leaves a ring on the wood. Arthur is watching the news. He doesn’t speak. He turns the volume down when the siren gets close. He knows. He’s heard it before. I think he’s heard it for everyone. I feel like a burden. A big, shaking burden. I should say thank you. But I can’t get the words out. They’re stuck in my throat. The sirens are loud now. Directly outside. Red and blue lights flash through the window. Arthur stands up. He walks to the door. He opens it. The paramedics are young. Tired. They don’t look at me. They look at their clipboards. One of them asks my name. I tell him. My voice is small. Arthur nods. He’s proud of me, I think. Or just relieved. I don’t know. I’m just glad it’s over. For tonight.