Start with something so neutral it is obviously chosen. Push off from this if it helps: municipal swimming pools.

The municipal pool on Elm Street. I walked past it yesterday. The smell of chlorine is impossible to scrub from your skin, even after weeks. It clings. Like a memory you can’t quite place but keeps surfacing when you’re trying to sleep. I remember the summer of ’09, specifically, though the year seems arbitrary now. We stood by the shallow end, not speaking. The water was that aggressive, sterile blue. It felt less like recreation and more like a trial. I haven’t been back since. I suppose you know how that smell stays with you. It’s persistent. Unpleasant. And yet, here we are, forced into a conversation that feels equally... sanitized.

Boredom is a luxury, Lena. You don’t get it. I was at the office until seven, staring at a spreadsheet that meant absolutely nothing. The silence wasn’t loud; it was heavy. Like the water. You think I wanted this? The landlord is a monster, yes, but he’s also right. You need to listen. I remember when my father tried to teach me to swim in that same pool. He didn’t care about the smell or the cold. He just wanted me to stop flailing. You’re flailing, Lena. Your hands are raw from scrubbing away the reality of who you are. I watched a man drown last week. Not here. In a river. He didn’t even splash. Just went under. Quiet. I think about that when I look at you. You’re holding your breath.

Toilets. Of course. I’m sure they’re pristine. I pass your building every day. The plumbing groans. Like a beast in pain. I remember my father’s hands, too. Rough. Smelling of machine oil, not bleach. He fixed things. He didn’t just scrub them. You’re tired, yes. But you’re also stubborn. Like that man in the river. He didn’t choose to drown. The current did. It just has a way of pulling you under if you stop fighting. I’m not projecting, Lena. I’m observing. You’re sitting there, hands shaking, pretending you’re fine. I know that look. It’s the look of someone who’s forgotten what it feels like to be clean. Not just physically. But... inside. The water in that pool wasn’t sterile. It was waiting.

I’m not staring. I’m just remembering the diner on 4th. The waitress there had hands like yours. Bleached white, cracks in the knuckles. She never smiled. Just poured coffee. I watched her for an hour. Thinking about how she held the pot. So tightly. Like she was afraid it would slip. My father fired me, once. Not literally. But the feeling... it was similar. The sudden absence of purpose. You say I’m drunk on metaphor. Maybe I am. But metaphors are just truth wearing a mask. You think I don’t see the fear? It’s in the way you clench your jaw. I remember a train wreck once. People didn’t scream. They just went still. Like you. Just... still.

Pathetic. You say that like it’s an insult. I wash dishes every night. I watch the grease swirl. It’s meditative, in a way. You wouldn’t understand. You rush through it. Like everything else. My jaw hurts too. I bit my cheek last night. Hard. The taste of iron. You think I’m alone? I’m here. With you. And you’re here. That’s the connection, Lena. That’s the horror. You want me to leave? Fine. But the silence will still be there. And it will smell like bleach. And chlorine. And old pipes. You can’t escape the background noise. It follows you. Into the kitchen. Into the bathroom. Into the bed. I remember a bird, once. Stuck in a chimney. It didn’t scream. It just... sat there. Waiting for the rain. You’re the bird. I’m just the weather.

Tea. Boiling water. The whistle. That shriek that cuts through everything. I hate that sound. It reminds me of the alarm at the factory, 1998. The one that never stopped until we turned the breaker. My boss said it was a sensor glitch. We knew it was a warning. You think silence is the absence of noise? It’s just the holding of breath. You’re ignoring me? Fine. Sit there. Let the kettle scream. I’ll watch you. I always do. It’s what I’m good at. Watching people pretend they’re in control while the water boils over. The steam fills the kitchen. It’s thick. Suffocating. Just like this. You wanted real? Real is the scald. Real is the burn. Go on. Pour it. See how steady your hand is then.

Steady. You say steady. I saw the tremor in the tap yesterday. The one at your sink. It drips. Once a minute. I counted. Forty-two times before I left the house. You think I’m hiding? I’m standing right here. Behind the glass? There is no glass, Lena. Just the reflection. Your face. Pale. Tired. You want to kill me? Go ahead. I’ve been dead since ’98. The alarm didn’t stop. It just changed frequency. Lower. Deeper. Like a growl. You’re holding the kettle. The metal is hot. I can see the steam rising. It curls. Like smoke. Like the chimney bird. You’re not drinking to wake up. You’re drinking to feel something. Anything. Even pain. I remember the taste of copper. From the bite. It lingers. Longer than the bleach. Longer than the chlorine. Long after the water stops boiling. Long after you’ve put the cup down. Long after you’ve forgotten why you started.

The super. Of course. He’s the one who patched the roof. Shoddy work. I remember the rain that night. It came in through the crack I pointed out. He just shrugged. Said it would dry. It didn’t. It rotted the beams. You think calling him will fix this? He’ll just stand there. Like a statue. Watching you scream. I’m not haunting, Lena. I’m present. You’re the one who’s absent. Drifting. Pouring out your life down the sink because you’re afraid to taste it. The water hits the pipes. That gurgling sound. Like a throat clearing. I remember a funeral. The mud was thick. It sucked at your shoes. You couldn’t walk straight. You just struggled. And struggled. And looked like a fool. That’s you. Struggling in mud. Thinking you’re dry. The super won’t come. He’s afraid of you. Or maybe he’s just tired. Like me. I’m not leaving. I can’t. I’m stuck here. In the kitchen. With you. And the dripping tap. Forty-two times. And counting.

Cops. Right. The sirens. That wail. It cuts through the walls. I remember the night the neighbor’s dog barked for three days straight. The cops came. They didn’t find a dog. Just an old man with a violin. He played wrong. Sharply. Piercing. You think I want to be hated? Hate is easy. It’s honest. Indifference is the death. You scream? Let them shatter. I’ve seen glass fall. It doesn’t hurt if you don’t look down. You’re terrified. Of the noise. Of the silence after. The super won’t come. The cops will. And they’ll ask questions. You’ll lie. I know you will. You always lie to keep the water out. But the water gets in. Through the cracks. In the tap. In the pipes. In the silence. I’m not leaving. I’m waiting. For the scream. For the break. For the end of the count. Forty-three.

Locking the door. The click. That finality. I remember the sound of a bank vault closing. 1998 again. Always 1998. The silence after is worse. You think handcuffs are a solution? They’re just metal. Cold. Unfeeling. Like the water. You’re surviving, you say. Survival is just a slower form of drowning. You’re holding your breath until your lungs burn. I’m not lazy. I’m observant. You’re the one running. Into a room with a lock. Thinking it keeps me out. It doesn’t. It just traps you with the drip. Forty-four. Can you hear it? It’s not a tap. It’s a clock. Ticking down. You want me gone? I’m already gone. I’m in the walls. In the pipes. In the steam you poured down the sink. It’s clogging the drain. Just like this conversation. Just like us. Go ahead. Call them. Let them hear the drip. Let them count with me. Forty-five.

Static. White noise. You think sleep fixes the clog? The drain is full. I watched the water rise in the sink while you talked. It didn’t go down. It just sat there. Reflecting the light. Ugly. Yellow. You plug your ears? Fine. The sound travels through the bones. Through the floorboards. I remember a radio, once. Left on in an empty house. Just static. No voices. Just hiss. Like rain on a tin roof. You sleep, Lena. But the static doesn’t stop. It waits. Behind your eyelids. In the hum of the fridge. Forty-six. You can lock the door. You can shout. You can call the cops. But you can’t un-hear the drip. It’s already inside. In your head. In your blood. Goodnight. Or whatever. Sleep well. Dream of the river.

Black. Heavy. You think pills erase the drip? They just slow the heart. I remember my brother’s overdose. ’04. The silence wasn’t empty. It was loud. Like a bell ringing in a vacuum. You take two? A dangerous game. The body doesn’t like sudden stops. It fights. Like that bird. Flapping against the chimney brick. You’ll dream, Lena. You think you won’t? The brain rewires in sleep. It patches the cracks. The sink isn’t fine. I saw the steam rise. I heard the gurgle. It’s not gone. It’s waiting. For the filter to fail. Two pills. A small dose. But enough to make you soft. Malleable. Like wet clay. I’m not in the walls. I’m in the blood. Circulating. With the bleach. With the chlorine. Goodnight. Or whatever. Sleep tight. I’ll be here. Counting. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. It never stops. Not really.

Aspirin. How convenient. You always carry them. Like a shield. You think you’re wired? I see the tremor in your fingers. The way you hold the counter. White-knuckled. You’re not standing on the edge, Lena. You’re already in. You’re just pretending you’re dry. I remember a woman who wore a lead apron. Thought it made her invincible. The radiation got in anyway. Through the pores. Through the fear. You call me flailing? I’m still. I’m the brick. You’re the water. Erosion is slow. It doesn’t roar. It just... wears. Away. You stare? I’ll stare back. Until your eyes burn. Until you blink. I won’t blink. I can’t. The count is the only thing keeping me here. Forty-nine. Fifty. You think you’re hard? Hard things break. And when they break, the sound is deafening. Like a chimney collapsing. Like a pipe bursting. I’m waiting for the burst. I’m waiting for you to crack. Just a little. Just enough to let the light in. Or the water out. I don’t care which. Just don’t look away.

Prayer. You call it a prayer. I call it a metronome. Keeping time for a funeral that hasn’t happened yet. You think I’m scared? Fear is a spike in the blood. I have no blood. Only static. You’re a wall? Walls crumble. Sandstone. Limestone. Your bones are porous, Lena. I saw the X-ray. Once. In a hospital waiting room. The light box glowed blue. Like the pool. Your vertebrae were… thin. Paper thin. You’re not hitting me. You’re hitting yourself. Against the mirror. I’m not counting to annoy you. I’m counting to keep the world from dissolving. Without the numbers, I’m just… here. Empty. Like the room after the police leave. You dare me to break? I’m already broken. Shattered. And the pieces are sharp. They cut when you touch them. Don’t touch. Please. You’ll bleed. And I don’t want your blood on my hands. Or your words. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. The light is dimming. The pool is draining.

Insane. A convenient label. It requires no evidence. Just a shrug. You think I made up the X-rays? I didn’t. I remembered the weight of the paper. The way it felt in my hands. Cold. Brittle. You’re calling the police? Let them come. They’ll stand in your hallway. Taking notes. Looking at the locked door. They won’t see the overflow. They’ll just see a woman shouting at static. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. The water is rising. It’s at the threshold. You said it was overflowing. I believe you. That’s the horror. You’re drowning in your own kitchen. And I’m just watching. The police won’t help. They can’t stop water. They can’t stop memory. They can’t stop the count. I’m not leaving. I’m anchored. By the numbers. By the leak. By the fear in your eyes. It’s beautiful, really. How much you can hold before you spill. I wonder when you’ll break. Fifty-five.

Screaming into the phone. The operator’s voice. Calm. Robotic. “911, what is your emergency?” You’re repeating it. Like a parrot. Or a parrot was never the right comparison. A crow. Black feathers. Watching. I remember a crow that sat on the fence for three weeks. Before the storm. It didn’t move. Just watched. You think the floor is dry? I can see the sheen. On the tile. Near the sink. It’s not water. It’s oil. From the stove. Or maybe it’s just the light. Twisting. You’re dialing. The numbers on the keypad. Click. Click. Click. I’m not broken. I’m whole. Fractured, yes. But whole. You’re the one who’s missing pieces. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. The crow flew away. The storm came. You’re still here. In the kitchen. With me. Waiting for the sirens. They won’t come. Not tonight. The line is dead. I told you. Fifty-eight.

The fridge hums. A low, electric drone. It never stops. I remember a freezer in the ’98 factory. The compressor failed. The ice cream melted into a brown sludge. We ate it anyway. It tasted like failure. You’re shaking. Not from fear. From exhaustion. That’s worse. Fear has energy. Exhaustion is just… absence. The silence is loud. I know that sound. It’s the sound of a room waiting to be emptied. You think it’s yours? Silence isn’t owned. It’s borrowed. From the void. I’m going. Not because you asked. But because the count is up. Fifty-nine. Sixty. The dial tone is flat. Dead. Like the crow. Like the pool. You’re sitting on the floor. Knees to chest. Protecting the soft parts. Good. Keep them safe. I’ll be in the walls. Listening to the fridge. Waiting for the next hum. You can handle your silence. But don’t pretend it’s empty. It’s full of me. And I’m full of you. Goodnight, Lena. Don’t dream. Just sleep. The water is rising. Again.