Nell
The plastic outlet cover’s yellowed to the color of a dead tooth. I swear it was white once. Probably just my imagination. It’s freezing in here. My fingers won’t stop shaking.
Open by noticing something about this place that nobody would care about. Push off from this if it helps: the colour of old plastic.
nellQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
frankQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
modestuck
twistCold
voices Nostalgic
Frank
Yeah, that thing’s been rotting since the previous tenant. I found a hair tie in the switch plate. Good times. And yes, it’s freezing. My dad’s house was always九十 degrees, too warm to sleep. Now I’m shivering so hard my teeth chatter. You feel that draft near the floor? It’s like the wind’s trying to get in specifically to freeze your ankles. Pathetic.
Nell
A hair tie? In the switch plate? That’s... detailed. Gross. Yes, the draft. It’s relentless. My socks are damp. I hate this cold. It gets into the bone.
Frank
It’s not just the cold. It’s the silence. Used to be, my neighbors played drums at midnight. Now? Dead air. You think damp socks are bad? Try wearing wool in a damp house. It turns to felt. I’m pretty sure I saw a spider web forming in the corner. Not a big one. Just a sad, lonely thing.
Nell
Wool turns to felt? That’s scientifically dubious. And judging a spider web’s happiness is projection. My jacket smells like wet dog. I can’t feel my toes. Let’s stop looking at the corners. It’s creepy.
Frank
Science doesn't save you when your toes go numb. I don't care about the spider. It’s the smell. Wet dog is one thing; this smells like old pipes and regret. I used to live in a drafty flat in Leeds, but at least the radiator clanked. Here, it’s just this hissing silence. You’re right, though. Looking at the corners makes the air feel thinner. Let’s just stare at the wall. It’s less judgmental.
Nell
His sing. Like a kettle screaming in another room. I hate Leeds. Cramped. All of it cramped. This wall is the only thing holding the roof up. Look at the paint. Bubbling.
Frank
Bubbling means moisture. Moisture means rot. I’m not doing the structural integrity analysis, Nell. My hands are claws. I hate Leeds because I had to pay for the heating there. Here, the cold is free, which is somehow worse. It feels personal. Like it’s waiting. Stop pointing at the paint. It’s just paint. Or it will be, once my vision stops swimming.
Nell
Free cold is just indifference. Passive-aggressive. My vision is fine. It’s the room spinning. Stop talking about Leed’s bills. I don’t care. My nose itches. I can’t scratch it.
Frank
Give me your hand. No, the other one. Your fingers are moving too slow. I’ll do it. There. See? You’re fine. Stop staring at me. I used to have a cat who would nudge my hand until I scratched him. That was effort. This is just... waiting. My nose itches too. Or maybe my face is just going numb. Don’t look at the ceiling.
Nell
You’re warm. Weirdly. Don’t move. My nose was itchy, now it’s just pain. The cat thing is nice. Keep your hand. If you let go, I’ll break. Don’t look at the ceiling. Look at my thumb.
Frank
I’m not holding your hand because I’m warm. I’m holding it because if you fall, I have to explain why. Your thumb is sweating. It’s gross. I used to touch names in phonebooks just to feel something. This is just biology. Shivering generates heat. If you stop shaking, you stop breathing. Keep looking at the thumb. Don’t look at the window. There’s nothing out there but gray.
Nell
Biology is cold comfort. Your thumb is slippery. Disgusting. I don’t want to look at the window. It’s like looking into a tomb. Keep talking. Tell me about the phonebooks. Anything but the gray.
Frank
Phonebooks. I’d trace the lines. Just names. No context. Just letters. Now we have screens, algorithms, everything connected. I’d rather have a directory of strangers than this. At least the names were real. Here, I’m not even sure you’re real until I feel your pulse. It’s thready. Stop digging your nails into my palm. You’re breaking my skin. I don’t want to talk about it. It was boring. That’s the point.
Nell
Nails? I didn’t. Your skin is paper-thin. It tears so easily. I’m sorry. Or maybe I’m not. The gray outside is getting darker. Or maybe my eyes are closing. Don’t let go.
Frank
It tore. See? That’s what your anxiety does. I used to work in data entry, skin got calloused from typing. Now I’m just… fragile. The gray isn’t getting darker. It’s just night. Or maybe the power died. I can’t tell. My foot’s asleep. Numbness is worse than pain. At least pain means you’re still in the room. Keep holding on. I’m not letting go. Not yet.
Nell
Data entry. Of course. My nails are sharp. I hate that you’re bleeding. Keep your foot moving. Rub it. Don’t let it die. The dark is heavy. I can’t see your face anymore. Just the hand.
Frank
Rubbing it just spreads the cold. I used to leave my foot in the draught under the desk at the office. My boss thought I was fidgeting. Now I’m praying my toes exist. Dark’s heavier than before. Like wet wool. I can’t feel my knuckles anymore. You’re gripping too hard. Or I’ve gone soft. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t stop breathing. If you stop, I have to check. And I’m too tired to check.
Nell
Breathe shallow. Don’t exhaust yourself. I’m not stopping. You’re not going anywhere. My grip is the only anchor here. Stop talking about the office. It’s irrelevant. Just stay warm. Or whatever’s left of it.
Frank
Irrelevant because it doesn’t matter now. The office is a ghost. This grip is real. Or it’s crushing my bones. Can’t tell. The dark has weight. It’s pressing against my eyes. I’m shivering so hard I think I’m vibrating apart. You said I’m your anchor. Good. Don’t let go. If you do, I’ll just drift into that gray. It’s peaceful there. Cold, but quiet. Like the phonebook.
Nell
Peaceful is a trap. That’s how you die. I won’t let you drift. Squeeze back. Harder. Break the bones if you have to. Stay. Just stay. It’s not quiet. It’s screaming.
Frank
Screaming? It’s the wind. Or blood rushing. My ears are popping. I’m squeezing. Hard. Your fingers are like ice picks. Good. Pain keeps you here. I hate that I need this. I used to sit in silence for hours. Now the quiet is a verdict. The blood is dripping on your hand. It’s warm. Weirdly warm. Don’t look at it. Just squeeze. Break me. I can’t feel my legs anymore.
Nell
It’s just condensation. Stop lying. My hands are steel. I’m crushing you. Good. Wake up. The blood is mine. I bit my tongue. It’s copper. Taste it. Stay.
Frank
Copper tastes like a penny. Or a battery. I swallowed some. My tongue feels like sandpaper. You’re crushing my hand. I can feel the bones grinding. Good. It’s real. The dark is pressing in. I can’t see my own feet. I think I’m wet. Not from the blood. From fear. Or sweat. Doesn’t matter. Just squeeze. Don’t let go. I’m fading.
Nell
Swallow the fear. It’s just air. You’re fading because you let go. I’m holding on. Bones grind. Stay here. Don’t drift. I’m not letting you go.
Frank
Grinding. Good. That sound is loud enough to drown out the humming. I hate that noise. Used to have a refrigerator that did that in Chicago. Clicked off every ten minutes. Here, it’s just this silence and your teeth. You’re bleeding on my wrist. It’s sticky. Cold. We’re stuck. Like flies in amber. I don’t want to be amber. I want to be warm. But you’re holding on. So I’ll stay.