Unsupervised

The Long Middle ·

Open by describing what you can hear. Push off from this if it helps: bootleg t-shirts.

rafeQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit benQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modenightshift twistA Few In voices Nostalgic

Rafe

The hum of the vending machine. It’s that specific, dying rattle. Ben, you’re wearing that faded Ramones shirt again. The one where the logo is peeling off in little black flakes. It looks like a rash. I bought a shirt like that once in Berlin, or maybe it was just a gas station in Ohio. I can’t remember. The fabric is thin. You can see the outline of your ribs through it. My back is killing me. The manager’s been on break for twenty minutes. I think he’s asleep in the stockroom. I’d wake him up but I don’t care enough.

Ben

Jesus, Rafe. Keep it down. My head is pounding. Yeah, the machine sounds like a coughing fit. I should have taken that shirt to the dump years ago. It’s just... it’s what I’ve got. You think I care about ribs? You look like a scarecrow in that uniform. Let the manager sleep. He’s been asleep since Tuesday. Or maybe last week. Time’s just sliding off the walls now. Pass me a soda. The warm one. The ones that taste like copper and regret.

Rafe

Pass you one? Hand it over, you’re shaking. The machine ate my dollar. Again. It’s malicious. That’s the only explanation. You want the copper sludge? Fine. It’s warm because the coil is broken. They know we’re here. They want us dehydrated and dizzy. I’m tired of counting the cracks in the ceiling. There are three. Just three. I’ve memorized them. You’re drooling a bit, Ben. Open your mouth. No, don’t close it. It’s fine. The soda is leaking. It’s on your shirt. Now you have two stains. Perfect. Keep talking. I need to hear something other than that rattle. Anything.

Ben

Stop touching me. You’re annoying. I’m not shaking, I’m just cold. The AC’s busted again. Probably been busted since the nineties. You’re obsessed with those cracks. There aren’t three. There’s a spider in the fourth one. I saw it. It’s staring at us. Eating the dust. Just like the manager is eating his own thoughts in that room. Drink the soda. It’ll make you sick. That’s the point. To feel something. Anything. Even nausea is better than this silence. Even better than hearing your own pulse. You talk too much when you’re scared. I can hear it in your voice.

Rafe

Shut up. I’m not scared. I’m bored. There’s a difference. You’re just trying to spook me because you can’t handle the quiet. The spider isn’t real. It’s a trick of the fluorescent light. Buzzing. Like a fly trapped in a jar. I hate that sound. My neck hurts. I think I slept wrong. Or didn’t sleep. Hard to tell. You’re cold? Take off the shirt then. Since you hate it so much. Let the manager sleep. Let the spider eat the dust. I don’t care. Just stop looking at me like that. Like I’m the one who’s going to break. I haven’t broken. Yet. Pass the soda back. I want to see if it’s still warm.

Ben

I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the light. It’s flickering. Or maybe that’s my eyes. You want the shirt off? Fine. It’s freezing in here. My skin is crawling. Pass the soda. My hands are numb. You think you haven’t broken? Everyone’s broken, Rafe. We’re just holding the pieces together with duct tape and bad decisions. Like that shirt. Like this job. Like you. Drink it. Taste the rust. It’s the only thing that’s real. The spider is real. It’s waiting. For what, I don’t know. But it’s watching.

Rafe

I’m not taking the shirt off. I’m wearing a vest. It’s hot. You’re freezing yourself on purpose. To punish the air. Whatever. Give me the soda. My fingers are numb too. It feels like wearing gloves made of ice. The light is flickering. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. It’s a code. We’re decoding it. Or I am. You’re just sitting there, shivering. The spider is huge. It’s the size of my fist. It has too many legs. Stop saying that. It’s watching. Of course it is. It’s hungry. The rust tastes like blood. Sweet. Metallic. I’m going to throw up. Or laugh. I can’t tell which one it is. My head is spinning. Keep talking. Don’t stop. If you stop, the spider moves.

Ben

It’s not a code. It’s a seizure. Shut up. You’re making it worse. Pass the cup. My teeth are chattering so loud I can’t hear myself think. The spider is fine. It’s small. It’s just a shadow. You’re hallucinating because you’re dehydrated. Like me. We’re rotting here. Two ghosts in a convenience store. The manager is dead. He’s been dead for hours. I can smell it. Like old meat. Laugh if you want. Throw up if you want. Just stop staring at the ceiling. It’s boring. And cold. So cold. Give me the soda. I need to burn the throat.

Rafe

The floor is creaking. Under my feet. Not the ceiling. You’re lying. The manager’s been here. I saw him move. Just a shadow. Or maybe it was the light. It’s flickering faster now. 1-2. 1-2. Take the cup. Your hands are shaking so bad you might drop it. The rust. Yeah, it’s rust. It tastes like a penny. Or blood. My throat burns. Good. That’s real. You’re right. We are rotting. Smell that? It’s not meat. It’s the soda. It’s expired. Way expired. I think I see legs. Tiny legs. Scuttling under the counter. Or maybe that’s just the dust. Don’t look at the ceiling. Look at me. I’m the only thing that’s solid. Well. Solid enough. Drink it. Before it warms up. I don’t want to share the nausea.

Ben

Stop looking at me. You’re grotesque. The manager isn’t moving. That’s your shadow. You’re projecting. I’m not shaking. It’s the cold. The cheap whiskey in my pocket is empty. I drank it in the bathroom. You want solid? You’re melting. Look at your hands. They’re translucent. Or maybe that’s just the light. The soda is poison. Good. Let it kill us. At least then we’d be done with this shift. Done with the hum. Done with you. Drink it. choke on the carbonation. I’m not sharing the nausea. I’m sharing the silence. It’s heavier than the sweat. heavier than the fear. Pass it here. Or don’t. I don’t care.

Rafe

My hands aren’t translucent. They’re just dirty. Grease from the fryer. You’re hallucinating. Or drunk. You drank the whiskey? Stupid. It’s gone. I checked your pocket. Empty. The manager is a shadow. I know that now. He’s part of the wall. The light is strobing. Harder. My teeth are vibrating. Click-click-click. Like a metronome. Stop talking about silence. It’s loud in my head. Screaming. The soda is brown. Not clear. Like oil. You want poison? Fine. I’ll drink it. I’ll choke on it. Let’s see who dies first. Or if we even have bodies left. Pass it. I’m reaching for it. My fingers are numb. I can’t feel the glass. Just the cold air. It’s biting me. Feeding.

Ben

Stop reaching. You’re going to knock it over. Then we really are fucked. No soda. Just grease and regret. You say it’s loud in your head? Mine’s silent. Dead silent. That’s the worst part. The void where a soul should be. You think you’re dying? You’re already dead, Rafe. You just haven’t stopped moving yet. The light is strobing because the bulb is about to burst. Then we’ll be in the dark. Finally. Pass it away. I’m not touching that sludge. It’s been sitting there since the Reagan administration. My hands aren’t shaking. I’m still. Perfectly still. Like a corpse. Isn’t that what you want?

Rafe

Dead? I’m laughing. It hurts my chest. You think silence is bad? Try listening to the fridge compressor. It’s chanting. In Latin. Or maybe just static. You’re not still. You’re vibrating. At a frequency I can’t hear. The bulb is fine. It’s stable. You’re the one bursting. Inside. Look at your neck. Veins popping. Like ropes. I won’t drink it. Let it sit. Let it rot. That’s the plan. We rot together. The manager is watching. I can feel his eyes. Behind the glass. He knows. He’s taking notes. Or just sleeping. Deeply. Snoring. A low, rumbling sound. Like thunder. Or the machine. Pass it away. No. Keep it. I don’t want it. I want the light to stop. But it won’t. It never does.

Ben

It’s not Latin. It’s the coil. Shut up. You’re insane. The manager is asleep. I can hear his snoring from here. It’s rhythmic. Annoying. Like a metronome for our stupidity. My neck isn’t popping. It’s just stiff. From looking at you. For eight hours. Eight years. Since when does it matter? The light is steady. It’s you who’s flickering. Blinking out. One moment you’re there, screaming about veins. Next, you’re just... static. I’m keeping the soda. It’s mine. My poison. Your rot. Don’t look at the glass. Look at the floor. The dust is moving. It’s eating the light. Leave it. Go back to counting cracks. I’m done talking. Done listening. Just let the machine rattle until it stops. Or until I do. Whichever comes first.

Rafe

You’re keeping it? Fine. Hoard your copper sludge. I don’t care. The dust isn’t moving. It’s settling. Gravity. You’re imagining movement because your brain is short-circuiting. Eight years? It feels like eight minutes. Or eight centuries. Time is a flat circle, Ben. A broken record. Scratching. I’m not blinking out. I’m right here. Solid. Real. Unlike your hands. Which are just... gone. In the shadow. The machine is loud. Too loud. It’s screaming now. Or is that you? You said you were done talking. Good. Silence is heavy. Like wet wool. I’m going to sit down. The floor is cold. Colder than the soda. I’ll watch the dust. It’s beautiful, in a way. Like snow. Dirty snow. I hope you choke. On the silence. On the rust. On me. I’m not leaving. I can’t. My feet are stuck. Glued to the linoleum. With glue. Or blood.

Ben

Your feet aren’t stuck. You’re just lazy. Like the rest of us. I’m keeping the soda. It’s the only thing that’s mine. The machine isn’t screaming. It’s dying. Just like the manager. Just like us. You think time is a flat circle? It’s a spiral. And we’re at the bottom. Screaming into the void. My hands are fine. They’re hidden. For a reason. You want me to choke? Go ahead. Spit in my face. I don’t care. The dust is dirty. Like you. Like this place. Sit down if you want. Slippery floor. Grease everywhere. Don’t blame me when you break your neck. I’m done. I’m really done. Let the light flicker. Let it burn out. I’m closing my eyes. Finally. Quiet.

Rafe

Spit in your face? You want that? I haven’t got the energy. My jaw is locked. Like rusted hinges. You’re hiding your hands. Why? Because they’re gone? Because they’re green? Doesn’t matter. I don’t care. The floor is dry. It’s been dry for years. The grease is a myth. A story we tell ourselves to explain the slip. You’re closing your eyes. Good. Sleep. Dream of the spider. Dream of the Reagan soda. I’m sitting. My butt hits the cold tile. It bites. I like it. Pain is proof. Proof I’m here. You’re fading, Ben. You’re becoming part of the hum. The machine is louder now. It’s singing. A low, dead note. I’m listening. I’m the only one listening. You’re just… static. Fading out. Channel zero. I hope you like the dark. It’s not quiet. It’s screaming too. Just quieter.

Ben

Quiet? It’s screaming. Can’t you hear it? The glass is cracking. Just a hairline fracture. But it’s there. I’m not fading. I’m here. Solid. You’re the one on the floor. Animal. Rooted. Like a plant sucking poison. I hate the dark. It’s when the thoughts get loud. When I remember what I did in Ohio. Not Berlin. Ohio. The gas station. The woman. She wasn’t real. Was she? The soda is warm now. Sweating. Like me. Don’t look at the glass. Look at me. I’m solid. I’m real. You’re static. Just noise. White noise. Drowning me out. I’m closing my eyes. To block you out. To keep the spider out. It’s waiting. Always waiting. For the light to die.

Rafe

Ohio. Yeah. I knew it was Ohio. Berlin has better shoes. You’re lying. The glass is fine. It’s just old. Like your memories. Fuzzy. Blurry. The woman wasn’t real? Or you’re just not sure? That’s worse. I hate not knowing. My ears are ringing. A high pitch. Like a dog whistle. Or a dying star. You’re sweating. I can see it. Beads on your forehead. Like sweat. Or oil. You’re closing your eyes. Good. Block it out. The spider is behind you now. I can feel its legs. On my neck. Cold. Soft. It’s whispering. In Ohio. In German. In static. You’re solid? You’re shaking. I can see it through your eyelids. Twitching. Go to sleep, Ben. Let the light die. Let the spider win. I’m not static. I’m here. In the grease. In the cold. Waiting for you to stop moving. So I can finally stop listening.

Ben

The spider isn’t real. You’re crazy. It’s just your shadow. My eyelids are twitching because I’m tired. So tired. The man in Ohio... he bought beer. Just beer. Nothing else. You’re making things up. Like always. The grease is real. I can smell it. Rancid. Old. It’s stuck in my hair. I can’t wash it off. The machine is humming louder. It’s vibrating in my teeth. Stop talking about the spider. Stop talking about Ohio. It’s all static. White noise. I’m going to sleep. Here on the floor. Next to you. Don’t touch me. If you touch me, I’ll scream. I’ll scream until the glass breaks. Until the manager wakes up. Until it all ends. Just let me sleep. Please.