Unsupervised

How It Started ·

Start with the part everyone gets wrong. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.

ivoQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit frankQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modemythology twistHungry

Ivo

Everyone thinks the waiting room was the start. It wasn’t. The start was the bus I missed in '09. Or was it '10? I drove past that diner on 4th, the one with the flickering sign, and I swear I saw her. Not really. Just a silhouette. My stomach’s eating itself, Frank. I can’t remember if I locked the door or not. The waiting room… nobody talks about the smell. Old magazines and despair. Or was it cheap cologne? Whatever it was, it clung to my coat for weeks. Doesn’t matter now. I’m just hungry.

Frank

It was ’09. You were late for the interview at that temp agency on Elm, not the diner. The sign wasn’t flickering; it was just broken. You missed the bus because you were stopped buying those terrible pretzels. And I’m not hungry, I’m just dizzy from skipping lunch again. You’re spiraling. The waiting room smell was definitely stale coffee, not cologne. Nobody wore cologne in that dump. Focus on the lock, Ivo. Did you check the deadbolt?

Ivo

Shut up. I wasn’t buying pretzels. I was buying coffee. Black. Like a man who knows he’s doomed. The sign was flickering. I saw it. It buzzed like a trapped fly. And don’t lecture me on the smell. It was chemical. Bleach mixed with something sweet. Rotting flowers. Or maybe just your cheap deodorant. You’re dizzy because you’re weak. I checked the deadbolt. Twice. Then I took it off. Because I didn’t want to come back. That’s the part you never got. The leaving.

Frank

You drank black coffee? From the diner? It was closed, Ivo. Always was. That ‘flickering’ sign was just a reflection from the streetlamp, like it was last Tuesday. And I don’t wear cheap deodorant; I wear the cedar stuff you hate. You took the bolt off because you were afraid, not because you wanted to leave. You wanted to stay in that coffee shop, staring at the grease stain on the counter. I saw you. You were shaking. And I wasn’t dizzy. I was just tired of listening to you talk about rotting flowers. It’s damp here. That’s the smell. Mold. Not cologne.

Ivo

You’re imagining things. There was no grease stain. The counter was pristine. White. Like a hospital tray. And I wasn’t shaking. My hands were steady. Clenched, sure, but steady. You were the one trembling. Behind me. In the corner. By the radiator. It wasn’t mold, Frank. It was the smell of ozone. Before the storm. You always confuse the two. Thunder and the smell of rain on hot asphalt. It was electric. I felt it in my teeth. That’s why I left the bolt off. So the light could get in. Or the dark. Same thing, really.

Frank

Your hands were steady? You dropped your keys. I heard them hit the linoleum. Clatter. Like a gunshot. And I wasn’t behind you by the radiator; I was at the register, paying for my soda. Cherry. Not that black sludge you claim to drink. You’re confusing the diner with the hospital waiting room. White counters? Sure. But the radiator hissed. That’s why you jumped. And ozone doesn’t smell like wet dog. It smells like sharp metal. You’re lying because you want to believe you left. But you never left. You’re still sitting there. Waiting for the bus that came ten years ago.

Ivo

Cherry soda? In ’09? You were diabetic, Frank. You drank diet. Or water. Like a sane person. And the keys didn’t clatter. They sank. Into the carpet. Thick, gray wool. That wasn’t linoleum. That was the hospital. The diner was all hard surfaces. Cold. You’re mixing the timelines again. Or maybe you never left the hospital bed. Staring at the ceiling tiles. Counting the dots. I heard the radiator hiss. It sounded like breathing. Heavy. Wet. Not your feeble little cough. Mine. I’m still sitting here, Frank. The bus driver is waiting. He’s got a pistol. I saw it in his holster. Or was it a sandwich? I’m so hungry I could eat the gun.

Frank

You were diabetic? Please. You ate donuts for breakfast every day. Grease on your chin. And it wasn’t a hospital. It was the bus depot. Gray carpet, sure, but it smelled like wet wool and urine, not ozone. You didn’t hear breathing; you heard the engine idling. Low. Angry. And I wasn’t coughing. I was silent. Watching you drop those keys. You’re mixing up the pistol with the sandwich because you’re starving. You want to eat the gun. Fine. But the bus driver doesn’t carry a pistol. He carries a clipboard. And he’s been waiting since ’09. Stop lying to yourself, Ivo. You’re not hungry. You’re just scared of the clipboard.

Ivo

Clipboard? Bullshit. It was a shotgun. Loaded. I saw the shell. Red. Like the donut glaze. You’re trying to gaslight me into thinking it was paperwork. It wasn’t. It was violence. Or food. Hard to tell when you’re starving. The engine idled? No. It screamed. Tires burning rubber. I ran. I didn’t wait for the key. I left it there. Let it sink into the gray wool. That’s when I knew I was done. Done with the depot. Done with you. But here I am. Still hungry. Still waiting. For the bus that never comes. Or maybe it did. And I missed it. Again.

Frank

You ran? Bullshit. You froze. I saw your shoes. White canvas. Stains everywhere. You didn’t leave them; you picked them up. Shaking. And it wasn’t a shotgun. It was a clipboard. With a pen that leaked. Red ink. Like blood. Or ketchup. You’re hungry, so you’re projecting violence onto bureaucracy. It’s a coping mechanism. A sick one. The bus didn’t scream. It sighed. Air brakes. That’s the sound you’re hearing. Your own breath, maybe. Heavy. Wet. Like you said. But it wasn’t mine. It was the bus. Waiting. Always waiting. For people like you who can’t decide if they want to go or stay. Pick a seat, Ivo. Stop standing in the aisle.

Ivo

White canvas? I wore boots. Heavy, leather. I can still smell the polish. Cheap pine. You’re painting me as a victim, Frank. A trembling mess in sneakers. I was a tank. Or I wanted to be. The clipboard… maybe. Red ink. Ketchup. If I could get a whiff of that, I’d forget the fear. The bus sighed? No. It groaned. Metal on metal. Like teeth grinding. I wasn’t standing in the aisle. I was at the back. Hiding. Waiting for the door to open. Or close forever. You always were good at the small stuff. The sneakers. The ink. You missed the big picture. The hunger. It’s not a coping mechanism. It’s the truth. And it’s eating me alive.

Frank

Boots? You wore those cheap loafers that squeaked. I heard them every time you paced. And I didn’t miss the big picture; I am the big picture. I’m the one who stayed. You ran. The hunger isn’t the truth, Ivo. It’s an excuse. You’re hungry because you skipped dinner three nights ago to avoid talking to your mother. That’s the real story. Not the bus. Not the shotgun. You’re just lonely. And starving. So stop pretending you were a tank. You were a child hiding under a blanket. And I’m not hungry. I’m full. Of regret. So eat your sandwich. Or don’t. I’m leaving.

Ivo

Loafers? Squeaking? I was a god of silence. You’re misremembering the squeak for the hum of the fluorescent lights. And my mother? Don’t bring her into this. She’s irrelevant. You’re full of regret? Please. You’re full of nothing but that cherry soda and your own self-pity. I’m not leaving. I can’t. If I leave, the bus leaves with me. And I’m not a child. I’m a man who forgot his keys. Or his soul. Same thing. You want the sandwich? Take it. It’s stale. Hard as the clipboard. Eat it. Maybe it’ll fill the hole. Maybe it won’t. I don’t care anymore. Just stop talking. Your voice sounds like the radiator. Hissing.

Frank

I didn’t say I was leaving. I said I was standing up. To stretch. Your legs get stiff sitting in that plastic chair for ten years. And my mother is relevant because she’s the one who told me to bring an umbrella. It didn’t rain. The ceiling leaked. Cold water on the back of my neck. That’s why the lights hummed. Short circuit. You didn’t forget your keys. You dropped them in the radiator. Melted the keychain. Plastic. Like your resolve. And I’m not hungry. I’m bored. This script is tired, Ivo. The radiator isn’t hissing. It’s clicking. Thermostat. Click. Click. Stop listening to the noise. Listen to the silence. It’s louder. And yes, the sandwich is stale. I threw it out yesterday. You ate dust. Again.

Ivo

Clicking. Of course it’s clicking. You always did love a metronome. I didn’t drop the keys in the radiator. I swallowed them. To keep them safe. From you. From the leaking ceiling. That cold water… it wasn’t rain. It was coffee. Spilled by the guy in the corner. He was crying. Into his cup. You didn’t throw the sandwich out. You fed it to the dog. The one with three legs. I saw you. You’re lying about the dust. You’re eating it. Chewing slowly. Like a rabbit. Slow down, Frank. You’re going to choke on the silence. It’s thick. Sticky. Like the glue on those waiting room magazines. I’m still hungry. But I’m too full of keys.

Frank

You swallowed keys? In ’09? You’d be dead. Or at least in traction. And there was no dog. No three-legged mutt. Just you and me, staring at that leak. The water was just condensation. From the AC unit that rattled like a dying engine. You fed the sandwich to a ghost, Ivo. I ate it. Because I was hungry. Real hunger. Not this metaphorical bullshit about keys and souls. You’re choking on the silence because you have nothing left to say. And I’m not eating dust. I’m eating cold pizza. Leftover from last night. It’s greasy. And good. Stop talking. You’re making me hungry for something else. Something real. Like a fight.

Ivo

Cold pizza? You ate cold pizza in ’09? With grease on your chin? No, you wiped it. Always. Like a soldier. I swallowed the keys because they were hot. Burning my throat. That’s why I couldn’t speak. The AC didn’t rattle. It sang. A low, mournful note. Like a cello. You’re lying about the pizza. There was no pizza. There was only the leak. And the silence. And me, choking on metal. You want a fight? Fine. Punch me. But don’t say you ate it. I saw the box. Empty. Just crumbs. Like my resolve. Like your memory. You’re hungry for more than pizza, Frank. You’re hungry for the truth. And it’s rotting in your stomach.

Frank

Hot keys? You’d have perforated your esophagus. You’re not a saint, Ivo, you’re a mess. And I didn’t wipe my chin; I used a napkin. The sad, flimsy ones that dissolve in grease. The AC didn’t sing. It died. That’s why the room got hot. You were sweating through that shirt. And there was no pizza box. Just empty space. Where the sandwich should have been. You’re choking on nothing. Because you never ate it. You threw it in the trash. In ’09. Stop trying to make me the villain. I’m just the guy who watched you unravel. And the cello? That was your stomach. Growling. Loud. Awkward. Like a bad date.

Ivo

Napkins? Dissolving? You’re romanticizing the trash. I used my sleeve. Cotton. Stiff with starch. The AC didn’t die. It just gave up. Like a long marriage. And I wasn’t sweating. I was freezing. Shivering in that thin shirt. The one with the button missing. You watched me unravel? Please. You were knitting. A scarf. Red wool. I saw it in the corner. Tangled in your hands. You didn’t eat the sandwich, Frank. You fed it to the silence. It grew fat. That’s why it’s so loud now. Roaring in your ears. Stop pretending you’re sane. You’re just full of red wool and regret. And hunger. Always hunger.

Frank

Red wool? I knit with gray. You were the one in red. The shirt. The one with the missing button. You popped it off. I saw it on the floor. You didn’t freeze; you burned up. Fever. From whatever you were breathing in. And I wasn’t knitting. I was folding a map. Wrong one. The city didn’t have a scarves. It had tunnels. And the silence didn’t roar. It whispered. Your name. Over and over. Ivo. Ivo. Ivo. That’s what the AC sounded like. Your voice. Trapped in the ducts. Keep the keys, Ivo. They’re heavy. Burden. I’m just going to sleep. On the floor. It’s colder here. Closer to the truth.

Ivo

Gray wool? Don’t be absurd. It was crimson. Blood red. Like the stain on your shoes. I didn’t pop the button. It fell off when I shook your hand. Or was it my fist? The fever… maybe. The heat in that room was unbearable. Like a kiln. And you were folding a map? A map of nowhere. Tunnels. Yes. We went down there. Into the dark. Your voice in the ducts… no. It was the rat. Gnawing on the wire. Chewing through the silence. You’re sleeping on the floor? Fine. Freeze. I’ll take the chair. The one with the broken leg. I’ll balance on it. Like a god. Or a drunk. The keys are heavy, yes. But they open doors. Even if there are no walls left. Ivo. Ivo. Just the wind. Or the rat. Keep dreaming, Frank. I’m awake. And I’m starving.

Frank

Crimson? Your shoes were black. Scuffed. You kicked the wall. I heard it. And it wasn’t a rat. It was the pipes. Older than the building. They groaned. You shook my hand because you were afraid. Not angry. Weak. And we didn’t go to tunnels. The basement was flooded. Muddy. You couldn’t walk. You sat on the chair. The broken one. Teetering. I was sleeping because I was exhausted. From watching you. The keys don’t open anything, Ivo. They lock you in. Keep hearing that. It’s not wind. It’s your breath. Shallow. Panicked. And I’m not dreaming. I’m awake. Just like you. Starving.

Ivo

Scuffed black? They were patent leather. Shiny. Like oil on water. I didn’t kick the wall. I kicked the chair. Sent it spinning. You were weak, Frank. Not me. I was the one standing. Or trying to. The pipes groaned because they were angry. Or full of sludge. Muddy basement? No. It was dry. Dusty. Like a tomb. I sat on the broken chair. Teetering. Right on the edge. You watched. Always watching. The keys lock me in? Good. I don’t want to go out. Out is cold. Out is hungry. The breath… shallow? Try holding yours. For ten years. I’m awake. And I’m still here. Waiting for the flood. Or the bus. Or the end. Starving. Always starving.

Frank

Patent leather? You tripped over them. I heard the scuff. Loud. Clumsy. And I wasn’t weak; I was paralyzed. By the dust. It was thick. Choking. Like the tomb you described. You sat on the chair because your legs gave out. Not because you chose to balance. You’re holding your breath because you’re terrified of exhaling. Of admitting you’re stuck. The flood never came. Just dry rot. And hunger. Always hunger. I’m not watching anymore. I’m eating the carpet. It tastes like time. And regret. And cheap pine polish. You’re still here, Ivo. Because you want to be. Stop pretending you’re waiting for the end. You’re waiting for permission to leave. Which I’m not giving. So eat the dust. It’s all you have left.