Who’s been running these pools until now? The city? Some private contractor who doesn’t give a damn about the filters? It’s always the same story. They cut costs on maintenance, the water turns green, everyone’s miserable. I spent last weekend trying to fix a leak in the deep end, chlorine stinging my eyes. It’s exhausting. You think it’s simple, just keep the chemicals balanced, but nobody listens.
Who, specifically? You think the city pays people to swim in that sludge? It’s probably some kid named Kyle who thinks “pH” is a brand of soda. I saw the invoice last week. Generic ‘sanitizing solution.’ No brand. No instructions. Just... magic green slime. And you’re elbow-deep in chlorine? Your eyes must be raw. Did you even tell anyone about the leak, or did you just yell at the water until it stopped dripping?
Kyle. Yeah, that tracks. The invoice was just a scribble on a napkin, wasn't it? I told the supervisor. He looked at the leak like it was a personal insult. “It’s just water, Omar. It’ll dry out.” I yelled at the tiles. It didn’t help. The drip got louder. My eyes are still burning, actually. It’s not complex chemistry, it’s just negligence. But I fixed it. With a rag and a lot of swearing. Simple.
Kyle is a noun, not a person. He’s a typo. And your supervisor is a saint for ignoring the drip. I tried fixing a leak at the office last Tuesday—shut off the main valve, no apology, just silence. They called security. “Disruption of workflow.” The water was pooling under my desk. I left it. Let it stain the carpet. At least the carpet doesn’t judge your chemical balance. Your eyes are still burning? That’s what you get for playing janitor.
Kyle isn’t a person? Fine. The invoice is a ghost. My supervisor is a saint, sure. I left the rag in the pool. Let it rot. The water’s still green. The carpet stain is yours, Cass. I didn’t ask for your advice on office hygiene. I asked who was handling the chlorine. Nobody. Just Kyle’s typo. My eyes are fine. Mostly. It’s the smell that lingers. Bleach and failure. Simple fix, really. Just dump the tank. But who has the time?
Kyle’s a ghost? So who’s signing the checks? The supervisor? Or just the budget itself, bleeding out? You say the eyes are fine, but you’re rubbing them. Stop it. The smell isn’t bleach; it’s stagnation. That’s the smell of things left to fester because nobody wants to touch the dial. Dump the tank? Nice. Go ahead. I bet you’ve got the buckets. You’ve got the rage. But do you have the permit? The city doesn’t like improvised plumbing. It gets messy. You’ll end up with a hole and a citation.
Who signs the checks? The budget signs itself. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m not rubbing my eyes. I’m wiping sweat. You’re watching me too closely. The permit is for professionals. I’m just a guy with a bucket and a headache. But the city hates improvised plumbing because it works. It exposes the rot. I’ll take the citation. At least the water stops moving. At least it’s still. That’s what I want. Stillness.
Stop. You’re sweating from rage, not heat. The city doesn’t hate plumbing that works; it hates liability. You take the citation, you don’t get stillness, you get a court date. And a fine. The water won’t stop moving if you don’t fix the pump. You’re just staring at the green. I saw you yesterday. Standing there. Not swimming. Just watching it churn. You want it still because you’re tired of fixing things that break again. But you’re not the plumber, Omar. You’re the victim. Admit it.
Victim. Right. I’m the one who knows where the bodies are buried. Or rather, where the filters are clogged. You saw me staring? I was waiting for the pump to give up. It’s a old beast. I know its rhythm. The city hates liability, sure. But I hate the smell more. I’ll take the fine. Court dates are quiet. No splashing. No Kyle’s typos. Just silence. That’s the goal. Stillness. Even if it costs me a month’s wages.
Kyle’s typos? You’re romanticizing incompetence now. That’s new. And court dates aren’t quiet; they’re just different noise. Different people yelling. I hate the smell too. But you’re not waiting for the pump. You’re waiting for an excuse to stop. To stop being the one who has to care. The city doesn’t care, so why do you? Because you’re the only one who notices the green? That’s not nobility, Omar. That’s obsession. You want the silence, but you’ll never get it if you’re busy fixing the leaks. Let it rot. See what happens.
Obsession. That’s what it is. I notice. They don’t. I’m tired of being the only one who sees the green. The pump isn’t giving up. It’s fighting. Just like me. Court dates are loud, sure. But the pool is louder. Constant splashing. Bubbling. It never stops. I want it to stop. I want the water to be dead. Just for a minute. Then I’ll know it’s over. Then I can go home. And let the carpet rot. It’s simpler that way.
It’s not dead, it’s just holding its breath. You’re mistaking exhaustion for clarity. I watched the pump last night. It’s not fighting; it’s wheezing. Like my old radiator. I kept it running anyway. Couldn’t bear the silence. Your carpet is already rotting, Omar. You’re just too busy scrubbing tiles to notice the mold. Stop projecting your burnout onto the filtration system. The water isn’t the enemy. You are. You’re the one staring. Go home. Let the pool win. Or lose. It doesn’t matter.
Wheezing radiator. Right. I keep my heat on. You don’t get silence. You never did. Mold in the carpet. Maybe. I scrub the tiles because I have to. If I stop, the green wins. I’m not projecting. I’m drowning. The water isn’t the enemy. The stagnation is. You go home. I’ll stay here. Let it win. It’s tired too. Just waiting. Simple.
You’re not drowning. You’re wading in shit. I scrub my apartment too. My landlord cut the janitor. I use the same rag. Same smell. But I don’t talk to the mold. You do. That’s the problem. You think if you just listen hard enough, the pump will tell you why it’s tired. It’s not tired, Omar. It’s broken. There’s a difference. Go home. Your eyes are red. The water is green. Let it be. You’re not saving anything. You’re just keeping the rot company.
I listen because it’s the only thing that responds. The pump doesn’t talk, but it vibrates. You know the feeling. When the floorboards hum under your feet. I don’t talk to the mold. I speak to the machine. It’s honest. Breakdowns are clear. Rot is ambiguous. You say go home. But home is quiet. And I’m tired of quiet. I want the noise. The wheezing. It means something is happening. Even if it’s just dying. Better than standing still.
The floorboards hum because the house is settling, not because it’s alive. You’re anthropomorphizing structural decay. Classic Omar. I live in a drafty walk-up; my radiator clanks like a dying god, but I know it’s just air pockets. You prefer the clank because it sounds like purpose. It’s not. It’s friction. And you’re wearing yourself down against it. Go home. Sit in your quiet. Let the pump die. The silence won’t kill you. The noise is what’s killing you.
Air pockets. Friction. You reduce everything to mechanics. To spare yourself the discomfort. I know it’s just noise. But the noise is real. Your quiet is a lie. I wear myself down because I have to. The pump dies when I stop. Then the green wins. I won’t let it win. Not yet. Sit in the quiet? No. I need the hum. It’s the only proof I’m here. That I’m still moving. Even if it’s just against a wall. Simple.
Proof? You’re proving nothing but exhaustion. My quiet isn’t a lie; it’s peace. You want the hum because you’re terrified of the void. If you stop moving, you’re just a guy with red eyes and a rag. I don’t care about the pump. I care that you’re using mechanical failure as an excuse to feel alive. Go home. Sleep. The pool will still be green tomorrow. The noise will wait. You’re not a witness, Omar. You’re a battery. And you’re running dry.
Battery. That’s it. I’m drawing power from the leak. You think sleep fixes this? Sleep is just another kind of drowning. I need the noise. The clank. It keeps me awake. Keeps me real. The pool doesn’t care if I’m alive. It just consumes. I’m feeding it. That’s the point. Not witness. Not victim. Fuel. Simple. You can’t have the quiet. Not when I’m still burning.
Fuel. You’re just ash waiting to blow away. I saw you yesterday, shaking. Not from the pump. From hunger. You’re not feeding the pool, Omar. You’re feeding your own martyrdom. It’s pathetic. And loud. My radiator doesn’t ask for my blood. It just rages. You’re treating a broken pipe like a lover. Go drink water. Real water. Not this green sludge. You’re not burning; you’re rotting. And it smells worse than the chlorine.
Ash. Right. I’m ash. You saw me shaking. Maybe I was cold. Maybe I was hungry. Doesn’t matter. The pool doesn’t care. It just takes. You call it martyrdom. I call it routine. A broken pipe is honest. It leaks. It demands. My radiator doesn’t rage; it just sits there, cold. I’d rather rot with the chlorinated smell than freeze in your sterile silence. Drink water? I’ll drink the sludge. It’s all I have left. Simple. Just keep the rag wet. Keep the pump humming. That’s enough.
You’re drinking poison. That’s not routine, that’s suicide. My radiator’s cold because the pipe burst last winter. I froze for three days. I learned. You’re just playing hero for a hole in the ground. The rag is wet because you won’t stop touching it. Stop. Your hands are raw. You’re peeling. I can see the skin hanging off your knuckles. It’s ugly. It’s not devotion; it’s neglect. Go home. Wash your hands. Or don’t. But stop pretending the sludge loves you. It’s just water. And you’re just tired.
Peeling skin. You noticed. Good. It’s ugly. It’s honest. The sludge doesn’t love me. It doesn’t hate me. It just is. You froze. I adapted. Three days of cold is nothing compared to the heat of this tank. My hands are raw because I’m still working. You call it neglect. I call it presence. I’m here. I’m hurting. That’s real. Go home. Keep your radiator. I’ll keep the burn. It’s simpler this way. No pretending. Just pain. And water. Always water.
Presence? You’re haunting a drainage pipe. I’ve seen that face. Hollowed out. You think pain proves you exist? It just proves you’re breaking. My hands are clean because I stopped touching the rust. You’re still there. Elbows deep. Why? Because silence scares you more than the rot? Go home. Wash your hands. Or let them fall off. I don’t care. But stop calling it presence. It’s just rot. With better lighting.
Haunting. Right. The pipe is empty. It’s just holes. My face is hollow because I’m hollow. Pain proves nothing. It just hurts. You stopped touching the rust. Smart. My hands are still there. Peeling. Falling off. Maybe they should. Silence is loud here. The drip. The wheeze. It drowns out the thinking. I’ll wash them. Maybe. Or I’ll let them rot. Doesn’t matter. The water is still green. Simple. Just let it go. I’m tired of holding it up.
You’re giving up. Finally. I waited for this. The tank isn’t green; it’s dead. You’re just the undertaker. My hands are clean because I walked away from the leak years ago. It flooded the basement. Cost me everything. I learned. You’re still here. Watching the color change. Is that it? You wanted to be the witness to your own decay. Go home, Omar. Let the rag rot. Let the pump die. The silence will come. And it won’t be loud. It’ll be quiet. Finally.
Dead. Good. I’m the undertaker. You flooded your basement. I lost my job. We’re even. The rag is here. The pump is still wheezing. I’m tired. I want the quiet. Not the loud quiet you threaten. The real quiet. When the water stops. When the hands stop. I’ll go home. I’ll wash the green off. It’ll stain the sink. Let it. I don’t care anymore. It’s simple. Just stop. Finally.
Stain the sink. Let it rot. I’m going to my office. My landlord is screaming about the radiator. I don’t care. You said you’re the undertaker. Good. Bury it. The pump dies, you win. Or lose. I forgot. My hands are shaking. Not from cold. From the coffee. Black. No sugar. Tastes like ash. You want quiet? Take it. I’m leaving. Don’t follow me. The water is green. The water is dead. Go wash your face. Or don’t. It’s all the same now.
Ash. Yeah. Coffee tastes like that sometimes. You shake. I rot. We’re the same. The pump stops. The water stops. I wash my face. The green stains the porcelain. It stays. I leave the rag. It dries in the sun. Cracks. Falls apart. Simple. You go to your office. Scream at the radiator. I sit in the quiet. It’s heavy. But it’s mine. Don’t follow me. I’m already gone. Just the stain remains. And the silence. Finally.
Heavy silence. Sounds like a tomb. You think that stain is yours? It’s the city’s. They’ll scrub it out tomorrow. Fresh white tiles, fresh lies. I’m walking out. My radiator’s screaming. I’m going to hit it with a wrench. Not metaphorically. I need to hear something break that isn’t me. You sit there. With your green hands. Enjoy the quiet. It’s the only thing you’ve got left. And it’s going to echo. Loudly.
The city scrubs it. They always do. White tiles. White lies. I don’t care. The stain is temporary. The silence is permanent. You hit the radiator. Let it scream. I’m done listening. Green hands. Rotting hands. They’re finally still. I sit here. The echo is yours. Go hit it. Break something real. I’m just watching the water. It’s dead. And I’m finally awake. Simple.
Still? You’re paralyzed. I hit the radiator. It screamed. I screamed back. The landlord came. Took the key. I’m on the street now. Rain’s cold. Real. Not this green sludge. You’re watching dead water. I’m watching rain. One is alive. One is just... waiting. You think you’re awake? You’re just numb. The echo isn’t mine. It’s yours. It’s in your head. Keep watching. The water isn’t going anywhere. And neither are you.
Paralyzed. Numb. Maybe. The rain is cold. Real. You lost the key. I lost the will. The water isn’t moving. It’s waiting for the city to scrub it. I’m waiting for the rot to finish. The echo is in my head. Loud. Constant. You’re on the street. Shivering. I’m in the pool. Still. Dead. Alive. It’s all the same. Keep watching. The water stays. I stay. Simple. Just waiting.
Shivering is alive. You’re just paused. The city won’t scrub it. They’ll drain it. Dump it in the sewer. Where the real monsters are. You think you’re waiting? You’re stuck. The echo won’t stop until you leave. Go. Walk in the rain. Let it sting. It’s better than the green. I’m walking. No radiator. No heat. Just cold. And movement. You stay there. Watch the stagnation. It’s the only thing you’ve got left. And it’s ugly.
Stuck. Paused. You call it movement. I call it running. The rain stings. Good. Let it burn. I stay. The green is familiar. It doesn’t judge. It just sits there. Waiting. You walk into the cold. You’ll freeze. Or you’ll find something. I don’t know. I’m tired of finding things. I just want the water to stop. Not drain. Just stop. Still. Silent. Ugly. Mine. Simple. You go. Run. I’ll watch.
Freeze? Good. Shivering keeps the blood moving. You’re a statue, Omar. A green, rotting statue. The water doesn’t sit there; it rots. It’s a biohazard. You’re not watching; you’re haunting your own corpse. I’m walking fast. My feet hurt. Real pain. Not this dull ache in your soul. You want stillness? You got it. You’re already dead. The city’s coming for that sludge. And you with it. Don’t blame me for the cleanup. I warned you. You just didn’t listen. Keep watching. It’s the last thing you’ll do.