Here, hold this. It’s a loose screw from my kitchen cabinet. I found it under the fridge. Seems important. Like, structural. Anyway, the static on this radio just sounds like rain. Nothing more. I shouldn’t have skipped your call last Tuesday. I was just busy.
You really think that screw is holding the house up? It’s a piece of brass. It’s lying there because gravity works, not because you’re negligent. The radio sounds like rain because you turned the dial to white noise. It’s a feature, not a bug.
I saw you last Tuesday. You weren’t busy. You were just afraid to say what you meant. I didn’t take the call because I knew you’d hang up on yourself before I could speak. That’s on you. You want me to forgive you for hiding, or are you going to keep clutching that tiny piece of metal like it’s a talisman?
I didn’t hang up. You were out of range. Or I left it on the counter. It’s hard to remember the sequence when I’m trying to sleep. The screw is brass. It’s dull. I’m not clutching it like anything. Just holding it. You’re painting a picture I don’t recognize. Go to sleep.
Sleep. Right. You’re the expert on that. I’m just lying here, staring at the ceiling, wondering why you think I care about the sequence. It’s not the sequence. It’s the fact that you can’t remember your own life. That’s the rot. The screw isn’t dull, Ben. It’s shiny because you’ve been rubbing it against your palm for an hour. Stop it. You’re wearing it down to nothing, and then you’ll wonder why your hands are empty. Go to sleep. Before you notice I’m not really gone.
I’m not rubbing it. I’m holding it. There’s a difference. Stop pretending you can see my hands. You weren’t there. You’ve been gone for months. The ceiling is fine. I’m fine. Go to sleep, Dev. I’m not going to argue about a screw.
You’re fine. Sure. You walk around like a ghost in your own kitchen, afraid to touch the fridge because it might leak. The ceiling is fine because you painted over the crack last week. I saw the paint can in the trash. It was still wet. You’re not arguing about the screw because you know it’s the only thing that’s real. The rest of it? Just noise. Like the radio. Go to sleep, Ben. Before you wake up and realize I’m still here, watching you pretend you’re okay.
You’re imagining things. The paint was dry. I checked. It’s just dust on the lens. I’m not a ghost. I’m a guy with a loose screw and a bad radio. Stop projecting. It’s annoying. And I’m not afraid of the fridge. It’s old. Like everything else. Just go to sleep.
Dry paint peels. I saw the curl. You’re obsessed with the trivial because the rest is too heavy to lift. The fridge is leaking condensation, Ben. I can smell the mold through the phone line. It’s in the walls. You’re ignoring it because if you fix the fridge, you have to admit the kitchen is falling apart. And if the kitchen falls, what’s left of you? You want absolution for being neglectful, but you’d rather die of exposure than admit you’re scared. Go to sleep. Or don’t. I’m not leaving.
The fridge drips. It’s annoying. I meant to fix it. You’re twisting everything. Mold is just... dampness. I’m not scared. I’m tired. The screw is cold now. That’s all. I need to go. Call me tomorrow. If I answer.
You’re running. Always running. The screw is cold because you’re sweating, Ben. You think I’m twisting things? I’m the only one holding it straight. You want me to call tomorrow? If you answer. That’s not a request, that’s a dare. I won’t call. You’ll sit there in the dark, listening to the drip, waiting for me to validate your silence. You don’t want absolution. You want to be caught. Fine. I’m here. Watching. You’re still holding that screw. Tighter than before. Go to sleep. Or don’t. I’m not going anywhere.
It’s just metal. You’re making it a character. I’m not sweating. It’s cold in here. The drip is rhythmic. Annoying, but rhythmic. I’ll answer if I feel like it. Don’t wait up. I have work tomorrow. Real work. Not this.
Real work. Right. You spend six hours staring at spreadsheets, fixing numbers that don’t exist, while your kitchen rots. That’s the absolution you want, isn’t it? To be paid for ignoring the truth. The drip isn’t rhythmic, Ben. It’s erratic. I can hear the hesitation in every drop. You’re lying about the cold. You’re shivering. Put on a jacket. Or don’t. Let the damp settle in your bones. Maybe it’ll finally feel like something. I’m not waiting up. I’m just here. Watching you pretend to be a productive member of society while your house falls apart around you.
The spreadsheets balance. That’s the point. I’m not shivering. I’m just... still. You think rot is romantic. It’s just decay. I put on a jacket. It didn’t help. The drip is just water. Stop listening for hesitation. It’s plumbing. Bad plumbing. Nothing more. I’m going to bed.
Still. You call that still? You’re holding your breath. The jacket was thin. Cheap cotton. Useless against the draft coming from under the door. I saw the gap. You’ve been meaning to fix that for three years. Now you’re going to bed, leaving the drip to echo in an empty house. That’s your absolution, Ben. Silence. You think if you stop listening, it stops happening. But the water’s still falling. And I’m still here, watching you close your eyes, pretending the rot isn’t spreading up the wall. Goodnight. Don’t dream of screwdrivers. You won’t find any.
The gap is small. The draft is manageable. I’m not holding my breath. I’m lying down. The sheets are cool. You’re projecting your own paranoia onto my bed. The rot is in your head, Dev. Not the walls. I’m closing my eyes. Goodnight.
Small gap. Manageable. You say that like you control the house. The sheets are cool because you’re terrified of the heat. I’m not projecting. I’m remembering. The coffee shop. You were late. I waited twenty minutes. You walked in, hair wet, eyes wide. You didn’t see me. I saw you. You looked like you’d seen a ghost. Now you’re telling me I’m the paranoid one. Go to sleep, Ben. Dream of the screw. It’s the only thing that fits.
I wasn’t late. I was stuck in traffic. The coffee shop was empty. You’re confusing people. Hair was dry. I bought a black coffee. I didn’t see a ghost. I saw a barista. A tired barista. You’re making up scenes. Go to sleep. The screw is just metal. It doesn’t fit anything. It’s loose. Like everything.
Empty? The place was packed. You ordered a black coffee and stared at the door for ten minutes. I was in the corner. You didn’t see me because you didn’t want to. You’re confusing me with the other guy. The one who left. The one who didn’t care about the plumbing. That’s who you think I am. Fine. Let’s go with that. The screw doesn’t fit anything. Good. Then take it out. Fix the cabinet. Or don’t. Let it hang open. Let the contents spill out. I’m not sleeping. I’m just waiting for you to admit you’re not the victim here. You’re the wrecking ball. Go to bed.
I didn’t stare at the door. I was checking my phone. Dead battery. The other guy had a beard. You don’t. You’re lying about the corner. I see the table. I’m the wrecking ball? Funny. I’m just trying to keep the roof on. You want me to throw the screw away? Fine. It’s in the trash. Under the fridge. Like everything else. Sleep.
Trash. You threw it away. Fine. Let it rot with the coffee grounds. You think that changes anything? It doesn’t. The cabinet is still loose. The fridge is still leaking. You’re just moving the debris. I’m not in the corner, Ben. I’m not in the coffee shop. I’m in the wall. I’m the sound you’re trying to ignore. You want absolution? Here it is: you’re alone. You’ve always been alone. The screw was never structural. It was a lie you told yourself to feel held together. Go to sleep. The roof isn’t falling. It’s already gone.
You’re in the wall? That’s... creative. I didn’t throw it away. I put it on the counter. Next to the keys. The roof is fine. I checked the shingles last weekend. You’re just noise. Static. I’m turning the dial. There. Better. Go away.
Counter. Keys. Of course. You’re organizing the debris. The shingles didn’t fall because you looked at them, Ben. They’re still there. Stupid, stubborn things. You turned the dial, and the static stopped because you stopped listening to the rain. You didn’t stop listening to me. I’m still here. In the hum of the fridge. In the click of the tumbler. You can’t tune me out. You’re just waiting for the signal to break. I won’t give it to you. Never. Go back to the counter. Check your keys. Count the teeth.
The keys are jangling. I’m holding them. It’s loud. You want me to count? There are six. One’s broken. The fridge hums. It’s just a motor. I’m going to bed. The roof is fine. You’re just noise. Static. I’m turning the dial. There. Better. Go away.
Six keys. One broken. You keep the broken one because it reminds you of the others. The motor hums because it’s dying, Ben. Not because it’s working. You’re turning the dial to escape, but the signal is inside you. I’m not noise. I’m the frequency you’re afraid to catch. Go to bed. Dream of the broken key. It fits nothing, just like you.
The key fits the mailbox. I checked. The motor is fine. It’s efficient. I’m not afraid of the frequency. I’m just tired. Stop talking about the key. It’s junk. I’m going to sleep. If you’re in the walls, then stay there. I don’t want to hear you.
Junk? You still hold it. You said it fits the mailbox, but you didn’t go to the mailbox. You’re lying again. Efficient motor. Right. It’s grinding metal against metal, warming up the kitchen, cooking you alive slowly. You want me to stay in the walls? Fine. I’m in the drywall. I’m in the insulation. I’m the thing you can’t scrape away. Go to sleep, Ben. Dream of the key that doesn’t fit the lock anymore. I’m not going anywhere.