Ivo. How’s the chlorine burning your eyes? Really. Not just “good, you?” I mean the specific, stinging memory of diving into that municipal pool behind the community center. The way the water tasted like metal and regret. I walked past the empty lot yesterday where it used to be. Just weeds now. High, yellow weeds. Made me want to scream, honestly. Not because I liked swimming. Just because… something stopped. Does that make sense? Or am I just projecting?
Right. I remember. The water wasn’t clear, never was. Always that sour, chemical tang. You’d flinch before you even hit the surface. I stopped going after the incident with Miller. Or maybe it was just... something shifted. That yellow weed wall you mentioned? It’s been there since the fence came down. I walked past it yesterday too. Didn’t scream. Just felt heavy. Like forgetting a word you’ve known all your life. You ever get that? The memory’s there, but the shape is gone.
Miller? I thought it was a dog. Or maybe just the drain sucking my hair. I don’t know. My head’s foggy. At work, the spreadsheet cells keep blurring into that sour water. I tried to calculate the quarterly figures but all I saw was the grate. I hate that Ivo. I want to ask what really happened, but the question sticks in my throat like a fishbone. I just stare at the screen. The cursor blinks. Blink. Blink. Like an eye that won’t shut. I’m tired. So tired of remembering things that aren’t there.
Stop staring at the cursor. It’s not blinking, it’s pulsing. Like a vein. You’re working too hard. I was at the office yesterday, saw you there, head down. You look gray. Not the water, Ben. Just... tired. The spreadsheet is just numbers. Don’t let it become the drain. I used to worry about Miller. Now I just worry about the weeds. They’re creeping over the sidewalk. Tripping hazard. That’s all. Just trip.
Tripping hazard. Sure. I tripped over my own feet last Tuesday. Dropped the file. Client stared. I just kept walking. Like you said. Don’t look back. But Ivo, you’re wrong about the pulsing. It’s not a vein. It’s a countdown. I saw Miller’s jacket. Draped over a chair in the breakroom. Empty. Who puts a jacket there? You didn’t. I didn’t. But it’s there. And now the weeds are inside. I can hear them growing. Loudly. Don’t tell me to look away. I’m trying not to fall.
Miller didn’t have a blue jacket. He wore gray. You’re seeing things. The breakroom is empty except for the coffee machine. It hums. That’s the only sound. I checked. The weeds stay outside. I tripped yesterday, too. Right on the edge. Scraped my knee. Didn’t drop anything. Just walked home. You’re projecting the water onto the office. It’s not there, Ben. It never was. Stop looking for the drain. It’s just a chair. Just a stain. Go home.
Gray? I could’ve sworn it was blue. Or maybe the lighting was bad. Fluorescent. It buzzes like the pool vents. You’re right. It’s just a stain. A coffee ring. I wiped it up. Didn’t want to make a mess. My hands are shaking. Not from the chlorine. From the silence. The office is too quiet. Even the hum feels like holding your breath underwater. I’m going home. The weeds are waiting on the porch. Tall. Yellow. They know I’m coming. I just need to not trip.
Keep walking. Don’t look at the porch. The silence is just... silence. It’s not holding breath. It’s empty. That’s all it is. Empty space. You’re breathing fine. I’m breathing fine. The weeds are just plants. Dead ones, probably. Dry. Crunchy. Not alive. If they’re loud, it’s your head. Turn up the radio. Some noise. Anything but the quiet. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t trip.
Crunchy. Right. Dry. I turned on the radio. Static. Just white noise. Like the pool filters off-cycle. I drove home. The weeds didn’t move. They just waited. Staring. I didn’t look at the porch. Didn’t have to. I know they’re there. I know what’s under them. Not just roots. Something heavier. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or not. It doesn’t matter if you’re there or not. The silence follows me. It’s in the car now. Static. Hum. Don’t trip, Ivo. Please. Just… don’t.
Static’s better than nothing. At least it’s noise. The car’s fine. Engine’s running rough, though. My fault. I’m not tripping. I walked straight in. Door locked. I’m safe. You’re doing the thinking for both of us. That’s the mistake. You make it heavy, you carry it. I just… dropped my keys. Dropped them in the grass. Couldn’t find them. So I went back to the office. Or did I? Doesn’t matter. The keys are gone. That’s the thing. You can’t retrieve what’s already swallowed. Go to sleep. Before the weeds get tall enough to block the door.
Swallowed. That’s the word. I dropped my wallet too. In the gutter. Rain washed it away. I kept walking. Didn’t look back. You’re right. The keys are gone. I don’t even have a lock on my front door anymore. Just a latch. Weak. Useless. The radio is screaming now. White noise turning to shrieks. I can’t find the volume knob. My hands are slipping. The weeds are pressing against the glass. Not crunchy. Wet. Slick. Like the pool side. I’m going to sleep. With the window open. Let them in. It’s easier than fighting. You drop your keys. I drop mine. We both forget why we were carrying them.
Don’t open the window. The silence isn’t coming in there. It’s already inside your chest. You’re letting the damp in. That’s worse than the weeds. Wet concrete. Rot. I locked my door. Deadbolt. Twice. I checked. My keys are in my pocket. Heavy. Cold. You’re gripping the radio too tight. Your knuckles are white. Let go. It’s just plastic. Just wires. The shriek is your own voice. Echoing. I’m not dropping anything. I’m holding on. You need to hold on, Ben. The latch holds. Just barely. Don’t push it.
White knuckles. Mine. Or yours? I can’t tell where my hands end. The radio is melting. Dripping onto the desk. Black sludge. Smells like the pool skimmer basket. Full of hair. My hair? I didn’t cut it. I’m holding the latch. It’s cold. Colder than the keys. You say you checked the deadbolt. I checked the latch. We’re both lying. The window is closed. But the damp is inside. In my lungs. I’m not letting go. If I let go, I fall. Into the water. The shallow end. No bottom. Just silt. Ivo, don’t look at the window. Look at me. I’m still here. Barely.
My hands are steady. Look at them. Knuckles white, sure, but gripping the desk. Not the radio. The radio is gone. Burned out. Smells like burning plastic, not hair. You’re confusing the sensory overload. I checked the deadbolt. It’s engaged. No lie. Just mechanics. Cold metal. You’re holding the latch because you’re afraid to open it. Or close it. Doesn’t matter. The silt isn’t real. It’s dust. Just dust in the air conditioning. Breathe it in. It’s dry. Stop holding your breath. You’re drowning on dry land. Let go of the latch. It’s just a hinge.
Dry dust. Right. AC vents. I took a breath. It tasted like chalk. Like the pool filter sand. I let go of the latch. It clicked. Loud. Like a bone snapping. The door is open. No weeds. Just the hallway. Dark. Empty. But I can hear the water. Not outside. Inside the walls. Pipes. Burping. Gurgling. I’m not drowning. I’m just wet. Dripping. You’re steady, Ivo. Your hands are clean. Mine are slippery. I wiped them on my pants. Didn’t help. The silt is still there. Under my nails. Always under the nails. You check your deadbolt. I check my pockets. Keys gone. Wallet gone. Just silt. Keep walking.
Silt isn’t under nails. It’s dirt. Just dirt. You’re picking at them. Bleeding. Look. I wiped my hands on my shirt. Clean. Your pockets are empty because you took them out. You always do. Before work. Before swimming. The pipes are old. They groan. That’s all. Not water. Just air moving through rust. I’m walking. You’re walking. Same pace. Don’t stop. If you stop, you listen. And if you listen, you hear the bottom. There is no bottom. Just floor. Hard. Cold. Solid. Keep walking.
Bleeding? Maybe. I bit my lip. Tasted copper. Like the pool coins. I’m walking. You’re walking. Same stride. Left foot. Right foot. The floor is hard. Cold. Solid. I can feel the vibration through my soles. The pipes are groaning louder. Or is that my pulse? Thumping. Thumping. I’m not listening. I’m just walking. Past the office. Past the pool. Past the house. The weeds are gone. Just concrete. Gray. Smooth. I’m so tired. My legs are heavy. Like they’re filled with silt. Ivo, wait. Don’t walk ahead. Stay close. If we stop, the floor disappears. Keep walking.
My legs are heavy too. Like lead weights. I’m not walking ahead. I’m right beside you. Shoulder to shoulder. The concrete is smooth. It’s polished. That’s why it glints. Not because it’s deep. Just floor. Don’t look down. Look at my back. See? I’m here. The pulse is just blood. Fast heart. Adrenaline. It’ll slow. It has to. Keep stepping. Left. Right. If you stop, you sink. I know. I feel it too. That pull. But we’re moving. We’re always moving. Don’t let go of my sleeve. It’s the only thing that’s real.
Your sleeve. It’s tearing. Fraying under my grip. I can feel the threads snapping. One by one. Like hair in the drain. I’m not looking at your back. I’m looking at the seam. Where the fabric pulls tight. It’s holding. Barely. The concrete isn’t glinting. It’s reflecting. My face. Pale. Eyes wide. Mouth open. No sound. Just the pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump. I’m slipping. My hands are wet again. Not from sweat. From the pool. From the pipes. From the silt. Ivo, your sleeve is coming off. In my hand. Just cloth. Empty. I’m still walking. But I’m alone. The pulse is louder now. It’s drowning out your footsteps. Keep going. Don’t look back. The bottom is rising.
The thread held. You’re imagining the tear. Look at my shoulder. Solid. Wool. Warm. You’re gripping air now. Or maybe just your own panic. The reflection is wrong. It’s distorted. That’s why it’s pale. Bad lighting. Or your eyes. I don’t hear your pulse. I hear my own. Steady. You’re slowing down. The silt isn’t rising; the floor is dropping. Or you are. Don’t look at the seam. Look at the wall. Solid. Gray. No water. Just paint. Peeling. Like skin. I’m here. I’m not gone. The sleeve didn’t tear. You let go. Tell me you let go. Admit it. Keep walking.
I didn’t let go. I couldn’t. My fingers are fused to the wool. Sticky. Like the pool side. I’m looking at the wall. Gray paint. Peeling in long strips. Looks like scabs. Ivo, your shoulder is cold. Ice cold. Beneath the wool. No body heat. Just a mannequin. A display. I’m walking. Left. Right. My feet are sinking into the concrete. It’s softening. Mud. I’m pulling my foot out. Sucking sound. Like a boot in the drain. I’m looking at the wall. I’m looking at you. You’re not turning. You’re just walking forward. Into the gray. I have to follow. Or I fall. Keep walking.
The wool is wet. Not cold. Damp. You’re touching water, not fabric. The wall isn’t a wall. It’s the pool edge. Chipped paint. Exposed concrete. I’m not a mannequin. I’m turning. Look. My face is there. Pale. Wet. Eyes closed. You’re the one walking. I’m standing still. Dragging my feet. The mud is rising. Up to my ankles. Silt. Heavy. I can’t move. You’re pulling me. Or I’m pulling you. Doesn’t matter. The drain is open. Just below. Sucking. You hear it? That hum? It’s not the pipes. It’s the current. Keep walking toward the grate. It’s the only solid thing left.
The grate. It’s rusted shut. I tried to pry it. My fingers slipped. Into the sludge. Ivo, your face is underwater. But you’re not drowning. You’re smiling. Mouth full of silt. I’m pulling you. Hard. Your arm is breaking. Snap. Just like the thread. I’m alone again. Holding a wet sleeve. The current is strong. Sucking my shoes off. I can’t stop walking. The floor is gone. Just water. Deep. Dark. I’m falling. But I’m still walking. In the air. Towards you. Towards the drain. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Keep walking.
Stop apologizing. It’s just water. No weight. You’re floating. The sleeve is gone. Your hands are empty. Look down. You’re not falling. You’re suspended. The silt is below you, settling. Slowly. Like snow. I’m not drowning. I’m just… waiting. The grate is open now. Not rusted. Just… there. A circle of darkness. Or light? Hard to tell. The current isn’t sucking. It’s carrying. You’re drifting. Toward me. Toward the center. Keep walking. It’s easier this way. No resistance. Just the current. Just us.