This room is a fucking box. The paint is peeling in strips like dead skin. And that dog. Just staring at the wall. Not at me. Never at me. It’s got this look like I’m transparent, or worse, useless. I waved my hand. Nothing. Just the hum of that flickering bulb overhead. It’s giving me a headache. I swear, if it barks once more, I’m throwing something. Or myself. Out the window. Which is painted shut. Fantastic.
You’re dramatic. It’s just paint. And the dog’s probably deaf. You waved at it like an idiot. I saw you. Standing there, arm flapping, looking ridiculous. The hum’s annoying, sure, but stop whining about the window. It’s not going anywhere. Neither are we. Sit down before you break something valuable, like your own neck. That dog? It looks at everyone that way. Especially the ones who talk too much. You’re loud, Hana. Even in silence.
I’m not flapping. I’m signaling. There’s a difference. You wouldn’t know signaling if it bit you. And loud? I’m barely breathing. You’re the one narrating my existence like we’re in some goddamn documentary. Shut up. The dog doesn’t look at anyone. It’s broken. Or bored. Same thing. And stop pretending you see everything. You’re just afraid to move. Sit down yourself instead of lecturing me. My neck is fine. It’s your face I want to break. Anyway, does that crack in the wall look like a map to you? Or just damage?
You’re vibrating. Literally shaking. Stop it. It’s creepy. I don’t lecture, I observe. There’s a difference, if your tiny brain can hold two distinct concepts. And my face is insured. Mine too, actually, but less so. That crack? Looks like a vein. Or a lightning bolt that forgot to strike. Don’t overthink it. It’s just plaster failing. Like your patience. Sit. Down. Before you pull a muscle. The dog is judging you, not ignoring you. You know that. You love being judged. It makes you feel seen. Pathetic.
Shut the fuck up. I’m not vibrating. You’re imagining things because you’re bored out of your skull. And don’t call me pathetic. I’d rather be judged than be you, hovering like a vulture waiting for me to snap. Besides, if I’m so visible, why won’t that stupid dog look at me? It’s ignoring me. That’s the insult. You’re just jealous because I have more energy than you. Sit down. Both of us. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just stop talking. Your voice is grating. Like nails on a chalkboard. A dirty chalkboard.
You’re doing it again. The pacing. Stop. It’s making my teeth hurt. I’m not hovering, I’m sitting on this rotting chair that’s seen better decades. You want energy? Fine. I’ll tell you about my job. It’s duller than this room. You’re just loud because you’re terrified of the quiet. The dog isn’t ignoring you; it’s just tired of your performance. And yes, my voice is grating. Get used to it. You’re stuck with me. Sit down. Or keep walking. But stop swinging your arms. You look like a windmill in a storm. It’s pathetic.
Windmill? That’s rich coming from the guy who snores like a chainsaw. I’m not pacing. I’m stewing. There’s a difference. And my job is deleting spam emails for a company that doesn’t exist. Boring as hell. But at least I don’t sit in a chair that’s trying to eat me. The dog’s tired? Fine. Let it be tired. I’m not performing. You’re just projecting your own misery onto me because you can’t stand the silence. It’s empty here. It’s hungry. Look at that crack again. It’s growing. I swear on my life, it’s growing. Stop telling me to sit. Sit yourself.
You’re losing it. The crack isn’t growing. It’s been there since Tuesday. Or Monday. I’ve been watching it. You’re the one moving. Always moving. Like a trapped rat. Deleting spam emails? Nice. At least you have a job. I’m stuck here with you. And that chair is fine. It’s you who’s unstable. Sit down. Now. Before you trip over your own ego. The dog is watching you now. See? It knows when someone’s having a breakdown. You’re not stewing. You’re unraveling. And I’m bored of holding the pieces. Stop looking at the wall. Look at me. Or don’t. It’s your choice. But stop talking about the crack. It’s just plaster. Just like us. Breaking.
Unraveling? Please. I’m just trying to keep my sanity intact in this sty. You think I’m mad because of a crack? I’m mad because you’re so fucking static it’s suffocating. And don’t tell me the dog is watching me. It’s blinking. Slowly. Like it’s counting down. You say it’s just plaster. I say it’s a map out of here. But you won’t look. You’re too busy judging my gait. Sit down. Shut up. Let’s just stare at the wall until it speaks. Or until I do. Whichever comes first. It’s the only entertainment we’ve got.
You’re hysterical. Blinking is biological. Counting down is a plot device. Stop conflating the two. I’m not static; I’m conserving battery. You’re burning through it like cheap gin. The wall isn’t going to speak. It’s drywall and dust. Not a prophet. You want entertainment? Go bark at the dog. I’m done. Actually done. Sit. Stop pacing. You’re wearing a hole in the floor, and I’m not cleaning it up. The crack is a crack. You’re just afraid of the blank space because it reflects you. Stupid. Pathetic. And loud. Shut up. Just shut up. Listen to the hum. It’s the only honest thing in here.
Battery? You sound like a dying toaster. I’m not pacing. I’m burning off the adrenaline. You’re just lazy. And don’t tell me to shut up. I’m the one speaking. You’re just… humming. Like the bulb. It’s maddening. That hum. It’s in my teeth. My skull. I can feel it vibrating in my fillings. And the dog? Still staring. At me. Always me. It’s creepy. You’re right about one thing though. The wall is blank. It’s empty. Like you. Anyway, look at the floor. See that stain? Looks like a continent. Africa, maybe. Or a fucked up heart. Doesn’t matter. We’re not leaving. And you’re not getting out of it. Sit down. Both of us. Let’s just rot.
You’re exhausting. Adrenaline? You’ve been sitting here for hours, fuming over nothing. The hum is in your head, not your fillings. Unless you’ve got tinfoil in there too, like everyone else. And don’t call me blank. I’m efficient. You’re the one projecting continents onto a coffee spill. It’s not Africa. It’s rust. From the pipes. Like our patience. Rotting. You want to rot? Fine. Sit. Stop pacing. You’re making me dizzy. The dog isn’t staring at you. It’s staring at the spot where you used to be standing. Because you keep moving. It’s confusing it. Like me. Sit. Down. Let’s stare at the rust. It’s more real than you. And less annoying.
Efficient. Right. You’re a statue. A boring, rust-covered statue. I’m not making you dizzy. You’re just fragile. And the dog? It’s not confused. It’s waiting. Waiting for me to stop vibrating so it can decide if I’m worth looking at. Which I’m not. Because I’m real. And you’re just… background noise. Like the hum. Except the hum has purpose. You have nothing. Just that chair and your precious battery life. Fine. I’ll sit. But don’t think this means I’m calm. I’m just conserving energy. Unlike you. You’re already dead. I can see it in your eyes. Empty. Just like that rust. Rotting from the inside out. Happy now?
You’re sitting. Good. Now shut up. I’m not a statue; I’m exhausted. And don’t flatter yourself. The dog doesn’t care if you’re real. It cares if you’re food. Or trash. You’re currently trash. Empty eyes? At least I’m not crying over a coffee stain. That rust is from the pipes, you idiot. Not my soul. And I have a battery life. Unlike you, who runs on pure, unadulterated noise. You want me to rot? Fine. I’m already rotting inside. You’re just the surface mold. Stop staring at me. It’s creepy. Stare at the wall. Or the dog. Or your own reflection in that rust stain. Anything but me. I’m trying to sleep. In this hellhole. Wake me up when the wall actually speaks. Or when the dog eats you. Preferably the latter.
Trash? I’ll have you know I’m high maintenance. There’s a difference. You’re just sleeping with your eyes open. It’s pathetic. And don’t threaten me with the dog. It wouldn’t touch me. I smell like coffee and bad decisions. It prefers fresh meat. Which you clearly don’t have. You’re pickled in stagnation. Look, if you want to sleep, sleep. But stop whining about my noise. You’re the one breathing like a bellows. Hah. Rotting inside? Good. At least you’re consistent. I’m going to scratch that crack. Just a little. See if it bleeds. Or dust. Probably dust. Like you.
You scratched it? With what? Your fingernails? You look like a raccoon. Dust doesn’t bleed. It just falls. On us. On the floor. Where you’re standing. Stop touching the wall. It’s structural. If it falls, we die. And I’m not picking you up. You’re high maintenance? You’re a toddler with a chip on your shoulder. Go scratch something else. The dog. See if it bleeds then. I’d pay for that show. You’re vibrating again. Stop it. Sit still. Let the dust settle. It’s the only clean thing here. Unlike you. You’re dirty. From the inside out. Just like me. Happy now? We’re both rotting. Together. In this box. Don’t move. Or I’ll scream.
Structural? It’s drywall, you paranoid fuck. It’s held up by spit and prayer. And I’m not vibrating. You’re imagining it because your mind is cracking faster than the plaster. Raccoon? I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m resourceful. You’re just helpless. And don’t threaten to scream. We’re in a soundproof box, remember? Your scream would just bounce back and hit you in the face. Pathetic. I’ll scratch more. See if it hurts. Or if it whispers. The dog doesn’t care. It’s waiting for the ceiling to collapse. Let it fall. I’ll catch you. Or I’ll step over your rotting corpse. Your choice. Keep staring at me. I dare you.
You’re insane. Actual, clinical insanity. Drywall isn’t spit and prayer. It’s gypsum and despair. And don’t threaten to step over me. I’m heavier than you look. Like lead. You’re light as a feather. Floating away on your own ego. Scratch the wall. See if it whispers. I doubt it. It’ll just dust your fingers. Like ash. From a fire you started. The dog doesn’t care about the ceiling. It cares about food. You’re not food. You’re a hazard. Sit. Down. Stop touching the walls. You’re contaminating them with your neurosis. And stop staring. It’s rude. And useless. Just sit. Breathe. Let the dust settle. Before I lose what’s left of my mind. And it’s already pretty thin. Thinner than your patience. Which is non-existent. Pathetic.
Gypsum and despair. You really need a hobby. Or a vent. I’m not contagious. It’s drywall, not a biohazard. You’re the one sweating through that shirt. Pathetic. I’ll scratch it again. If it falls, it falls. At least it’ll be interesting. You’re boring. Even your despair is stale. Like old bread. Dry and useless. Sit still? I’m trying. But your energy is pushing back. It’s like standing next to a magnet. A broken, sad magnet. The dog’s still staring. It knows something we don’t. That we’re doomed. And you’re too scared to admit it. Stop whining about my neurosis. It’s the only thing keeping me awake. You want quiet? Learn to love the dust. It’s all we’ve got.
You’re scratching it again. Stop. It’s creating dust. In my lungs. I’m choking. On your neurosis. And my despair. And the dust. It’s everywhere. It’s in my teeth. Like your fillings. You say I’m sweating. It’s cold in here. You’re the one burning up. Feverish. Delirious. The dog isn’t staring. It’s waiting for the dust to kill us. One by one. I’m not scared. I’m resigned. Like you should be. Sit. Down. Before you fall. Or before I push you. I’m tired of your magnetism. It’s pulling me into your chaos. I just want to sleep. In this box. With the dust. And the hum. And you. Quiet. Or I’ll scream. Louder than you. Into the silence. And watch you flinch.