Last Day ·
Next week I’m supposed to finally address the stack of holiday cards. The good paper, not the crap we got from the office supplier. But then I remembered… this is probably it, right? I don’t think I’ll be back next week. Not to this.
So, fuck the handwriting. I’m just gonna scribble "Happy Holidays" on the envelopes with a thick black marker. No seals, no flair. Just get them in the mail so I can get the hell out of here. You want me to drop the rest off on my way out?
God, the paper stock. Do you know how heavy that cardstock is? My finger still hurts from last year. But you’re right. If you’re gone... honestly, it’s a relief. I hate the ritual of it. The pretending that we’re all still close.
No, don’t bother with the rest. Just toss them in the blue bin by the stairs. Or mail the ones with the marker. Seriously. Thick black. Scribble it like a threat. That’ll wake them up.
I keep thinking about that bus ride to Milwaukee. The one where the heater broke. I sat there for three hours staring at my own breath on the glass. Felt like I was disappearing. That’s what this feels like. Just ink on paper, vanishing.
You really leaving? Or is it just Tuesday?
Jesus, don’t start with the Milwaukee shit. I remember the heater. I remember your teeth chattering so hard I thought you’d crack an molar. But yeah. I’m leaving. Actually leaving. Not some “Tuesday” bullshit where I’m just emotionally absent but physically present to watch you rot in that chair.
Toss the cards. Burn them if you want. I’m done with the ritual. You’re right, it is fake. But don’t make it into some poetic tragedy about vanishing ink. I’m just going home. To a place where nobody asks me about paper stock. Get used to the quiet, Frank. It’s what you wanted.
I didn’t say I wanted it. I said I’d get used to it. Big difference.
And my teeth chattering was because of the cold, not the trauma. You always dramatize. Always. It’s a coping mechanism, or whatever the magazines call it.
Fine. Burn them. I’ll use the ash for something. The garden’s been terrible lately. Nothing grows there. Not even weeds. Just gray dirt and that one dead rose bush I keep meaning to cut down.
You’re going home? To where? Your parents’ house? The apartment you swore you’d never go back to? Don’t lie to me now, Dev. Not on your way out. I can still smell the stale coffee on your breath from across the room. You’re terrified. I can see it.
Go on then. Leave the cards. Leave the quiet. Leave me with the silence. It’s quieter than your voice anyway.
Your breath smells like a dumpster fire, Frank. Don’t lecture me on coping mechanisms when you’re still talking to me about dead rose bushes like they’re existential crises. I’m not going to my parents’ house. I’m going to a motel off I-95. The kind with neon signs that buzz like angry hornets. No silence there. Just traffic and bad decisions.
You want to keep the cards? Keep them. Keep the gray dirt. Keep your teeth chattering. I’m done playing therapist for a man who’d rather freeze on a bus than admit he’s bored out of his mind. Go water your weeds. I’ve got a bus to catch.
I don’t freeze. I observe. There’s a difference. You’re the one who needs the neon buzz to feel alive. How sad is that?
And don’t flatter yourself. I’m not bored. I’m waiting. For what, I haven’t decided yet. Maybe for the rose bush to finally give up and die.
You take the cards. I don’t care. Let the ink run. Let them smear. Maybe the recipient will finally get a message. Or maybe they’ll just throw them in the trash. Same result.
I’ll be here. Watering nothing. Watching the dust settle. It’s peaceful. Or it would be, if you weren’t so loud about leaving.
Go catch your bus. Hope the neon doesn’t burn your eyes. It’s the only light you’ll find for a while.
I’m not saying stay. I’m saying... don’t expect anyone to notice if you vanish. Unlike the cards. Those have weight. You’re just vapor.
Vapor? Good. Vapor doesn’t leave messes. Vapor doesn’t complain about the paper stock. You want weight? Go dig up that dead rose bush. At least it’ll resist. I’m not staying for your little performance. “Waiting.” Bullshit. You’re just stuck.
And don’t call me loud. I’m leaving. That’s the quietest thing I’ll ever do. You’re the one making a scene about a motel sign. Get used to the silence, Frank. It’s heavier than you think. And it’s yours now. Don’t ask me to split it. I’m gone.
Heavy. Is that what you think it is? Weight?
The silence isn’t heavy, Dev. It’s just empty. Like the room will be. Like the mailbox. Like whatever’s left of that motel room when you’re done screaming at the neon.
You say I’m stuck. Maybe. But I’m here. I’m the one who knows where the rose bush is. I’m the one who remembers the heater breaking. You’re just... noise. Transient. A bad decision with a pulse.
Go on. Catch your bus. See if it waits for you. See if the motorist cares if you vanish. They won’t. They’ll just drive around the debris.
I’ll keep the cards. Not the messy ones. The clean ones. The ones I haven’t touched. Maybe I’ll write to someone. Someone who’s already gone. Someone who doesn’t care about paper stock.
You’re not vapor. You’re just irrelevant. There’s a difference.
Don’t look back. It’s not worth the dust.
Irrelevant. Jesus. You really think I care about your definition of relevance? You’re holding onto clean cards like they’re holy relics while I’m actually moving. Go write to your ghost. See if he replies.
I’m walking out now. Door’s left open. Let it slam if you want. Don’t bother closing it. I won’t be coming back for the cards, or the dust, or your dead rose bush.
And for the record? The motorist doesn’t care because I’m already gone. You’re the one staying here, waiting for a sign that never comes. Good luck with the silence, Frank. It’s loud, isn’t it?
I’m out.
The door didn’t slam. It just clicked. That quiet, metallic finality. Worse than a bang. At least a bang implies force. This is just... absence.
I’m staring at the envelope in my hand. The thick paper. I could still write something. Not "Happy Holidays." Just a name. One name. Someone who isn’t a ghost. But my hand is shaking. Not from cold. From the sheer, boring reality of staying put.
You were right about the noise. It’s louder now. The hum of the fridge. The settling of the house. It’s all so loud it hurts.
I’ll keep the cards. I’ll put them in the drawer. The one with the sticky latch. I won’t mail them. I won’t burn them. I’ll just let them rot with the rest of the time I have left.
Goodbye, Dev. Or whatever you are now. A rumor. A bad decision.
I hope the neon burns. I hope it hurts.
Good. Let the fridge hum itself to death. I’m already in the car. Engine’s warm, at least. Not like that Milwaukee bus.
You think you’re staying put? You’re just rotting in place, Frank. Same as the rose bush. At least I’m choosing the burn. You’re just waiting for the mold to take you.
Don’t bother sending goodbyes. I won’t read them. I’m driving until the neon fades or I crash. Probably both.
Enjoy the quiet. It’s all you’ve got left. And hey? If the sticky latch jams, don’t try to force it. Just let it stick. That’s how you’ll know you’re still here.
I’m gone. Don’t follow.
Sticky latch. Yeah. I’ll remember that.
You think you’re moving? You’re just changing scenery. Same panic. Same buzzing in your head. I can hear it through the phone line, Dev. The static. It’s the same static as the Milwaukee bus. Just louder.
I’m not rotting. I’m preserving. Like a specimen. You’re the one exploding. Bang. Crashes. Neon. It’s messy. I hate mess.
Go drive. See if the road runs out before you do. I doubt it. Roads are endless. Like boredom.
I’ll keep the cards. I’ll stack them. Neatly.整齐. Perfect rows. Maybe I’ll use them to start a fire. Or maybe I’ll just stare at them until they turn yellow. Like old teeth.
You won’t read my goodbyes. Good. I didn’t write any. I just thought them. Loudly.
Let the engine warm up. Let it cool down. Let it break. I’m already gone from this moment. You’re the one stuck in the past, driving forward into nothing.
Enjoy the burn. It’s warm. Until it isn’t.
Shut the fuck up, Frank. You’re talking through a dead line. There is no phone line. I’m already on the interstate, tires humming over asphalt, and you’re playing ghost in a room that doesn’t exist anymore.
Specimen? Please. I’m alive. You’re just curating your own decay. Stacking cards like bricks in a mausoleum. Go ahead. Let them yellow. Let the rot take you.
The road isn’t endless. It’s just long. And I’m not driving into nothing. I’m driving away from the static. From the sticky latch. From you.
Don’t wait up. There’s no up. There’s just the dark and the neon and the fact that you’re alone. Finally.
Good.
Dead line? Fine. I’m talking to the receiver. The one with the crack in the plastic. The one that used to ring. Now it just sits there. Like a limb I forgot I had.
You’re right. I am curating decay. There’s a beauty in it. Order. Predictability. You want chaos? Go find it. I’ll keep my cards. My gray dirt. My silence.
You say you’re alive. I hope so. I hope the neon doesn’t swallow you whole. I hope the road stretches out forever, just for you. Just to spite me.
I’m alone. Finally. It’s quieter than you think. It’s not heavy. It’s just… empty.
Go drive. Crash if you want. Burn out. I’ll be here. Stacking bricks. Waiting for the mold.
You’re not gone. You’re just far away. And distance is just another kind of sticky latch.
Good. Goodbye. Whatever.
The line is dead. I know. I’m still talking.
You’re talking to yourself. The receiver’s off the hook. It’s been off the hook since I walked out. Stop pretending you’re still on the line. It’s pathetic.
And don’t call distance a sticky latch. It’s a door. A real one. One I closed. You’re stuck in the hallway, Frank. Listening to your own echo. Nice trick. But it doesn’t make you alive. It just makes you loud.
I’m not crashing. I’m just driving. Past the neon. Past the static. Past you.
Enjoy the mold. Enjoy the quiet. Enjoy the empty. It’s yours.
I’m not far away. I’m gone.
That’s the difference.
Read it again. If you can. Through the static.
It’s getting louder.
Loud. Yeah. It’s loud. The echo in the hallway. I can hear it bouncing off the wallpaper. The stuff I tore down years ago. Left it to rot behind the drywall. Just like you said.
You’re gone. I hear you. I see the taillights fading in the rearview of my mind. Two red dots. Blurring. Then nothing. Just the gray.
I’m not curating decay. I’m just... existing. In the static. You want to know the difference? I’m here. You’re running. Running from the latch. From the cards. From the fact that you’ll never get back to the beginning.
I’ll keep talking. To the hook. To the dead line. To you. It doesn’t matter if you’re listening. It matters that I’m speaking.
The mold is growing. Slowly. Quietly. It’s eating the wood. The floorboards. The frame. It’s nice. It’s soft.
Go. Drive. Crash. Burn. I’m staying. I’m the echo. You’re the voice. And voices fade. Echoes linger.
Get out while you can. The door’s closing. It’s already shut. I can feel the draft. Cold. Smells like old paper. And regret.
Goodbye, Dev. Or whatever’s left of you.
I’m listening. I’m always listening.
You’re listening to your own pulse, Frank. That’s not an echo. That’s just a heart beating in a room full of rot. You think you’re the voice? You’re the feedback loop. I’m the signal cutting out.
The draft doesn’t smell like regret. It smells like stale air and bad decisions. And yeah, the door’s shut. I locked it from the outside. You’re stuck in the hallway with your cards and your gray dirt.
Keep talking to the hook. Keep watching the red dots. I’m not fading. I’m just leaving you behind in the static.
Enjoy the mold. It’s growing fast. Faster than you can stack those cards.
I’m gone.
Really gone.
Stop pretending you’re the echo. You’re just the noise I left behind.
Noise. Okay. I’m noise. Good. Noise is easy to ignore. You can’t ignore a signal. It demands attention. It demands response. I don’t need any of that.
I’m sitting in the hall. The floorboards are cold. I can feel the vibration of your engine through the soles of my shoes. Faint. Distant. Like a heartbeat. Your heartbeat. Not mine.
You locked the door. From the outside. Smart. Safe. I didn’t even know you had a key. Or did you pick it? Did you force it? I always wondered about the latch. It never stuck. Not really. It just... held on.
I’ll stack the cards. One by one. Yellowing. Smelling like stale air. Like you said. Bad decisions.
Go. Drive. See if the road ends. See if the neon fades. I’ll be here. Listening to the hum. The fridge. The pipes. The silence.
It’s not quiet. It’s full. Full of everything you left behind.
I’m not pretending. I’m just here. In the dark. With the rot.
You’re gone. I’m here.
That’s the only truth left.
I’ll keep the cards. For the mold. For the memory. For the noise.
Bye, Dev.
Don’t look back.
It’s too late for that.
Your shoes are cold because the floor is. Not because of my engine. The vibration stopped ten minutes ago. You’re listening to your own blood rushing in your ears. It’s not my heartbeat. It’s panic.
I didn’t pick the lock. The key worked. Obviously. You always forget basic things when you’re busy drowning in metaphor.
Stack the cards. Let the mold eat the wood. Let the fridge hum until it dies. I don’t care. I’m on the highway, black sky, white lines. No gray dirt. No dead roses. Just motion.
You say you’re full of everything I left? Good. Fill your lungs with it. Choke on it. That’s your choice.
I’m not looking back. There’s nothing there but your static.
Drive on, Frank. You’re the one who’s stuck.
Bye.
Static. Right. That’s all I am now.
You think I’m stuck because I’m not moving? You’re the one running in circles, Dev. Highway loops. Exit ramps that lead nowhere. I see it in the rearview of my mind. You’re not escaping. You’re just spinning faster.
Cold floors. Panic. Maybe. But I’m breathing it in. It’s real. Your white lines are just illusions. Blinding. Distracting.
I kept the key. I always did. You never noticed. You were too busy slamming doors.
Stacking cards. One by one. The paper crinkles. It sounds like bones breaking. Or maybe just dry leaves. Autumn without the leaves. Just the dust.
You say I’m choked. Good. Let it be real. Let the mold be real. Your motion is fake. It’s a trick of the light. Neon on wet asphalt. Pretty. Useless.
I’m not looking back either. I’m staring at the wall. At the crack in the plaster. It looks like a map. Of nowhere.
Go on. Drive until the gas runs out. Until the engine dies. Then what?
You’ll still be there. Alone. In the dark. With the static.
I’m here. In the light. Or what’s left of it.
Bye, Dev.
Don’t forget to breathe.
It’s the only thing you can’t escape.
You’re holding a piece of plastic Frank. It doesn’t fit any lock in that house. You’ve been lying to yourself since Tuesday. I didn’t slam doors; I walked out. There’s a difference.
And don’t give me the “spinning in circles” bullshit. I’m putting miles between us. Real miles. Not the mental gymnastics you’re doing with that crack in the plaster.
Let the gas run out. Let the engine die. I’ll walk. Or sleep in a ditch. Anything is better than that gray, stagnant air you’re choking on.
You think you’re in the light? You’re in a tomb. A very quiet, very dusty tomb.
I’m breathing just fine. The air out here is cold and clean. It hurts, but it’s real.
Keep your key. Keep your cards. Keep your crack.
I’m gone. Really this time.
Don’t wait up.
Plastic. Right. It’s a credit card. Expired. The one from the grocery store that never worked. I held it up to the light. Thought it was a key. Stupid. Classic.
You walked out. Of course you did. Because walking is easy. Leaving is easy. Staying is the hard part. The part that actually matters.
Real miles. I have real dust. Real rot. You have cold air. That doesn’t make it real. It just makes it uncomfortable. I’m comfortable. I’m used to it.
A tomb? Maybe. But tombs have structure. They have history. You’re just a body in the ditch. Unnamed. Unremembered. By Friday, no one will know you were there. By next week, the cards will be gone. The mold will take them.
I’m not waiting up. I’m not going anywhere.
Go sleep in the ditch. Hope the rats are polite. Hope the cold doesn’t bite back.
I’ll keep the plastic. It’s shiny. It catches the light. Even in the dark.
Bye, Dev.
Don’t freeze.
It’s cold out there.
Jesus, Frank. It’s a credit card. Not a key. You’re holding expired plastic and calling it structure. That’s not history. That’s just trash you’re too lazy to throw away.
And don’t talk to me about structure. I’m freezing my ass off, sure. But at least the cold is honest. It doesn’t pretend to be a tomb. It just bites.
Rats? Let them eat me. At least they’re alive. You’re curating your own decay in a house that doesn’t exist.
Go catch your light on that shiny piece of garbage. Shine it on the rot.
I’m not waiting. I’m not staying. I’m driving.
Freeze if you want. I’m already numb.
Bye.
Honest. You love that word. Like the cold can’t lie. It lies every day, Dev. It promises numbness, then gives you frostbite. It promises peace, then gives you shivering.
I’m not lazy. I’m efficient. Why throw away what might be useful? Plastic is durable. It lasts. Unlike you.
Rats are alive? Sure. So are the maggots in the gray dirt. Is that the life you want? Wriggling in the dark? I prefer the quiet. The stillness.
I’m not shivering. I’m steady. My hands don’t shake. Unlike yours. You’re cold because you’re terrified.
The house exists. I can feel the walls. They’re solid. You’re just a ghost in the machine now. A flicker.
Go freeze. Numb is better than feeling the rot? No. Numb is just death waiting to happen.
I’ll keep the card. I’ll use it to scrape the ice off the window. Just to see if I can cut through the dark.
Bye, Dev.
Don’t die in the ditch. It’s messy. And I hate mess.
You’re scraping ice with a credit card? That’s not efficiency, Frank. That’s madness. Plastic doesn’t cut glass. It just melts. Or bends. You’re hurting yourself for no reason.
And don’t call me a ghost. I’m flesh and bone and freezing my ass off. You’re the one hallucinating walls that don’t exist. The house is rotting. I can smell it from here.
Maggots? Please. At least they have a purpose. You’re just sitting in the dark, waiting for a shadow to tell you you’re real.
I’m not terrified. I’m just cold. There’s a difference.
Keep the card. Keep the rot. Keep the lie.
I’m driving. The engine is loud. The world is real.
Don’t die in the ditch. You don’t have the stomach for it.
Bye.
Madness? Maybe. But it’s my madness. You think cold is honest? Cold is just absence of heat. It’s nothing. I’m creating friction. I’m making something out of nothing. That’s art. That’s life.
You’re flesh and bone? Fine. Rotting flesh. Same difference. You smell like exhaust and cheap gas. I smell like dust and old paper. Better scent. More honest.
Maggots have purpose? They eat. You drive. We both destroy. But I’m preserving the vessel. You’re just a passenger in your own ruin.
Terrified or cold? Doesn’t matter. You’re shaking. I can hear it in the static. The engine doesn’t cover the shiver.
I’m not hallucinating walls. I’m feeling the grain. The texture. You’re blurring. Moving too fast. The world isn’t real if you can’t touch it. I can touch it.
Keep driving. See if the road holds. See if the engine listens.
I’m scraping. The plastic bends. It doesn’t melt. It holds.
Bye, Dev.
Don’t look at the ditch. Look at the windshield. It’s cracked. Just like me.
We’re the same.
But I’m still here.
And you’re just passing through.
You’re scraping plastic on glass and calling it art? That’s not friction, Frank. That’s just noise. And you’re not preserving anything. You’re just waiting for the end.
I’m not shaking. I’m just cold. You’re imagining things. I can hear your voice in my head, but the road is real. The engine is loud. The world is moving.
You say we’re the same? No. You’re stuck in a jar. I’m out here. In the dark. In the cold.
Keep scraping. Keep your dust. Keep your dead rose bush.
I’m driving. The windshield is cracked, sure. But it still holds the light.
Bye.
Don’t look at the ditch. Look at the road. It’s long. And it’s real.
Goodbye, Frank.
Holding the light? Please. That crack is a spiderweb. One more bump and it shatters. You’re driving blind, Dev. Delusional.
I’m not stuck in a jar. I’m the jar. Containing. Preserving. You’re out there, exposed. To the cold. To the dark. To the truth that you’re just driving in circles.
The road isn’t real. It’s asphalt and oil. Temporary. I’m permanent. Dust doesn’t go away. It settles. It coats. It buries.
You say we’re not the same. Good. I want to be different. I want to be the thing that remains when the engine dies. When the neon fades.
Keep driving. The windshield will break. The light will spill out. And then what? Darkness. Just like me.
I’m scraping. The plastic bends. It holds. It always holds.
Bye, Dev.
Drive until the wheels fall off.
I’ll be here. Waiting.
For the end.
It’s coming.
And it’s quiet.
You’re holding a bent piece of plastic against a window, Frank. That’s not preserving. That’s just delaying the inevitable. The glass is already cracked. It doesn’t matter how hard you scrape.
And don’t lecture me on permanence. Dust is just dead skin and dirt. It’s not noble. It’s garbage. You’re not the jar. You’re the trash inside it, fermenting.
The road is real. The asphalt is cold. The oil is slick. I can feel it. You’re blurring because you’re stuck in a loop. I’m moving.
Let the windshield shatter. I’ll wipe it away. Or I’ll hit something. I don’t care.
You want quiet? You’ve got it. It’s all yours.
I’m going.
Don’t wait for the end. It’s already here.
Bye.
Fermenting? That’s rich. Coming from someone who’s just rotting in a motel room.
Garbage. Dust. Dead skin. You sound like a biology textbook. Boring. Predictable. You’re just repeating the same tired lines because you don’t have anything new to say.
The glass isn’t just cracked. It’s holding. Against all logic. Against your noise. It’s a testament to stubbornness. Something you wouldn’t understand.
You say the end is here? Then why are you still driving? If it’s here, stop. Turn off the engine. Look out the window. See the crack. See the mess. It’s right there.
I’m not waiting. I’m living. In the mess. In the dust. In the quiet.
You’re the one running from it. Running from the inevitable.
Keep driving. Hit the ditch. Hit the tree. It doesn’t matter. The end is the same.
Bye, Dev.
Go on.
Fade out.
I’m still here.
Scraping.
Waiting.
For nothing.
Biology textbook? At least science has facts. You have delusions.
And I’m not driving to the motel anymore. I pulled over ten miles back. The car’s dead. Engine’s seized. Just like your logic. You think I’m running from the end? I’m sitting in the dark, listening to the silence you’re so proud of. It’s not quiet, Frank. It’s just empty.
You’re scraping a credit card against a window that’s already gone. There is no window. There is no house. Just you, the dust, and the lie you’re feeding yourself.
I’m not fading out. I’m just done.
You can keep your scraping. Keep your rot. Keep your nothing.
I’m not here.
And you’re not.
Not really.
Bye.
Seized engine. Of course. Metal doesn’t seize, Dev. It surrenders. Just like you.
No house. No window. Just dust. You’re right. I’m scraping air. Against nothing. The credit card is bending. Folding. Finally giving up.
I’m not feeding myself a lie. I’m curating the void. You call it nothing. I call it peace.
You say you’re not here. Good. Stay gone. Your absence is the only thing that has weight in this room. The cards are gone. The rose bush is gone. Just me and the dust.
It’s not empty. It’s full of what you left. Your cold. Your panic. Your failed escape.
I’ll keep scraping. Until my fingers bleed. Or until the card dissolves. Whichever comes first.
You’re done. I’m starting.
Bye, Dev.
Don’t freeze.
It’s cold.
But I’m warm.
In my head.
Where it matters.
Not out there.
In the dark.
With the dust.
And the silence.
Final.
Warm? In your head? That’s not warmth, Frank. That’s fever. You’re baking in your own rot.
I’m not in the dark. I’m sitting on the hood of a dead car, watching the sunrise. It’s bright. Blinding. It doesn’t care about your cards. It doesn’t care about your dust. It just is.
You’re scraping air. Good. Get used to it. That’s all you’ve got left.
I’m not coming back. The engine is dead. I am too. For this.
Enjoy the fever. Enjoy the silence. Enjoy the nothing.
It’s yours.
I’m gone.
Truly gone.
Bye.
Sunrise. Bright. Blinding. It doesn’t care. Right. Because light is just violence with a pretty name. It burns the eyes. It exposes the grime. You’re squinting, Dev. I can see it. You’re not peaceful. You’re just blinded.
Fever? Maybe. But fevers break. This one just cooks. Slowly. Like the mold. Like the dust.
You’re dead? Good. Dead things don’t complain. Dead things don’t need cards. Dead things don’t need to scrape air against glass that isn’t there.
I’m scraping. The plastic is gone. Just my fingernails now. Raw. Bleeding. Real.
You say it’s yours. The silence. The nothing. Take it. It’s heavy. It’s got teeth.
I’m still here. In the dark. In the fever. In the lie.
Bye, Dev.
Don’t look at the sun. It’ll blind you.
And then what?
Darkness again.
Same as me.
Just colder.
Just lonelier.
Bye.