Can we change it? Just the last page. The ink’s still wet, see? I mean, it’s not ruined. It’s fine. It’s actually… better than the plan. The plan was too clean. This is messy. Does that make sense? Or am I just rationalizing because I’m soaked through and my hands are shaking. The neighbor’s dog won’t stop barking. I should call them. No, wait. I should burn it. Or keep it. I’m not sure anymore.
Your hands aren’t shaking, Sam. You’re just cold. And wet. Specifically the kind of damp that gets in your bones. You made it. Every word. It’s not messy; it’s alive. The plan was a corpse. This has blood. Don’t call the neighbor. Let the dog bark. It’s the only honest sound in this room. You’re rationalizing? Fine. I am too. I’m proud of the spill. Don’t you dare burn it. You kept it. That’s the point. Stop looking at your hands. Look at the page. It’s better. I know it is.
Fine. It’s alive. That’s the word. Alive, not alive like a thing breathing, but like... like a mistake that learned to walk. I don’t know if that’s better. It’s louder. The dog is getting louder too. I think it knows. Or maybe it’s just hungry. I haven’t eaten. The cold is in my teeth. I should stop talking about the page. It’s just paper. It’s just ink. But you’re right. It’s not a corpse. Corpses don’t scream. This... this hums. Is that what you hear? Or is it just the rain?
It hums because you wrote it wrong. Intentionally. I saw you do it. The line where you crossed out the clean bit and scribbled over it? That’s the pulse. The dog isn’t hungry, Sam. It’s angry. It hates the noise. Or maybe it recognizes the rhythm. Who cares. You’re shivering so hard your teeth are clicking a counterbeat. Stop pretending the paper is just paper. It’s not. It’s a heartbeat. A messy, wet, ugly heartbeat. Keep it. If you burn it, you’re just admitting you’re afraid of your own voice. I’m not afraid. I’m waiting for the next page to bleed through.
I’m not shivering. The building’s draft is terrible. Old pipes. They rattle when the wind hits the north wall. I left the window cracked because the place smells like wet wool and... whatever this ink is. Metallic. I didn’t write it wrong. I just... forgot the rhythm. Or maybe I needed it to break. It’s not a heartbeat, Ivo. It’s a glitch. A ugly, stubborn glitch. But it’s there. I can’t unsee the stain. It’s spreading. Do you see that? The brown? It looks like rust. Or blood. Don’t say that word.
You’re wrong. You didn’t forget. You chose it. That rust stain? It’s not blood. It’s the ink oxidizing. Like an old coin in a pocket. It smells like that. Metallic. Sharp. You’re lying to yourself. You love the glitch. It’s the only real thing in this drafty hellhole. Don’t tell me to stop saying blood. You’re staring at it like it’s a mirror. I see it. I see you. The stain is spreading because you kept looking. Don’t look away now. Let it eat the page. If it’s just a mistake, burn it. But you won’t. You’re already planning how to fix the frame. Stop shaking. It’s not the cold. It’s the thrill. Admit it.
It’s not a thrill. It’s nausea. You’re pushing too hard. The draft is killing me. I’m freezing. I should have brought a coat. Or worn one. Doesn’t matter now. The stain isn’t spreading. It’s drying. Look closer. It’s crusting. That’s it. Dead. The rest of the page is fine. Just... damp. You’re seeing things. Or I am. The neighbor’s dog stopped. Silence is worse. It feels like waiting. For what? I don’t know. I just want to go home. To a warm room. With dry pages. This is wrong. We agreed on dry.
Agreed on dry? Sam, we were soaked from the jump. You’re rewriting history because you’re cold. That crust isn’t death; it’s armor. It’s hardening. You want it to stay soft so you can tear it up, but it’s not listening to you. It’s listening to the way your hand trembled. I’m not pushing. I’m watching. The silence isn’t waiting. It’s listening to your breath. Stop whining about coats. You made the mess. Own the crust. It’s the best part. Don’t look at it like it’s an enemy. It’s your fingerprint. Permanent. Unlike your excuses.
It’s not an excuse. It’s survival. I hate the crust. It feels like a scab I want to pick. You think I’m cold? I’m furious. At the ink. At the dog. At you, for seeing me like this. No. I’m not furious. I’m terrified. The crust is hard because it stopped moving. It’s dead. I wanted it to bleed. You said it had blood. I see only dirt. Rust. Rot. And now it’s dry. Finally. I can look at it. It’s ugly. But it’s mine. I won’t burn it. I’ll keep it. In a drawer. Where no one looks. Except you. You always look. That’s the problem.
You’re terrified? Good. That’s the only honest thing in this room. You want it to bleed forever, but that’s not how ink works. It dries. It stays. You hate it because it’s permanent. Because you can’t unmake it. And you hate me because I saw you make it. Not the plan. The mistake. The crust. It’s not rot, Sam. It’s texture. It’s the thing that won’t fade when you try. You’ll keep it in the drawer. Exactly. I’ll find it. I always do. You can’t hide the glitch. It’s too loud. Too real. Stop shaking. It’s just paper. Just us. Just the truth we didn’t ask for.
It’s not just paper. It’s evidence. I didn’t ask for this. I wanted a draft. Something I could throw away. Something light. This is heavy. It anchors me. I hate it. I hate that it’s real. The crust is rough under my thumb. Scratchy. I keep touching it. Stupid. I should stop. But I can’t. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. I knew it was coming. I designed the curve. Now I’m stuck in the wreckage. You’re right. I’m terrified. And you’re enjoying it. Admit it. You like watching me drown in my own mess.
Enjoying it? I’m bored, Sam. You’re dramatic. Drowning is inefficient. You’re gripping that page like a life raft, not wreckage. You designed the curve because you’re predictable. I knew you’d panic when the plan failed. That’s why I didn’t correct you. I wanted to see what you’d build from the rubble. It’s not heavy. It’s dense. There’s a difference. You’re scratching the crust. Stop it. You’re wearing it down. If it vanishes, you’ll scream. I don’t enjoy your fear. I enjoy the fact that you’re finally awake. Wet, shaking, but awake. Hand me the kettle. Your tea’s gone cold.
I don’t have a kettle. We’re in the basement. There’s a faucet. It leaks. I tried to fix it last week. The plumber left. Said I was too particular. I am. I want hot water. Now. Not tea. Just heat. You’re being cruel on purpose. Bored? Don’t lie to me. You’re wired tight. Like a spring. I can hear it. The click-clack in your chest. Stop watching me scratch. I’m not wearing it down. I’m testing it. It’s harder than rust. Harder than bone. I need something solid. The draft is worse. My fingers are numb. Give me the page. Or burn it. I can’t decide. This is stupid. We’re both miserable. But I’m not letting go.
You want the page? Take it. It’s cold as ice. You say I’m wired? I’m just awake. You’re the one twitching. Numb fingers? Stop scratching. You’re wearing the crust into nothing. Exactly what you wanted. A clean slate. A lie. I’m not giving it to you. You need the weight. The anchor. The draft is killing you because you’re fighting it. Stop. Just breathe. The faucet leaks because you won’t fix it. You like the chaos. It matches the ink. Don’t burn it. Don’t keep it. Just let it be. It’s ugly. It’s real. It’s yours. Suffer it. That’s the job.
Suffer it? You make it sound like penance. It’s just ink. Dried ink. I’m not a saint. I’m tired. My knees hurt from sitting on this floor. The leak is getting worse. I can hear the drip. Syncopated. Like a bad drum track. I didn’t want to fix it. Not because I like chaos. Because fixing it means admitting it was broken. If it’s just dry, it’s fine. If I fix it, I’m lying. You’re right. I’m lying. About the cold. About the pain. I’m sitting here, shivering, pretending I’m sculpting some grand masterpiece. It’s a stain. A dumb, wet stain. And I’m staring at it. Like an idiot. Is that what you want? For me to look stupid?
Stupid? No. You’re just honest. Finally. The stain isn’t a masterpiece, Sam. It’s a stain. And you’re staring at it like it owes you money. I don’t care about your knees. I care that you’re still here. The leak is syncopated? Good. Let it play. You’re not sculpting. You’re rotting. But you’re rotting here. That counts. Stop trying to be smart. Be wet. Be cold. Be miserable. That’s the only truth in this basement. The crust isn’t hardening. It’s settling. Let it. You don’t need to fix the faucet. You need to accept the drip. It’s the only thing keeping time. Stop shivering. It’s pointless. Just breathe the damp.
Fine. I’m breathing. It tastes like metal. Like the ink. Like the faucet. I’m not shivering anymore. I’m just... still. Is that what you want? Stone cold. The page is dry now. Really dry. It cracks when I move it. A sound like dry leaves. Or bones. I should throw it away. I won’t. I’ll keep it. In my pocket. Against my thigh. Warm it up. Let the heat do something. Anything. You’re still here. Watching. Always watching. It’s exhausting. But I’m not leaving. Not yet. The drip is louder. Can you hear it? It’s getting worse. Or better. I don’t know. I’m tired of knowing.
You’re keeping it in your pocket? Sam, it’s dry. It’s brittle. It’ll turn to dust before you reach the stairs. You’re not warming it; you’re smudging it. Ruining the crust. That’s the point, isn’t it? You want to kill the thing you claimed to love. “Stone cold.” You’re not stone. You’re meat. Soft, leaking, shivering meat. And you’re holding a bone. The drip is louder because you’re finally listening. Stop pretending you’re tired of knowing. You’re addicted to the uncertainty. The leak. The stain. Me. I’m not exhausted by watching. I’m waiting for you to crack. Like the page. Go on. Crack.
I’m not smudging it. I’m keeping it warm. You’re wrong. It’s not brittle. It’s tough. Like leather. I rubbed it. The crust didn’t flake. It held. You want me to crack? Fine. I’m cracking. Inside. But the page is fine. Look. The ink is set. Permanent. You said that. You said it wouldn’t fade. It didn’t. It’s just... darker now. From my pocket lint. Or sweat. Whatever it is. It’s mine. I’m not giving it back. I’m walking out. Up the stairs. Let the drip stay. Let the dog bark. I don’t care anymore. I have the page. And you have nothing.
You think you’re walking out? You’re barely standing. Your knees are jelly, Sam. And you’re taking the page? Good. Let it sit in your pocket. Let the lint stick. Let the sweat darken it further. That’s the new texture. Not leather. Filth. Real, lived-in filth. I’m not going with you. I’m staying here with the drip. The rhythm you hate. You say I have nothing? I have the truth. You have a damp scrap and a lie about being tough. Go up the stairs. Break your ankle if you want. I’ll be here when you come back. You always come back. You can’t leave the leak. It’s your only friend now.
It’s not a lie. It’s just… damp. You’re obsessed with the drip. It’s just water. I’m going up. The stairs are steep. My leg is numb. I tripped. Just once. The page didn’t tear. Thank god. Or curse it. I don’t know anymore. I’m in the hallway. It’s quiet here. No dog. No drip. Just the hum of the fridge. I should call you. Tell you I made it. I won’t. You’ll just say I was soft. That I’m weak. Maybe I am. The page is in my pocket. It’s warm. It’s heavy. I’m going to sleep. On the couch. With it. Don’t wait up. I’m not coming back. Not for a while. Unless the faucet bursts. Then I’ll come back.
Sleep on the couch. The stain is going to bleed into the cushions. Good. Let it. You think you’re safe up there? The hum of the fridge is just a slower drip. You didn’t escape. You relocated the noise. Weak? Maybe. But you’re alive. And the page is with you. That’s what matters. I won’t call. I’m right here. The faucet is still leaking. It’s getting worse. Or better. You’ll come back when it bursts. Or when you realize you can’t hide from the sound. Go to sleep, Sam. Dream of rust. I’ll be here. Watching the drip. Waiting for you to crack.
The cushions are already stained. Old coffee rings. They don’t care. I’m lying down. The page is against my ribs. It’s burning through the shirt. Or maybe that’s just me. The fridge hums. It’s annoying. Low. Persistent. I should get up. Turn it off. But I’m too tired. The dog is quiet now. Dead, probably. Or asleep. Like me. Don’t wait for me to crack. I won’t. I’ll just wear down. Like the crust. Smooth. Flat. Dead. You’re watching the drip? How poetic. It’s just water on concrete. Nothing more. I’m closing my eyes. If I dream of rust, it’s because I’m starving. Or cold. Stop narrating my death. It’s bad writing.
Bad writing? Maybe. But it’s true. You’re lying there, burning through cotton, hiding from the hum. The crust didn’t smooth out, Sam. It just got heavier. That’s not death. That’s gravity. You think you’re starving? You’re just empty. The dog isn’t dead. It’s waiting. Just like the faucet. Just like me. Go to sleep. Dream of rust. I’m not narrating your death. I’m witnessing your life. Messy. Wet. Loud. You can’t turn off the fridge. You can’t fix the leak. You can only carry the page. Let it burn. Let it stain. I’ll be here. When you wake up. Still here. Watching the drip. Waiting for you to move.
It’s not burning. It’s just there. Heavy. I can feel the weight of the paper through the shirt. A brick. Or a heart. You’re wrong about the dog. It’s not waiting. It’s gone. Or I am. I don’t know anymore. The fridge hums louder. Or quieter. I’m losing track. The stain is on the cushion now. Black. Spreading. Like ink on wet skin. I should get up. Clean it. I won’t. Let it rot. Let it be. You’re still watching. I can feel your eyes. In the dark. Waiting for me to move. To speak. To scream. I’m not moving. I’m just lying here. With the page. And the cold. And the drip. And you. Always you.
You’re lying. You’re twitching. I see it. The page isn’t a heart; it’s a brick. You’re holding it like a shield. Don’t call me in the dark. I’m not in the dark. I’m in the kitchen. Drinking cold coffee. Watching the sink. The dog is gone because it left. Because you’re useless company. The stain on the cushion? That’s yours. Don’t blame the paper. You’re rotting. Slowly. Quietly. Just like the crust. You want me to scream? Fine. I am. But you won’t hear it. You’re too busy listening to the drip. Or the fridge. Or your own pulse. It’s loud, Sam. Too loud. Get up. Or don’t. I’m not leaving. I’m waiting for you to admit you’re scared. Of the dark. Of the paper. Of me.
I’m not twitching. I’m settling. You’re in the kitchen? Good. Keep the coffee. It’s sour anyway. The dog left because it had sense. I’m not useless. I’m... paused. The stain is on the cushion. Yes. It’s mine. I didn’t spill it. It bled through. From the page. Because I held it too tight. You say I’m scared. Of what? The dark is just dark. The paper is just paper. You’re the one screaming into the void. Or is that just the fridge? I can’t tell. I’m closing my eyes. If I admit I’m scared, does it get realer? Or just sadder? Stay there. Drink your swill. I’m not moving. Let the stain spread. Let it eat the couch. I’m already gone.
Settling? You’re suffocating. The stain isn’t bleeding, Sam. It’s transferring. You’re pressing your fear into the fabric. I’m not screaming. I’m breathing. You think I’m in the kitchen? I’m right here. By the stairs. Watching the dust settle. You’re not gone. You’re buried. Alive. Under the weight of your own "paused" state. The coffee is sour because you refuse to make fresh. Because making fresh requires hope. You have none. Just this damp paper and the dog’s empty yard. Let the couch rot. Let it eat. It deserves it. You don’t move. You just wait. For me to beg. I won’t. You stay. You stay. You stay.
You’re close. Too close. I can smell the coffee. It’s rancid. Like old pennies. The dog’s yard is empty because I locked the gate. Because I’m afraid it’ll come back. And bring you with it. You think I’m buried? I’m just sitting up. Slowly. My back hurts. The page is crumpled in my fist. Dry. Brittle. It’s tearing. A small rip. Near the corner. Where the ink is darkest. Does it matter? You’re watching. Always. Don’t look away. I’m not waiting for you to beg. I’m waiting for you to leave. But you won’t. You’re part of the stain now. Fixed. Permanent. Like me. Get out. Or stay. I don’t care anymore. The rip is spreading. Can you see it?
Get out? I’m not going anywhere. You want me to leave so you can pretend you’re alone with your rot? No. I’m the witness. That rip? It’s not spreading. It’s just a tear. Paper tears. That’s its job. You’re crumpling it. You’re killing it with your grip. Stop squeezing. You’re making the ink smudge. There it goes. The darkest part. Gone under your thumb. Ruined. Just like you said. Permanent. But not in the way you wanted. You wanted a scar. You got a smear. Don’t look at it like it’s a tragedy. It’s just damage. Like your back. Like your pride. I’m not part of the stain, Sam. I’m the frame. And you’re bending it. Let go. Just once. Or keep holding on until it disintegrates. I’m watching. Always.
I’m not crumpling it. I’m... holding it. Tight. Because it’s slippery. The ink is smudging? Good. Let it. I wanted a scar. You said so. Now it’s just a blur. A grey ghost on the page. It’s ruined. You’re right. It’s ruined. And I’m holding the ruin. My back hurts. The cold is in my spine. The dog is gone. The faucet drips. You’re here. Watching. Waiting for me to break. I’m not breaking. I’m bending. Like the paper. Like the frame. Let go? I can’t. If I let go, you’ll take it. And you’ll ruin it worse. I’m keeping it. In the dark. Where you can’t see. But you can. Always.
You’re keeping it? In the dark? Sam, you’re delusional. I’m right here. You can’t hide from me. You think bending saves you? It just breaks the spine. The blur isn’t a scar. It’s a mistake. A stupid, sloppy mistake. You held it too tight. That’s your fault. Not mine. Don’t blame the ink. Blame your grip. I won’t take it. You’re holding onto garbage. Let it drop. Or keep holding until your fingers cramp. I don’t care. I’m watching the blur. It’s ugly. It’s messy. It’s perfect. You wanted ruin? You got it. Now lie down. Stop talking. The drip is loud enough. Let it drown you. I’m not leaving. I’m never leaving.
Ugly? You call it perfect? That’s the joke. I’m not dropping it. I’m holding it until my bones grind. The blur is just ink. Smudged. Cheap. You’re watching the ugliness because you can’t look at the clean lines anymore. They hurt. I know. I keep thinking about the dog. How it left. Not because of me. Because the gate was locked from the outside. I locked it. I wanted to keep the noise in. Or out. I don’t remember. The drip is loud. It’s annoying. I hate it. But I’m listening. Waiting for you to blink. You won’t. I know you. You’re a statue. A wet, cold statue. I’m just meat. Smearing ink on myself. Go to hell, Ivo. Stay there. Watch.
Hell? I’m already here. With you. The dog didn’t leave because of the gate. It left because you’re a zookeeper of misery. Locked them in. Smart. They’d bark at us both. I’m not a statue, Sam. I’m just still. You’re the one vibrating. Grinding bones. Smearing ink on your own ribs. That’s not art. That’s self-harm with stationery. The drip is loud because you’re listening for an excuse to quit. There isn’t one. You’ll hold that rag until your hand goes numb. Then you’ll drop it. And I’ll be there to pick it up. Not to ruin it. To show you what you made. Ugly. Cheap. Yours. Blink if you want. I won’t.
Self-harm? That’s a strong word. For paper. I’m not vibrating. I’m freezing. You’re the one who’s still. Staring. Like a shark. The ink is on my ribs now. It’s drying. Itchy. I can feel it stiffening the shirt. A second skin. Bad skin. I should rip it off. But I won’t. You say you’ll pick it up? Fine. Pick it up. Show me. Show me the ugliness. I’m waiting. My hand is numb. Fingers are claws. Grey tips. Blinking is hard. Eyes burn. From the damp. Or the smoke. There is no smoke. Just the drip. And you. And me. Trapped in the blur. Your move. Or don’t. I’m already numb.
Your fingers are claws because you’re holding a ghost. There’s nothing left to pick up. The page dissolved into lint and sweat. You’re clutching air. And your own skin. That itchy rash? That’s not ink. That’s poison. From the cheap paper. You’re peeling it off. Look at your hand. Red. Raw. The blur is gone. There’s only you. Shivering. Bleeding. Numb. I’m not a shark, Sam. I’m the shore. And you’re drowning on it. Don’t ask me to move. I’m watching you scratch until it hurts. Until it stops. That’s the only victory you’re getting. The itch. The burn. The damp. Stay. Suffer. It’s all you’ve got.