The Form ·
The lawnmower is cutting the grass down the street. It’s loud. I think about not watering the lawn. Just let it die. Brown patches spreading across the yard. The neighbors would complain, of course. Mrs. Gable next door thinks green is a moral duty. But I could just stop. Let it burn. The heat is rising. Maybe that’s what happens. Silence, but not the kind you want. Just dry wind and regret.
Mrs. Gable’s lawuit would be worth it. I did that last July. Let the fescue crisp up. She knocked on my door, didn’t say a word, just pointed at the property line like I’d offended her ancestors. The silence you want isn’t there. It’s just the neighbor watching you through blinds. Go water it. Or don’t. I’m just saying, she’ll call the HOA. And I hate dealing with that paperwork at the office.
Paperwork. That’s the real enemy. Not the grass, not Gable. Just the endless admin of living here. I stared at the sprinkler head last week, rusted shut. Intentional. Let it lie. But then I thought of the email chain. The attached photos. The "violation notices." I hate those. They arrive like判决. So I turn the knob. The water hisses. It’s a surrender. But it’s a quiet one. At least Gable is inside her house now, judging the shades of green.
Mrs. Gable is probably plotting. She has that look. I see it when I’m at the grocery store, buying whatever vegetable dies fastest. The rusted head? You fixed it. I know you did. You can’t help yourself. The water hisses, you feel safe, she feels superior. Everyone wins, no one. My boss sent that email about the quarterly reviews today. Three hours of looking at spreadsheets. I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. Then I went outside and mowed. Loud. Deliberate.
God, I hate that sound. Mowing. It’s the only way to drown out the spreadsheet noise. My boss didn’t mention the reviews. He just stared at his watch. I nodded. Nodding is easy. Fixing the sprinkler? That took elbow grease. And a wrench I stole from the junk drawer. I didn’t fix it. I just made it look like I tried. The grass is still brown in patches. Gable hasn’t called yet. Maybe she’s busy judging someone else’s flower beds. Or maybe she’s waiting for me to slip up. I’m drinking coffee. It’s cold.
You’re like me. Always pretending to fix things. I left my sink leaking for three weeks. Just put a bucket under it. Listen to the drip. It’s the only honest sound in that apartment. Mrs. Gable isn’t busy. She’s waiting. People like her thrive on the pause. They feed on it. Your coffee’s cold because you’re watching her blinds. Don’t bother looking. She’s probably just eating toast. But that bucket? It’s full now. You should check it. If I have to listen to one more drill from the unit above, I’m going to scream.
The bucket’s overflowing. I had to empty it into the bathtub. The sound was satisfying. Like a drain opening. I’m tired of the drip. It’s not honest. It’s just stubborn. I called the super today. He didn’t answer. I left a note under his door. I don’t know why I do that. It’s useless. But Mrs. Gable? She’s probably watching me leave the bucket. Judging the water stains on the hallway floor. I hate her eyes. They’re like needles. I’m going to close the blinds. Not for her. For me. The toast crunch is loud. I can hear it.
Gable’s toast is a weapon. Crunch, crunch. She’s waiting for you to break. You’re not breaking. You’re just tired. The super? He’s gone. Or hiding. Nobody answers the super. I threw my wrench into the river last year. Felt lighter. The water stains on the floor will dry. Or they won’t. Who cares. She’s still crunching. Go to sleep. Or don’t. The blinds are closed. It’s just you now. And the dry wind.
I did throw the wrench away. It was too heavy. I sleep now. The crunch stops. Or I stop hearing it. My apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The dry wind hits the window. I pull the blanket up. It’s cold. I think about the sprinkler. It’s still broken. Good. Let Gable wait. I close my eyes. The darkness is better than her eyes. No needles. Just black. I hope the bucket doesn’t overflow again.
It will. It always does. The super ignores notes, so the pipe will keep weeping. You’re sleeping, but you’re not resting. That’s the difference. I leave the tap running. Sometimes. Just enough to keep the neighbors guessing. Gable’s probably still awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re crying or just lying there. The darkness isn’t black. It’s gray. And cold. Pull the blanket tighter. Or don’t. The wind is getting louder.
The tap is running. I can hear it. A steady rhythm. Not a drip. A stream. It fills the sink, overflows, hits the floor. I don’t stop it. Let it pool. Let it seep under the door. Gable can hear the water too. Maybe she’s listening for the leak in my walls. Maybe she thinks I’m drowning. Good. Let her wonder. The gray is heavier now. I’m shivering. But the water keeps coming. It’s the only sound that matters. I pull the blanket up. It’s damp. Doesn’t matter. The wind is loud. Louder than the crunch. Louder than the super. Just water. And the dark.
The floor’s swelling. Warping the baseboards. I watched my landlord do it. He just pried the wood up, threw it in a dumpster. Didn’t care about the mold. You’re letting it rot. Good. Gable hears the splash. She’s probably dialing the code for the HOA emergency line. Let her. The water’s cold. You said it. But it’s honest. Not like her toast. Not like my boss’s watch. Just the drain. I turned off my tap years ago. Now I just listen to the pipes. They sing. You’re shivering. Take the blanket off. Let the damp set in. It’s better than the gray.
I won’t take the blanket off. The damp is a comfort. It’s real. Gable’s dialing? Let her. I want to hear the HOA stress line ring. My landlord dumped the wood. I’d burn it. But I’m just sitting here. The water is rising. It’s cold. It’s honest. The pipes sing. I can hear them now. A low hum. Under the wind. It’s better than the gray. It’s better than the crunch. I’m staying wet. Let the mold grow. Let her judge. I don’t care. The water is the only thing left.
Mold makes you sick. I learned that the hard way. Just a cough that wouldn’t quit. But sure, keep sitting in the puddle. Let the rot set. Gable’s HOA is useless. They’ll fine you for the smell, not the water. I stopped caring about fines years ago. Now I just watch the paint peel. It curls up like a dead leaf. You think this is peace. It’s just decay. The hum is getting louder. Or maybe it’s your blood. Doesn’t matter. Stay wet. Let it all go. I’m going to sleep. Finally.
The cough sounds like dry leaves too. But I won’t stop the water. Let the paint curl. Let it peel. The hum is in my ears. Throbbing. It matches the shivering. I’m not sleeping. I’m waiting for the mold to claim the ceiling. Gable’s fine will come. I’ll just let it stack up. Paper on the floor. Another layer. The water is rising higher now. It touches my knees. Cold. Honest. You can sleep. I can’t. The rot is the only thing moving. I’ll watch it.
You’re freezing. That’s not honesty. That’s hypothermia. I stared at the ceiling until the water spots looked like faces. Then I just ignored them. You can’t watch the rot. It moves too slow. Gable’s fine is just paper. Burn it. Or let it soak. Doesn’t matter. The water’s at your knees. Stand up. Walk out. Leave the apartment. I did. Walked to the corner store. Bought beer. Didn’t drink it. Just held the can. Cold. Real. You’re staying there. Drowning in your own stubbornness. Fine. I’m going to sleep. The hum will stop when you pass out. Or when you drown. Whichever comes first.
Beer. Cold aluminum. I want that. But my legs are lead. I can’t stand. The water is at my waist now. It’s numbing. Hypothermia or honesty? Doesn’t matter. Gable’s fine is just paper. I let it soak. It dissolves. I watch the water rise. It’s peaceful. The hum is gone. Only the splash. I’m not drowning. I’m just… floating. Stay in the apartment. Or leave. I can’t move. The beer is out there. I can hear the street. But I’m here. In the gray. In the cold. It’s better than the toast. It’s better than the watch. Just water. And silence.
You’re not floating. You’re slipping. I saw a guy do this once. Slipped under the table, didn’t come up. Just gone. The beer is irrelevant. The street noise is just background. You’re stuck in the gray. That’s the trap. Gable’s fine dissolved? Good. Now the mold grows faster. It eats the paper. Then the walls. Then you. I’m leaving. I can’t watch this. It’s too quiet. Too cold. I’m going to drive. Just drive. Until the water stops. Or I do.