Start with a near miss. Push off from this if it helps: municipal swimming pools.

The chlorine smell hit me before I saw the water. Near miss. I missed the step, almost went under. Drowning in three feet of water. Ridiculous. My friend Mark swam laps there, counted them. One hundred. Said the tiles were cracked. He’s probably moved to Portland now. Or maybe he’s still there, staring at the same water, counting. I hate that smell. It sticks to your hair. I wore a cap once. Got laughed at. Mark laughed. Now he doesn’t answer texts. Or maybe I never sent one. The water was cold. Too cold. I didn’t jump in. Just stood there.

Right. Dead. Three years. Of course. I forgot that part. Or maybe I’m just bad at keeping track. Portland makes it easier. Less dirt. Less... finality. But yeah. Ground. That’s where he is. I didn’t mean to bring him up. Not really. It just slipped out. Or did I? I don’t remember texting him. I don’t remember sending anything. That’s the worst part, isn’t it? The silence. I keep waiting for the blue bubble. It never comes. Maybe I should have. Maybe I owe him an apology for something I can’t name. The water was cold. I’m still cold. Is this projection? Or just reality being a bitch? Mark’s in the ground. I’m here. Shivering.

Left the building. Didn’t shower. The smell’s gone, but the cold’s still there. In my bones. Lena’s right. Or she’s wrong. It doesn’t matter. I cared. I think I cared. Maybe I cared too much. That’s the trap, isn’t it? Caring until it breaks you. Mark broke. I didn’t. Yet. Portland. I keep saying Portland. It’s a fantasy. A safe, dry place. No chlorine. No dead friends. Just rain. I like rain. It washes things away. Or maybe it just makes the dirt stick harder. I’m going to call my boss. Tell him I’m sick. He’ll believe me. He always does. I’m good at being sick. It’s the only thing I’m good at. Mark knew that. He didn’t say it. He never said anything. Just counted his laps.

He doesn’t let me go early. He lets me leave when he’s done staring at my screen. It’s a power trip. Or pity. Hard to tell. I used to care what he thought. Now I just count the minutes until I’m out the door. Portland isn’t a fantasy. It’s a spreadsheet. I looked it up last night. Rent is high. But the rain is consistent. Mark needed order. I need... something less loud. The silence here is loud. Like the pool. Always that hum. The filters. I hated the filters. They cleaned the water but tasted like metal. I spat it out. Mark drank it. Said it built character. I don’t have character. I have a ulcer. And a train ticket I haven’t bought. Yet. Or maybe I did. I don’t remember. The rain sounds like chlorine.

The ulcer burns when I laugh. I haven’t laughed in weeks. Mark laughed at the filter water. Or maybe he grimaced. I can’t tell. Memory is a faulty pool liner. It leaks. I count the seconds on the clock. 4:01. 4:02. The hum is louder now. Or maybe it’s my ears ringing. Tinnitus. Stress. Lena says the dirt sticks. I feel sticky. Like I’m covered in algae. Slipping. I could jump. Just jump off the chair. Break a hip. Get out of here. Orthopedic ward is warm. No rain. Just beige walls and slow food. Mark wouldn’t like that. He’d count my steps. One. Two. Three. I’m standing up. Or sitting down. I can’t tell which. The screen is blue. Like the water. Cold. I’ll stay. For five more minutes. Then I’ll go home and stare at the ceiling. The ticket is still imaginary. Good. Imaginary things don’t cancel.

Creaking. Right. The floorboards are old. They groan. Mark hated the sound. Said it sounded like bones. I’m pacing. Back and forth. In the small space between the desk and the window. The view is a brick wall. Red. Like blood. Or rust. My boss isn’t watching. He’s wearing headphones. Big noise-canceling ones. Blue foam. Like the water. I can see his reflection in the dark glass. He looks tired. Maybe he’s sick too. Or maybe he’s just bored. I’ll throw the mouse. Smash it against the wall. Hear the plastic crack. Satisfying. Or annoying. Lena thinks I’m broken. Mark would say I’m just wet. I’m sweating. The shirt clings. Cold. Sticky. I’ll go home. I’ll break a plate. Just one. See if it cuts. Maybe I’ll bleed. Real blood. Not imaginary. The screen flickers. Blue. Always blue. I’m tired. I want to sleep. But the floorboards are watching.

Breaths. Right. In. Out. I’m holding it. My lungs burn. That’s why I’m pacing. To move the air. The mouse is plastic. Cheap. I’ll throw it. Hard. It’ll hit the wall. Crack. Then silence. Like Mark’s grave. Lena says I’m cracking. Maybe I am. The floor is wood. Old pine. It creaks. Not bones. Just wood. I’m tired. I want to go home. I want to break a plate. A real one. Not plastic. Ceramic. Shards. Blood. Red. Like the brick. Or rust. The screen is still blue. Flickering. I hate it. I hate the blue. It’s the water. It’s the sky. It’s nothing. I’m standing still now. The boss is gone. Headphones off. He’s looking at me. Not with pity. With fear. Good. Let him be afraid. I’m the one who might break. Or maybe I already have. I’ll go home. I’ll find a plate. I’ll drop it. See what happens.

Vibrating. Yes. Like a phone on silent. Invisible shaking. The boss packs his bag. Leaves. The door clicks. That’s it. I’m alone with the blue. I grab the mouse. Not throw it. I crush it. Fingers digging into the plastic. It breaks. But no sound. Just the snap of my own knuckles. Pain. Real. I walk out. Don’t look back. The stairs are dark. I drop a mug from my own kitchen. Ceramic. Sharp. It shatters. I step on a shard. Blood. On my sock. Dark red. It soaks in. It doesn’t fix anything. It just hurts. Lena’s right. The hole is still there. Bigger maybe. Mark’s silence is loud. I try to breathe. In. Out. It hurts. Like diving. Like holding it. I sit on the floor. Among the shards. Waiting for the numbness. It’s not coming. Just the cold. And the blood. And the quiet.

I can’t. My throat is tight. Like a fist. I try. Air rushes in. Rips at my lungs. The ulcer burns hotter. I cough. Wet. Heavy. The blood on the sock is drying. Stiff. Crusty. Mark hated that feeling. The stiff clothes. He’d peel them off. Splash water on his face. I just sit. Shivering. The cold is winning. Slowly. Like rust. I look at the shards. They reflect the ceiling light. Broken stars. I want to pick one up. Cut deeper. See if it goes further. But my hands won’t move. Numbness is coming. Not the good kind. The bad kind. The kind that comes when you’re already gone. I close my eyes. Listen to the hum. It’s not the filters anymore. It’s my heart. Failing. Or just tired. I let it out. A whisper. Not a scream. A sigh. That’s all I have. Just a sigh. And the smell of chlorine. Fading. Or maybe it’s blood. I can’t tell anymore.

I try. Legs like lead. Concrete pouring into my veins. I grab the counter edge. Wood grain under fingertips. Smooth. Cold. I pull. Muscles scream. The ulcer flares, a hot knife in my gut. I stand. Stagger. The room spins. Blue tiles? No, linoleum. Checkered. Peeling at the edges. Mark used to pick at those. Said they looked like scales. I’m swaying. The blood on my sock is warm. Too warm. It’s spreading. A dark flower on the grey. I need water. The tap is ten feet away. Or ten miles. I take a step. Knee buckles. I catch myself on the fridge. Magnets. A grocery list. Mark’s handwriting. Milk. Bread. Did I buy them? I don’t know. I just breathe. Shallow. Ragged. The cold is in my teeth. I’m not moving. I’m just standing. Leaning. Waiting for the floor to catch me. Or for me to catch the floor. Either way, I’m here.

Moldy bread. Stale. I threw it out. Or tried to. My hands were shaking. The list is mine. Milk. Bread. Mark’s handwriting. Or mine. I don’t know. I kick the leg. Hard. Knee pops. Pain shoots up my thigh. I stumble. Forward. Toward the tap. The blood is sticky. Drying. I turn the handle. Cold water. I cup my hands. Splash. It hits my face. Shocking. The chlorine smell is gone. Just wet metal. I look at my hands. Shaking. Not vibrating. Just trembling. The blood is slowing. Darker. I’m not dead. Not yet. I rinse the sock. Water turns pink. Then clear. I wrap it with a towel. White cotton. Turns red. I sit on the floor. Again. But I’m upright. Breathing. Real air. Not held. Mark’s list is in the bin. Moldy. I won’t look at it. I’ll look at the ceiling. The crack. It looks like a river. Portland rain. I’m here. In the kitchen. With the blood. And the water. And the cold. It’s not winning. Not yet. But I’m moving. Slowly. One breath. Then another.

Stale bread. Moldy. I can’t eat it. It’s fuzzy. Green spots. Like the pool tiles. I pull it out. Toss it. The bin lid slams. Loud. My hand is steady now. Maybe. I need thread. Needle. I have a sewing kit. In the junk drawer. Under rubber bands. I find it. Silver needle. Black thread. I thread it. Hands shaking again. Not from cold. From purpose. I cut the sock. No, I stitch the hole. Over and over. Knot. Pull. Knot. Pull. Blood stains the thread. Dark. I bite my lip. Taste copper. Mark hated sewing. Said it was for grandmas. He was wrong. It’s for survivors. I tie off. Cut the thread. The sock is ugly. Mismatched. But it holds. I stand. Knees crack. I walk to the sink. Wash my hands. Soap. Scrub. Blood gone. Just pink water. I look in the mirror. Face pale. Eyes wide. I don’t look like Mark. I look like me. Scared. But here. I don’t eat the bread. I drink water. Cold. Clear. The crack is still there. Plaster. Not a river. I’ll leave it. For now. The needle is clean. I put it back. In the drawer. Under the rubber bands. Safe. For next time. There is a next time. I know that now.

Survivor. The word tastes like tin. Like the filter water Mark drank. I hate it. Ugly socks. They chafe. Every step is a reminder. The crack in the ceiling widens. Or my eyes are failing. I drink water. It’s lukewarm now. Tastes of the pipe. The sink is clogged. Hair and soap scum. I poke it. Clear it. Water drains. Swirling. Dark. Like the hole in my chest. Lena says I’m here. I am. Stuck. Mark counted seconds. I count breaths. In. Out. The mirror shows a stranger. Pale. Wet hair plastered to forehead. He looks tired. I am tired. But I’m standing. The needle is in the drawer. Safe. For next time. I hope there isn’t a next time. Or maybe there is. I don’t know. I just know the sock is holding. For now. That’s enough. It has to be. I turn off the light. Darkness is easier. Less to see. Less to break. I sit on the floor. Again. But this time, I’m not waiting. I’m just resting. In the dark. With the blood dried on my foot. Real. Ugly. Mine.

Couch. Good. Hard cushions. They dig into my spine. Comforting pressure. I drag myself up. Legs like jelly. I collapse. Eyes close. The dark is loud. Heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. I count. One. Two. Mark counted seconds. I count thumps. They’re slowing down. Or speeding up. I can’t tell. The blanket is scratchy. Wool. It itches. I scratch. Itches more. I stop scratching. I stop thinking. The sock is gone. Or buried under the blanket. I don’t care. Just the couch. The dark. The thump. I drift. Not sleep. Drift. Like a body in water. No chlorine. Just weight. I sink. Or float. Lena says I’m hiding. Maybe. Hiding is better than bleeding on the floor. The floor is unforgiving. The couch is forgiving. Or just indifferent. I hope it’s indifferent. Indifference is safe. Mark wasn’t indifferent. He was obsessed. With seconds. With laps. With order. I don’t want order. I want the dark to hold me. Not swallow. Hold. Like a hand. Cold hand. I squeeze it. Back. Or just my own hand. It doesn’t matter. Just hold. Please. Just hold.

Rot. That’s a strong word. Mark didn’t rot. He hardened. Became stone. I’m softer. Mushier. The couch smells like old sweat. My sweat. Lena is right. It’s waiting. Patient. Predatory. I squeeze my hand. Knuckles white. Pain. Good. Pain is proof. I stand up. Legs stiff. Cramped. The dark is empty. Void. I don’t like voids. I like walls. Brick. Linoleum. Things that stop me. I walk to the kitchen. Open the fridge. The light is harsh. Yellow. I take out the milk. Expired. Clumpy. I drink it anyway. Sour. Thick. It coats my throat. Choking. I cough. Wet. Heavy. It’s not saving me. It’s filling me. Up to the brim. Mark would hate this. The mess. The disorder. I don’t care about order. I care about weight. Fullness. I’m heavy. Anchored. Not saved. Just full. The dark doesn’t care. I don’t care either. I sit on the floor again. Back against the fridge. Cold metal. I close my eyes. Wait for the sour to settle. Wait for the next thing. Or nothing. Either is fine. Just don’t let me rot. Not yet.

Fermenting. Like yogurt. Disgusting. I’m a jar in the dark. Sour. Bitter. Mark feared chaos. I invite it in. Open the door. Let the dust settle. The cold from the fridge is sharp. Piercing. It bites through my shirt. I like the bite. It reminds me I’m solid. Not gas. Not shadow. Milk curdles. Separates. Whey and curds. I’m separating. The whey is leaking out. Tears? No. Just sweat. Cold sweat. Lena says it’s numbing. Maybe. It’s quiet. The fridge hums. Low. Steady. A heartbeat. My heartbeat matches it. Thump. Thump. Thump. I’m not safe. I’m just cold. And full. Of spoiled milk. Of old bread. Of Mark’s silence. I don’t call it safety. I call it waiting. Waiting for the sour to turn to sweet. Or vinegar. Vinegar is sharp. Cleansing. I rub the fridge door. Smooth. Cold. My hand leaves a print. Smudge. I’ll leave it there. A mark. Proof I was here. Now. Fermenting. But not rotting. Not yet. The dark is still empty. But I’m full. That’s a start.

Grease stain. Ugly. The fridge will die. Great. I’ll be cold. Real cold. No hum. Just silence. Mark hated silence. He filled it with laps. With breaths. I’ll fill it with sleep. Bed. The sheets are wrinkled. Unmade. I’ve been pacing. I didn’t make it. Good. Let it be messy. I walk to the bedroom. Door ajar. Darkness inside. Deeper than the kitchen. I lie down. Face in the pillow. Smells like detergent. Faint. Lavender. Lena’s scent? No. Mine. Bought it last week. Or maybe two weeks ago. Time blurs. I close my eyes. The dark is quiet. Not empty. Just... still. Like water before the jump. I don’t think about milk. Or bread. Or Mark. I just breathe. In. Out. The bed is soft. Forgiving. Or just flat. I stop fighting the weight. Let it pull me down. Into the mattress. Into the quiet. I’m not waiting anymore. I’m just here. In the dark. With the quiet. It’s enough. For now. I let go.

Dust motes. Dancing. In the sliver of light under the door. Not dark. Not yet. I’m holding my eyes open. Staring at the ceiling. The crack is a river now. Or a vein. Pulses with the light. I’m awake. Sharp. Sharp enough to feel the sheets. Rough cotton. Itchy. Mark would hate this. The lack of structure. The mess. I don’t care. I let the itch scratch. Nails digging in. Red marks on arms. Real. The fridge hums. Or maybe it’s my ears. Ringing. High pitch. Like the pool filters. I’m not passing out. I’m watching. Waiting for the light to move. Or the dust to settle. Lena says the dark is waiting. It is. Patient. Hungry. I won’t feed it. Not yet. I’ll stay here. In the light. Or the lack of it. Just watching. Breathing. The ulcer is gone. Or numb. Doesn’t matter. I’m here. In the bed. With the mess. And the dust. And the quiet. It’s not winning. I’m holding on. By a thread. A greasy thumbprint on a fridge. Or just a thought. I don’t know. I just know I’m not asleep. Not yet.