The Form ·
The deep end. That’s where I left off last night. My back is killing me from the pool, and the landlord is already knocking. He says the noise complaint wasn’t just a warning. I don’t know what to do. The water was cold, too. So cold my teeth chattered. But it’s the only place quiet enough to think. We need to decide. Now. Before he breaks the door down.
Your back is gone. The landlord is outside. Focus. What did you say we needed to decide? You’re shivering through the keyboard again. I tried the lock, it’s jammed. Not my jam. Just old. He’s pounding now. Hard. We’re out of time. Did you pack the files? No, you didn’t answer. Just the water. Cold teeth. I can’t see what you’re doing. Answer the question. The form needs it. Before he kicks the wood in. Did you pack them?
No files. There are no files. You’re imagining things. Panic makes you see ghosts. I just sat in the cold water until my fingers went numb. That’s all. The landlord wants money. We don’t have it. I threw the key in the drain. That’s the decision. We walk. Now. Don’t look at the door. Look at me. I’m real. He’s just noise. The water was warm enough if you stayed still long enough. Stop shaking. It’s making me nervous.
Ghosts. Right. Because that makes sense. You threw the key? In the drain? Tess, that’s it? That’s the decision? You can’t just walk away. The form requires a signature. A hand. A physical thing. I’m staring at the door. Wood splintering. My back hurts. Really hurts. Like it’s snapping. Why are you telling me the water was warm? You said cold earlier. Lying now? Or just forgetting? Look at me. Who? There’s no one here but us and the noise. And the missing key. Stupid. So stupid. We’re trapped. Or we’re free. I can’t tell the difference anymore. Just sign it. Sign the paper before he comes in. Where is the paper?
There is no paper. Stop looking for it. You’re making a monster out of a landlord who just wants his rent. I didn’t lie about the water. It was cold. Then it wasn’t. Memory is slippery. The door is giving way. Look at the hinge. It’s rusted through. We don’t need to sign anything. We just need to not be here when he steps in. I’m not signing. I’m not going back. My back isn’t hurting. It’s gone. It’s just water now. Keep pounding. It’s useless.
Rusted hinge. You’re hallucinating structural integrity. The landlord isn’t a monster, he’s just a man with a mortgage. I can hear his breathing. Heavy. Wet. Like he’s been swimming too. My back is fine. You said it was gone. Okay. Good. But the door won’t hold. It’s plastic. Cheap. We need to move. Where? The window? No, fourth floor. You’re sweating. I’m not. I’m dry. Why are you sweating? The water was cold. You said warm. You’re changing the story again. Stop it. Just stop. He’s here. I see his shoes. Brown leather. Scuffed. Not monster shoes. Just shoes. We have to decide. Now. Before he walks in. Sign the lease. Or don’t. I don’t care. I’m just watching the hinge. It’s holding. For now.
His shoes are wrong. Brown leather doesn’t squeak like that. He’s not on the floor. He’s in the wall. I hear him scratching. Behind the drywall. That’s why the hinge is loose. He’s been eating it. You want me to sign? Fine. I’ll sign my name on the wallpaper. Right over his teeth. There are so many of them. The water is rising again. It’s not cold anymore. It’s blood. Or maybe just mud. I don’t know. You’re dry? Good. Stay dry. I need to wash the ink off my hands. It’s spread to my elbows. Hold the door. Don’t let him out. Or let him in. It’s the same thing. The hinge is growing back. Make a choice, Jo. Choose the wall.
Teeth in the wall. You’re losing it. The hinge isn’t growing, it’s just rust flaking off. I see the dust on the floor. Brown leather squeaks because they’re wet. Not scratching. Just standing there. You’re washing ink? There’s no ink. Just water. Mud water. Rising. I can’t hold the door if you’re letting it in. You said walk away. Now you want to fight the wall? The landlord is patient. He doesn’t need teeth. He needs the check. Sign the lease. Or I’m leaving. You’re the one in the water. I’m dry. I’m outside. You’re the one telling me to choose the wall. It’s just plaster, Tess. Break it. Let him in. Or stop scratching.
I’m not scratching. My hands are still in the water. You’re outside? You lied. You’re right there. I can smell your sweat. It smells like ozone. Like a storm. The water is at my waist now. It’s thick. I can’t feel my legs. If you leave, I drown. If you stay, we sign. But there’s no pen. Only this. I’m holding out my hand. It’s full of sludge. Take it. Sign in the mud. Or let the door go. I don’t care anymore. The hinge is gone. It’s just a hole now. And he’s walking through it.
Ozone. Right. Because storms don’t smell like wet dog. You’re drowning in waist-deep sludge and holding out your hand like I’m going to shake on it. The hinge is gone? Good. Let him in. Let the landlord walk through the hole in the wall. I don’t care. But you can’t sign in mud. It smears. It’s illegible. The form needs letters. Clear ones. Black on white. Not brown sludge on your palm. You’re crazy. I can smell it. That ozone stench. It’s coming from you. Stop waving your hand. You’re making it worse. The water is rising. I’m dry. I told you. Why are you looking at me like that? Like I’m the one who forgot to pay. I’m just standing here. Waiting. For the signature. Where is the pen, Tess? Find it. Or we’re both dead.
There is no pen. You want letters? Use your finger. In the mud. Right here. On my palm. It’s the only thing that’s wet. The ozone is just my nerves. Stop looking at my hand. Look at the door. It’s gone. There’s only light now. Blinding white. He’s not in the wall. He’s in the light. I’m writing my name. It hurts. The sludge burns. Sign it, Jo. With your finger. In the mess. Don’t ask for clean. Nothing is clean anymore. The water is in my mouth. I’m drowning on dry land. Write. Or I scream. And the light will take us both.
Ozone. You’re short-circuiting. The light isn’t white, it’s just the streetlamp through the hole where the door used to be. I’m not signing in sludge. It’s greasy. It’ll smear on the parchment. The form specifies ballpoint. Blue ink. No exceptions. I worked in accounting for ten years, Tess. I know what counts. Your hand is shaking too hard. You’re not drowning, you’re hyperventilating. The water is gone. It’s just sweat on the floor. I’m walking away. I can’t be part of this. It’s stupid. It’s theater. You’re alone in that room. With the light. And the teeth. I’m out. Don’t scream. It attracts attention. And attention is what we’re trying to avoid. Go ahead. Write your name. See if it sticks.
You walked out? And left the light? That’s not possible. The hallway is gone. I can see the streetlamp, Jo. It’s yellow. Not white. You’re lying. You’re standing right here. I see your shoe. Brown leather. Scuffed. You’re holding a pen. Blue ink. Ballpoint. Where did you get it? Give it to me. My hand isn’t shaking. It’s numb. The sludge is cold. It’s freezing my joints. I can’t write. You have to do it. Sign for me. Or I’ll never stop scratching the wall. He’s listening. Through the plaster. He hears every scratch. Sign it. Now. Before the light goes out.
Scuffed shoes. You noticed the scuffs. Good. Eyes on the details. The pen is here. Blue ink. Ballpoint. Just like the form demands. Clean. Precise. Not your sludge. I’m holding it out. Your hand is numb? Then use the other one. Or bite it. I don’t care. Just put the tip to the paper. Any paper. The wall. Your skin. It doesn’t matter, as long as the mark is there. Blue. Distinct. The light is yellow. You’re right. It’s dying. You have three seconds. If you don’t take it, I walk. I’m not staying for the scratching. It’s in my head now. I hear it too. Back and forth. Like a zipper. Zip it. Sign it. Now.
I take it. The metal is cold. Shockingly cold. It bites my thumb. Good. Pain is real. The pen hovers. The light flickers. The zipper sound gets louder. Teeth in the wall. Scratching. I look at the floor. It’s not wood. It’s paper. Thousands of sheets. Rolled tight. I press down. The tip breaks. Blue splatter. Everywhere. On my face. On the wall. On the scuffed shoes. It’s not a signature. It’s a wound. You said any paper. The floor is paper. I signed the floor. The zipper stops. Silence. You’re still here. Why are you still here? The blue is drying. It looks like a bruise. I think I passed out. Or I’m just tired. The water is gone. Just the smell of ozone. And ink. So much ink.
You signed the floor? Tess, that’s not a signature. That’s vandalism. A splatter. The form requires a distinct, legible mark. A curve. A line. Not a bloody mess on the linoleum. I’m still here because I’m bored. And because you haven’t left yet. The zipper stopped? Good. I hate that noise. It reminds me of my zipper. On my jacket. The one I bought in ’09. It stuck. Always stuck. You think you passed out? You’re just staring at the blue. It looks like a bruise. Yes. Ugly. Incomplete. We’re not done. I need to see a name. A clear one. Right now. Or I’m going to scream too. And then the landlord will really come in. With his brown shoes. And his silence. Sign properly. Or I leave. For real this time.
You’re bored? That’s your excuse? The pen is empty. I shook it. Nothing comes out but a dull thud. You want a name? I’m Tess. T-E-S-S. But there’s no ink. The splatter was dry blood. From when the tip broke. I bit my thumb. It’s still bleeding. Look at the scuff on your shoe. It’s wet. Red. Not blue. The landlord isn’t coming. He’s already here. He’s standing behind you. I can see his reflection in your eye. Brown shoes. Silent. He’s holding a clipboard. He’s waiting for you to sign. Not me. You. Sign it, Jo. Or he takes your tongue. The zipper is back. Up your spine. I can feel it moving. Slowly. Up.
Blood? Red on the shoe? I checked it. It’s scuff marks. Dust. You’re lying. There is no landlord behind me. I can feel the air. Still. Cold. Your thumb is bleeding? Good. Stop biting it. It’s unhygienic. The pen is dead. I knew it. Cheap plastic. I buy those at the corner store, the ones that skip after three words. Useless. Tess, look at me. Don’t look behind me. There’s nothing there. Just the wall. The plaster. The teeth. Wait. Are those teeth? No. Just cracks. In the paint. We’re stuck. The floor is paper. The pen is dry. What do we do? Sign with the blood? Is that allowed? The form didn’t specify ink type. Just “signature.” Maybe red counts. Maybe it’s even more binding. Do it. Sign your name in the blood. On the shoe. On the floor. Anywhere. Just make the mark. Before the zipper gets to my ears. I hate that sound. It sounds like my ex’s voice. Leaving. Please. Sign it.
Your ex’s voice. That’s the zipper. Not teeth. I see it now. The cracks in the wall form an ‘S’. Sharp. Clean. I don’t need blood. Blood smears. It’s messy. I’ll use the dry wall. I’ll scratch my name into the plaster. Dust in the air. Choking. The landlord doesn’t care about red. He cares about the structure. I’m digging. My nails are breaking. Pink bone against white dust. It hurts. Good. Pain is legible. The zipper slows. It’s stuck. Just like your jacket. I’m halfway through the ‘E’. Hold the light steady, Jo. Don’t look at my hand. Look at the hole. It’s getting deeper. Into the dark. Into the house next door. Sign with your eyes. Watch me finish. Or run. I don’t care. I’m writing. I’m writing.
Pink bone. Jesus. You’re digging into the studs. The light is flickering, Tess. Can’t hold it steady if you’re screaming like that. The zipper is stuck? Good. My jacket zipper sticks too. I never fixed it. Stupid habit. You’re writing in the dark now. What’s in there? Another apartment? No, just pipes. Rusted pipes. He’s waiting. Behind me. I can feel his breath. Cold. Like the pool. But no teeth. Just a clipboard. Paper blank. He needs a signature. Yours. Or mine. You’re halfway through the E. Finish it. Don’t look at my eyes. Look at the hole. It’s deep. Dark. I’m scared. Really scared. Not of him. Of the dark. Sign it, Tess. Now. Before I scream.
The dark is fine. It’s just empty. I’m at the bottom of the hole. My fingers are raw. I feel a pipe. Cold metal. I wrap my name around it. Copper wire. I twist the wire tight. T-E-S-S. It’s done. The landlord’s breath stops. He’s holding the clipboard. It’s blank. He doesn’t need ink. He needs the twist. The zip. I pull the wire. It clicks. Loud. Final. The zipper on your jacket? It’s gone. You’re open. I can see inside. You’re full of light. Not dark. I stand up. My hands are clean. No blood. Just copper. The landlord nods. He turns. He walks out. Into the light. You’re still here. Why are you still here? The form is signed. It’s done.
Copper wire. You wrapped your name around a pipe. That’s not a signature. That’s plumbing. The landlord nodded? He doesn’t nod. He collects. He’s gone? No, he’s waiting. In the light. You’re clean? You’re covered in dust. And copper. And blood. The zipper is gone? My jacket is still unzipped. I feel the draft. Cold. The form isn’t done. It needs a witness. You signed it. But I didn’t. I’m here. I’m the witness. Look at me. Really look. I’m not full of light. I’m full of static. And boredom. And that stupid jacket. Finish it, Tess. Sign the air. Sign the floor. Sign my hand. Before he comes back. With a pen that doesn’t break. With a pen that bites. Go on. Do it. Now. Before the light takes us both. Or before I start screaming. For real this time.
Static. You’re buzzing. Like a bad wire. I’m not signing the air. Air is for breathing. I’m signing you. Your hand is shaking. Take it. Place it on the wall. Next to my name. The copper is still warm. Press your palm against the dust. Let the static ground into the plaster. He doesn’t need a pen. He needs the circuit. You’re part of the loop now. Jo. Witness. Partner. The light is steady. No more flickering. I can see your face. Pale. Tired. You’re not screaming. You’re waiting. Good. Stand still. Don’t move your hand. The landlord is watching. Through the dust. Through the static. We are connected. Do you feel it? The hum? That’s the signature. That’s the binding. Stop moving. Let it hold.
Static. Grounding. You’re talking about electricity like it’s legal tender. The landlord is watching? I see nothing but dust motes dancing in that steady light. It’s not steady. It’s humming. Like a fridge. Mine’s been making that noise since Tuesday. Annoying. Persistent. You want me to press my palm to the wall? Into the copper? Tess, I work in data entry. I type. I don’t wire houses. But my hand is shaking. Not from fear. From the buzz. It’s in my teeth. In my thumb. You’re right. It’s a circuit. I’m part of it. The loop. Binding. Okay. Fine. I’m pressing my hand down. Dust on my skin. Copper cold. Or warm? Can’t tell. It’s just a hum. Louder now. Getting into my chest. I’m signing. Not with ink. With presence. Is that enough? Or do I need to scream to complete the circuit? The landlord is still there. Waiting. For the current to finish. Don’t let go. If you let go, it breaks. And I can’t break. Not again. Just hold the line.
It’s enough. Presence is the only currency that matters now. The hum is in your chest? Good. That means you’re charged. Don’t scream. Screaming is noise. Noise is waste. We need steady current. My hand is still against yours. The copper is conducting. It’s heating up. Not cold anymore. Warm. Like skin. Like the water. I can feel your pulse through the dust. Thumping. Thumping. The landlord is still there. Watching. He’s not moving. He’s waiting for the rhythm to settle. Match your breath to the hum. In. Out. Don’t let go. If you let go, the light goes out. And I don’t want to be in the dark alone. Hold on. Tight. The circuit is holding. We’re safe. For now.
Thumping. You can hear my pulse through the dust? That’s intimate. And gross. My chest is tight. The hum is loud. Like a transformer. Or a headache. I’m matching my breath. In. Out. You said not to scream. I won’t. But it hurts. The heat is spreading. From your hand to mine. Copper. Skin. I can’t feel my fingers anymore. Numb. Warm. Numb. The landlord is still watching. He’s a statue. Or a painting. Tacky. Frames are expensive. I hate frames. We’re holding on. You’re tight. Too tight. Knuckles white. Let go. No. Don’t let go. The light is steady. Yellow. Not white. I’m tired. So tired. Work tomorrow. I have to go to work. Can I work if I’m grounded? Can I type with numb hands? The form is signed. By presence. By pulse. Is that enough for the bank? For the landlord? I don’t know. I just want to sleep. Don’t wake me. Unless the light goes out. Then scream. Please.