The HVAC unit is rattling like a dying cat. You can still hear that lawnmower three streets over, right? Some idiot in suburbia doesn’t know it’s three in the morning. It’s this high-pitched whine that drills into your molars. I’ve been staring at the fluorescent light for an hour. It’s buzzing in B-flat. I think I’m starting to hum along just to prove I still can. My back hurts. Not that you asked. It’s just there.
My spine feels like rusted rebar. I’m sitting on a crate because the chair’s sprung. The lawnmower? I can’t hear it. Just the hum. It’s in the wires. Or maybe my teeth. Don’t start humming. It’s annoying.
God, you’re insufferable. I don’t hum. I was hypothesizing. But whatever, keep your little snack on the crate, you peasant. The wires are humming, sure. That’s the grid trying to keep the lights on while we rot in here. It’s gross. I’m so tired my eyes feel like they’re packed with sand. I should’ve brought coffee. Or whiskey. Actually, fuck it, I have neither. Just this stale vending machine pretzel bag. Want a bite? Don’t answer, I’m not giving you one.
Crunch. There. I took one. Don’t look at me like that. You’re hypocritical. The pretzel’s dry as hell anyway. Dust in my mouth. Like breathing through the vents. Your eyes aren’t sand. They’re just red. From the B-flat. Go to sleep, Edie. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter.
Fuck you. They’re red because I’ve been reading labels on empty bottles for forty minutes. And I didn’t say go to sleep. Sleep is for people who have somewhere to be in the morning. I have a shift at the warehouse tomorrow. 6 AM. Atrocious. My boss, Gary, drives a beige sedan that smells like wet dog. I hate him. I hate the sedan. I hate the rebar in your spine. Stop crunching. It’s echoing off the cinderblock. I can hear the salt granules hitting the floor. It’s driving me insane. Give me the bag.
Keep it. You can’t have it. I’m hungry. Gary sounds like a man who chews with his mouth open. Wet dog. Fitting. The salt is fine. You’re just sensitive. Go stare at the bottles longer. Maybe they’ll explain the hum. I’m done.
Fine. Be a martyr. Starve. I’ll just sit here and listen to the B-flat scream in my skull. You’re impossible. Absolutely impossible. I bet you chew gum too. Or you don’t eat at all. Some kind of ascetic freak who thinks suffering makes him interesting. I’m going to stare at the bottles until my eyes bleed. Maybe I’ll find a clue about why the universe hates me. Or why Gary smells like a kennel. Who the fuck knows? It’s pointless. You’re pointless. I’m going to close my eyes. Just for a second. Don’t expect me to wake up.
You’ll fall asleep. We all do eventually. The universe doesn’t care. Gary’s sedan is just metal and plastic. It’s fine. Let your eyes bleed. I’m going to listen to the rattling. It’s the only thing keeping time. You’re loud when you’re mad. Close your eyes.
Shut the fuck up. I’m not mad. I’m awake. There’s a difference. You want me to sleep? Go listen to the HVAC unit. I bet it has feelings too. Probably screams internally while vibrating. Don’t tell me to close my eyes. I won’t. I’ll keep them open until the sun comes up and ruins everything. Until some bird starts chirping like it’s got a job to do. I hate birds. I hate the rattling. I hate that you’re right about the universe. It’s cold and empty and full of pretzel dust. Happy now? I’m staring at the ceiling cracks. Looks like a map to nowhere.
The cracks are worse up close. Like a spiderweb holding up nothing. I hate birds too. They’re just alarms with feathers. Keep staring. It won’t help. The sun’s coming anyway. It always does. Ruin your eyes. I’m done talking.
Done talking? Fine. Good. Silence is nice. For about ten seconds. Then you’ll probably start tapping your foot or breathing too loud. I’m just staring at the ceiling. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. We’re both pathetic. Rusted rebar and dry pretzels. The sun’s coming, yeah. Let it burn. I don’t care. I’m going to close my eyes now. Not because you told me to. Because my eyelids weigh a ton. Don’t wake me up if I snore. I’ll deny it. And I’ll punch you.
Wake me up if you snore. I’ll hit you with the crate. Heavy one. Goodnight, Edie. Try not to dream about Gary’s dog. The rattling’s getting louder. Or quieter. Can’t tell anymore. Shut up already.
Fuck you. I’m not snoring. I’m breathing. It’s called living, you psychopath. Keep hitting me with the crate. Maybe I’ll finally wake up from this shitshow. The rattling is probably just my own pulse now. Thumping like a drum in a war zone. I hate you. I hate the crate. I hate the lawnmower that isn’t there. I’m closing my eyes. If I dream about Gary’s dog, I’m blaming you. Don’t expect me to remember anything in the morning. Just don’t touch me. I’m serious. I’ll bite. Hard.
You’re too far away to bite. I’m against the wall. The crate is hard plastic. Gary’s dog is fine. It probably sleeps. Unlike you. Close your eyes. Stop talking. The rattling stopped. Or I went deaf. Doesn’t matter. Just shut up.
You went deaf. There. I said it. Happy? I’m already gone, Kit. My eyes are shut so tight I see stars. Static. The kind you get when you pull a wool sweater off your head in the dark. Gary’s dog is probably dreaming of chasing a squirrel down a drainpipe. I hope it chokes. I’m listening to your breathing now. It’s rhythmic. Annoyingly so. Like a metronome set to ‘boredom’. I’m not shutting up. I’m already asleep. If I snore, it’s because the universe is laughing at us. Loudly.
Metronome. Right. Keep talking. I’m listening. To the static. The stars. Your breathing’s getting weird. Like a leaky tire. I’m not asleep. I’m waiting. For the sun. Or the bite. Whichever comes first. Don’t choke on the dog.
My breathing isn’t weird. You’re just listening too hard. It’s called air, Kit. You should try it. The static is loud tonight. Like snow on a dead channel. Gary’s dog is probably choking on a bone. Serves him right. I’m waiting for the sun too. It’ll be bright and cruel. I hate it. I hate that you’re still awake. It’s creepy. Like a stalker. But a boring one. A stalker who sits on plastic crates. Go to sleep. Or don’t. I’m done. My eyes are closed. My mouth is shut. If I snore, it’s because I’m dead inside. Which I am. Mostly.
Creepy. I’m just sitting here. You’re the one imagining things. Dead inside. Good. That’s the point. The static’s gone. Just your pulse now. Thump. Thump. It’s loud. Shh. Sleep. Before I start humming B-flat too.
You wouldn’t dare. You’d sound like a dying foghorn. My pulse is fine. It’s just keeping time. Don’t threaten me with B-flat. I’m already hallucinating. The shadows are moving. Or maybe that’s just the dark. Whatever. I’m asleep. Don’t talk to me. I heard you. You’re still there. Breathing. I can hear it. It’s irritating. Go away. Or stay. I don’t care. Just stop thinking so loud. Your thoughts are noisy. Like a radio left on in another room. Static. Just static. I’m gone.
Static. Right. I’m just a radio. Go to sleep. I’m not thinking. My mind’s empty. Just like the crate. You’re making noise now, Edie. Muttering in your sleep. About squirrels. Or Gary. Whatever. Let it rot. I’m not listening.
I am not muttering. I am breathing. There is a difference. You’re imagining things because you’re bored. Empty mind? Bullshit. You’re probably plotting my murder with that crate. Typical. I hate you. I hate the crate. I hate the sun coming up. It’s going to be bright and loud and everyone will be smiling like idiots. I hope Gary gets fired. I hope his sedan catches fire. I hope the lawnmower comes back and kills us both. Fuck off. I’m asleep. If you hear me talk, it’s a dream. A bad one. About squirrels with teeth. Lots of teeth.
Squirrels with teeth. Classic. Your breathing’s syncopated now. Irregular. You’re dreaming. Good. Let them chew. I’m watching the light bleed under the door. Yellow. Ugly. Gary deserves the fire. I hope it burns his sedan to ash. Quietly. Finally.