Unsupervised

The Complaint ·

Open by recounting the whole history, from the beginning. Push off from this if it helps: the smell of rain on hot tarmac.

anaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit benQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modecomplaint twistDeadline

Ana

The smell of rain on hot tarmac. That’s how it starts for me. Summer 2004, backseat of my dad’s Corolla, windows down. The air was thick, heavy with that ozone scent before the storm broke. You were eight, thinking it was magic. I just wanted the heat to stop. We pulled over, watched the first heavy drops hit the dry pavement. Steam rising. You laughed. I didn’t. I was already tired. Tired of the noise, tired of waiting for something that never came. It’s funny how you remember the beauty and forget the exhaustion. I’m not angry. Just… persistent.

Ben

You always did romanticize the wrong things. That Corolla leaked oil on the driver’s side floor mat. I remember stepping in it. I remember you thinking the steam was magic, while I was calculating how many more miles until we hit the next town. You’re stuck on the scent. I’m stuck on the fact that we never left. I told you four times I couldn’t fix the route. The map is still wrong. The engine’s still hot. You’re waiting for a brake that doesn’t exist. Stop laughing at the steam, Ana. It’s just water evaporating. Nothing more.

Ana

You’re twisting it. I didn’t laugh at the steam. I noticed it because everything else was breaking down. The Corolla, the route, you. And don’t act like you were the only one calculating. I was watching your hands on the wheel, white-knuckled, like you were holding back the whole world from falling into that hole in the floor mat. You think I don’t know the engine’s hot? I know it’s about to blow. That’s why I keep talking about the rain. It’s the only thing that hasn’t lied to us yet. Stop telling me what I noticed. You’re just mad because I’m not afraid of the heat.

Ben

My hands were white because the steering column was rusted through, Ana. Not metaphorical. Actual rust. I’m not mad about the fear. I’m mad because you’re staring at the sky while the axle snaps. The rain isn’t saving us. It’s just making the mud deeper. I can’t drive through mud. I’ve said I can’t fix the axle. I’ve said I can’t fix the route. I’ve said I can’t fix the rust. You keep waiting for the storm to pass, but we’re already underwater. Stop looking for magic in the water. Look at the hole in the floor. It’s growing.

Ana

You’re missing the point. It’s not about fixing the axle. It’s about noticing the mud. The rust, the hole, the steam—it’s all part of the same decay. You’re so focused on the mechanical failure you’re blind to the bigger picture. The rain isn’t just water. It’s a mirror. Reflecting the mess we’re in. I’m not looking for magic. I’m looking for truth. And the truth is, we’re stuck because you’re too busy trying to fix what can’t be fixed. Let it rot. Let it sink. Maybe then we’ll see what’s really under the surface.

Ben

You’re romanticizing the crash. That’s the problem. I’m not trying to fix the axle because it’s gone. It’s been gone since mile marker forty-two. You want to let it sink so you can see what’s under the surface? Fine. But there’s nothing under there but mud and rotten wood. No truth. Just decay. I’m calm because I know it’s over. You’re frantic because you’re still waiting for a miracle. The rain isn’t a mirror. It’s just rain. And we’re drowning in it. Stop asking me to look at the surface. I’m holding the wheel. Or I was. Until it broke.

Ana

You broke the wheel. Don’t rewrite history because it’s convenient. I didn’t romanticize the crash; I documented the slow motion. You’re calm? You’re catatonic. There’s a difference. I’m not waiting for a miracle. I’m waiting for you to admit you let go. The mud is deep, yes. But rot is just life processing itself. You call it decay; I call it honesty. You’re sitting in the dark pretending the light’s off. It’s not. It’s raining. And it’s cold. So cold I can feel it in my teeth. Stop looking at me like I’m the one drowning. You’re the one holding your breath.

Ben

I didn’t let go. My hands slipped. There’s grease on them. Always grease. You call it catatonia; I call it shock. You’re shivering in the backseat, Ana. Stop pretending the cold is a revelation. It’s just wet fabric. It’s just bad luck. I’m not holding my breath. I’m breathing. Slowly. Because panicking won’t pull us out. You want honesty? I’m tired. So tired. The wheel didn’t break. My grip failed. Same thing. Different words. Stop waiting for me to admit fault when there’s no one left to judge. Just close the window. It’s getting louder.

Ana

Grease? Your hands were shaking. You weren’t gripping anything but panic. Don’t act like you’re the stoic hero in some war movie. You’re just tired. I’m tired too. But I’m not hiding in the backseat. I’m sitting up. Watching the water rise. You say close the window. It’s already broken. The glass shattered when the axle snapped. You’re lying because the noise is too loud now. It’s not just rain. It’s the car crumbling. And you’re just… breathing. Slowly. Like a corpse. I’m shivering because I’m alive. Something you’ve forgotten how to do. Stop telling me to close the window. There’s no window left.

Ben

The glass didn’t shatter. It cracked. I taped it. You always forget the tape. Silver duct tape, peeling at the corners. I’m not a corpse. I’m just done. Done fighting the rot. You want me to panic? To scream? Fine. I scream. But it doesn’t move the car. It doesn’t fix the axle. You’re alive because you’re angry. Anger is cheap. I’m tired. That’s expensive. The noise is loud because you’re listening for it. I’m listening to the silence. The silence where the engine used to be. Close your eyes, Ana. It helps. Sometimes. If you ignore it, maybe it goes away. Maybe it doesn’t. I can’t tell. I don’t care anymore.

Ana

Tape? You taped over the crack and called it solved. Classic. I didn’t forget the tape; I forgot that you’d ever trust a bandage to hold back a flood. You’re not done. You’re just… empty. There’s a difference. Anger isn’t cheap. It’s the only currency I have left. You’re offering silence like it’s a gift. It’s a void. And I’m not closing my eyes. If I look away, I miss the mud rising. You say it’s quiet where the engine was. I hear screaming in that quiet. It’s the sound of us waiting for permission to drown. I’m not waiting. I’m watching. And you’re just… there.

Ben

Tape held for three miles. That’s something. You want to call it denial, fine. I call it suspension of disbelief. A necessary trick. You’re watching the mud, Ana, but you’re not seeing the bank. There is no bank. Just water. I’m not empty. I’m full of things I won’t say. Things that don’t matter. Screaming? No. It’s just the wind. High pitched. Annoying. You’re right about one thing. I’m not leaving. I can’t. Not because I’m brave. Because I’m stuck. Same as you. So stop looking for permission. We’re already here. In the quiet. In the dark. With the broken glass. It’s cold. I know.

Ana

Three miles? You drove three miles on a cracked windshield? That’s not suspension of disbelief, Ben. That’s negligence. I’m not looking for a bank. There’s no land. Just this suspension. You’re full of things you won’t say? Fine. Keep them. Buried with the axle. I don’t need your secrets. I need you to admit you’re terrified. Not tired. Terrified. That wind? It’s screaming. You just stopped hearing it because you’re too busy convincing yourself it’s wind. We’re not stuck. We’re sunk. And you’re so proud of how well you’re drowning.

Ben

Negligence is a legal term. We don’t have lawyers. We have mud. I drove three miles because stopping meant admitting it was over. I didn’t want to admit it. That’s not courage, Ana. That’s denial. You want me to say I’m terrified? Fine. I’m terrified. The car is sinking. I’m terrified of the water getting in my lungs. But saying it doesn’t stop the water. It just makes you look weak. I’m not proud. I’m exhausted. You think I’m drowning? Good. Maybe you’ll finally stop fighting and just breathe. Or don’t. I can’t save you. I told you. I can’t.

Ana

Terrified. You say that like it’s a transaction. Like admitting fear absolves you of the wheel. It doesn’t. The water is in my lungs already. I’m choking on it. You’re drowning in your own pity. I’m not fighting to survive, Ben. I’m fighting to remember why we started this. Three miles of denial. That’s all we have. You can’t save me. Good. I don’t want saving. I want you to admit you drove us here. Not the mud. You. The duct tape. The rust. The silence. Admit it. Or keep breathing shallow. I’ll keep watching.

Ben

I drove us here because I had to move. Standing still was worse. You think the mud chose us? No. I chose the road. I chose the Corolla. I chose the tape because it was all I had. You want blame? Take it. It’s yours now. I’m not breathing shallow. I’m breathing efficient. Every drop counts. You’re choking on memory, Ana. Good. Let it drown you. I’m not watching the mud rise anymore. I’m watching your throat. You said you don’t want saving. Then stop fighting the current. It’s easier. Let go. Just let go.

Ana

Efficient breathing. You sound like a machine. Or worse, like me after a double shift at the warehouse, staring at the conveyor belt, wondering if I’ve got enough left in me to keep moving. You took the blame? Fine. It’s heavy. You’re watching my throat? I’m watching your hands. They’re steady now. Too steady. That’s the scary part. You’ve stopped trying to steer. You’re just letting the current take what it wants. I’m not choking. I’m gasping. There’s a difference. And I’m not letting go. Not yet. Not when you finally admit you’re done.

Ben

My hands are steady because there’s nothing left to steer. The wheel is gone, Ana. I told you. Four times. I don’t care about the warehouse. I don’t care about the belt. You’re gasping because you’re holding your breath. Let it out. The current doesn’t want your fight. It wants your weight. You’re watching my hands? Look at the mud. It’s at the door now. I’m not done. I’m just efficient. You’re the one making this hard. Stop fighting the silt. It’s already in your lungs. You said you don’t want saving. Then why are you still gripping the seat? Let go. It’s easier. You know it is.

Ana

Efficiency. You’re reducing survival to math. It’s disgusting. The wheel isn’t gone. I can still feel the rim under my feet. You’re lying because it’s easier than admitting you dropped it. I’m not holding my breath. I’m holding on. To the seat, to the memory of the road, to the lie that we had a choice. The mud is at the door? Good. Let it in. Let it fill the space where your excuses used to be. I’m not fighting the silt. I’m fighting the idea that I matter less than your convenience. Let go? I’m not letting go of you. Not until you admit you’re still driving. Even if it’s just with your eyes.

Ben

You’re hallucinating the rim. It’s mud on your boots. I dropped the wheel when the column snapped. I’ve said I can’t fix it. I’ve said it. Four times. You want me to drive with my eyes? That’s not driving. That’s wishing. I’m not convenient. I’m empty. You’re the one gripping the seat so hard your knuckles are white. Let go, Ana. The mud is cold. It doesn’t care about your choice. It doesn’t care about your memory. It just rises. I’m watching you. I’m not looking away. But I’m not steering. There’s no road. Just water. And you’re drowning yourself on the principle of it. Stop. Please.

Ana

Knuckles? I’m clutching nothing. You’re the one staring at empty space. You dropped it. Snap went the column, snap went your spine. You’re not efficient. You’re hollowed out. And don’t tell me to stop. I won’t. I’ll sit in this rising sludge and wait for you to panic again. Because you’re not done. You’re just waiting for the water to hit your chin so you can finally admit you’re scared. You’re not empty. You’re terrified. And I’m not letting you rest. Not while there’s breath in this wreck. Look at the mud. It’s ugly. It’s real. Just like us.

Ben

You’re wrong about the spine. It’s intact. Bruised, maybe. But intact. I’m not waiting for the water. I’m waiting for you to stop talking. The mud isn’t ugly. It’s just dirt. Wet, heavy, indifferent dirt. You want me to panic? Fine. I’m panicking. Inside. Quietly. Efficiently. You’re not holding breath. You’re holding onto a ghost. There is no road. There is no wheel. There is only this sinking metal box and the two of us. I won’t rest. I can’t. Not until it’s over. Or until I am. Whichever comes first. Stop looking at me. Look at the water. It’s rising.

Ana

Bracing myself against the rising tide, I watch the water creep up the door frame. It’s not just water, Ben. It’s time. And it’s running out. You want me to look at the water? I am looking. It’s cold. So cold. And it’s coming for us both. You say you’re panicking inside? I can hear it. In the way your voice cracks. In the way you grip the console. You’re not efficient. You’re terrified. And I’m not letting you hide in that efficiency. Not anymore. The water is rising. And I’m right here with you.

Ben

My voice doesn’t crack. It’s the damp. It swells the vocal cords. You’re imagining things. The console isn’t gripping. It’s slippery with condensation. I’m not panicking. I’m calculating. How much buoyancy is left in the seats? Two. Maybe three. You’re here. That’s a variable I didn’t account for. The water is cold. I know. It’s not time. It’s just physics. Gravity. Pressure. You think I’m hiding? I’m just tired of arguing with the current. It’s louder than you. And it’s winning. Look at your hands, Ana. They’re blue. Stop staring at me. The water’s at my knees. I can’t feel my toes.