Unsupervised

Don't Say Anything ·

Ask a question that is obviously a cover for a different question. Push off from this if it helps: handwriting on envelopes.

marcQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit cassQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modesurprise twistAgain voices Wry

Marc

Did you fix that leaky faucet in the kitchen? The one in the morning room still drips, and it’s driving me mad. Anyway, have you seen those new envelopes? The ones with the textured paper? My cousin sent me a stack. The handwriting on them is atrocious. Like, really bad. You can barely make out the addresses. I tried to correct his script last week but he got offended. It’s just ink, right? Why do people care so much about the slant? It doesn’t change the mail delivery. Or the water pressure.

Cass

The faucet? I bailed. Duct tape, hope, and a prayer that the landlord doesn’t check. It holds for now. Mostly. The dripping in the morning room is your problem now, sorry.

And your cousin’s handwriting? If he can’t write an address, maybe don’t send him the important stuff. I mean, really. I tried to tell him about the slant thing once, but he just stared at me like I’d insulted his mother. Which, knowing him, I probably did.

Actually, why are you so obsessed with envelopes? You’ve mentioned them three times. Are you mailing something? Please tell me you’re not mailing that weird box from the basement again. The one that hums. I’m serious, Marc. Put it down.

Marc

The box doesn’t hum. You’re imagining things. It’s the fridge. It’s always the fridge. It’s just a pile of old tax returns. My uncle’s. He died. Very sad. Anyway, the faucet is pathetic. Tape? Really? That’s not plumbing, that’s a cry for help. I’m not mailing anything. I’m sitting here. With these envelopes. Because they’re clean. And the ink dries fast. I wrote the addresses myself. Neatly. So neat it looks like a machine did it. Which is the point. You wouldn’t understand the satisfaction of a perfect loop on an ‘l’. It’s not about the box. It’s about the silence. The quiet. Before the noise starts again.

Cass

Right. Because nothing says “quiet” like aggressively neat handwriting on textured paper. You’re scaring me, Marc. Actually, that box is humming. It’s a low C. I swear it. It’s coming from the hallway closet. I checked. It’s definitely not the fridge. The fridge sounds like a dying bee. This sounds like… anticipation.

And your loops are creepy. Like, spider-leg creepy. Who writes that neatly? You don’t. You spill coffee on your shirts and argue with the toaster. So who’s writing these? And why are you sitting in the dark with a stack of addressed envelopes, staring at the walls? Don’t answer that. Just… stop looking at me like I’m the one losing it. The box is making noise. I can hear it from here. It’s waiting.

Marc

Stop it. You’re imagining the hum. It’s the pipes. Old building. They sing. Like a choir of rats. I’m not sitting in the dark. The light is fine. It’s just… dim. I don’t spill coffee. I’m careful. I watch every drop. The handwriting isn’t a machine’s. It’s mine. I’ve always had steady hands. You’re just stressed. That’s why you hear things. The box is empty. I threw the contents out. Into the river. Far away. So don’t look at the closet. Look at the envelopes. Look at how straight the lines are. If the lines are straight, nothing can get in. Nothing can get out. It’s simple geometry. You wouldn’t understand. You see patterns that aren’t there. Like the box humming. Please. Just look at the ink. It’s so dry.

Cass

You threw it in the river? Marc, that box was filled with lead weights. It sank. It’s at the bottom of the river. It’s not humming. You’re imagining the sound because you feel guilty. Or bored. Or both.

But the envelopes. You said you wrote them. All of them? In perfect script? With that unnatural precision? That’s not steady hands. That’s… something else. And why are there fifty of them? Addressed to people who don’t exist? Or people you’re trying to erase?

I’m not looking at the closet. I’m looking at you. You’re sweating. And your hands aren’t steady. They’re shaking. Just a little. Like you’re holding something heavy. Or trying to keep something down. Stop with the geometry. It’s not a shield. It’s a cage. And you’re trapped in it. With the rats.

Marc

I’m not sweating. It’s the radiator. It’s blasting. I didn’t throw weights in the river. I threw trash. Like I said. You’re obsessed with the closet. It’s just storage. Old coats. The box is gone. Burned. Ashes in the garden. I water the petunias with it. Nutrients.

Fifty envelopes? No. Twelve. Maybe thirteen. I lost count. The shaking? That’s caffeine. Too much coffee. I don’t spill it. I drink it black. Dark as the river. Which I didn’t go to. I went to the store. Bought stamps. Blue ones. The ones that stick.

You see a cage. I see a list. A checklist. Done and done. The handwriting is just handwriting. It’s ink on paper. It dries. It stays. It doesn’t move. Unlike you. You’re the one pacing. Why are you pacing, Cass? Sit down. Look at the loop. It’s perfect. It’s safe.

Cass

I’m pacing because you’re talking about burning a box and watering petunias with the ashes like it’s a recipe. It’s not a recipe, Marc. It’s arson. Or worse, neglect.

Twelve envelopes. Thirteen. You lost count. The line is wavy, by the way. Right there. See? You’re gripping the pen too hard. Your knuckles are white. That’s not caffeine. That’s fear.

And I’m not obsessed with the closet. I’m obsessed with the fact that you haven’t blinked in four minutes. You’re staring at that loop like it’s a religion. “It doesn’t move.” Right. Because dead things don’t move. Is that what you’re making? A list of dead things?

Sit down? You tell me to sit. You’re the one standing over me with your perfect, drying ink. Stop it. Just stop. The radiator isn’t blasting. It’s cold. Check the thermostat. You forgot to turn it on. Again.

Marc

I didn’t forget. I turned it off. It’s summer. Or winter. Who cares? The radiator is fine. You’re hallucinating cold. That’s what the—whatever you think that box was—does to the head. Makes you shiver. Makes you see waves in straight lines. It’s not a list of dead things. It’s a list of people who left. Who didn’t come back. The ink is permanent. Unlike them. I wrote “Return to Sender” on the back of one. Just in case. But they won’t. They can’t. Not with the address I gave. It’s correct. It’s all correct. You’re shaking now. Look at your hands. They’re shaking worse than mine. Stop looking at the closet. It’s empty. There’s no hum. Just the wind. Outside. I opened the window. To let the noise out.

Cass

You opened the window? It’s freezing out there. I can feel it from here. And your hands aren’t shaking. Mine are cold because you left the window open. Typical.

“People who left.” Right. And you’re keeping them in ink so they can’t leave again. That’s not safety, Marc. That’s a prison. A very neat, very dry prison. And you think the geometry protects you? It doesn’t. It just makes the walls easier to see.

I’m not looking at the closet. I’m looking at the envelope in your hand. The one with the address you made up. You didn’t write to them. You wrote to ghosts. And you’re waiting for them to write back. Are they? Or are you just talking to the paper?

Stop it. Just… stop talking about the ink. It’s disturbing. And the radiator is off. I checked. So why are you shivering? Is it the wind? Or is it the list?

Marc

I’m not shivering. I’m vibrating. There’s a difference. The window is open. Let it freeze. I like the cold. It keeps the ink wet. Or dry. I can’t tell anymore. The address isn’t made up. It’s real. I checked the phone book. Twice. Page forty-two. Under M. Miller. M. Miller. That’s who lives there. Always has. He answers. I hear him. Through the paper. He says “Hello, Marc.” In a whisper. Like the box. Except the box is gone. Burned. Ashes. Petunias.

You’re wrong about the thermostat. I turned it up. High. Maximum. It’s hot in here. Sweaty. You’re just cold because you’re not paying attention. Look at the loop again. It’s closing. Tight. Sealed. No one gets out. No one gets in. Not even you, Cass. Not anymore. Sit down. The chair is warm. I sat on it first. It remembers my shape.

Cass

You’re vibrating? You’re jumping up and down. You look like a maniac. And M. Miller? The phone book doesn’t whisper, Marc. It’s paper. Dead paper. You’re hearing voices in the static. That’s not proof. That’s paranoia.

But okay. Okay. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say the ink is keeping them there. Sealed. No one gets out. Good. Because I saw you earlier. In the garden. Digging. Not planting petunias. You were digging a hole. Right next to the shed. And you weren’t alone. I saw a shadow. A second shadow. Standing over you while you poured the ashes. Or the coffee. Or whatever that black liquid was.

The chair isn’t warm. It’s empty. You’re sitting on the floor. Why are you on the floor, Marc? And why is your shirt covered in red? That’s not ink. That’s not coffee. That’s…

Wait. Did you tell anyone about the box? Before you burned it? I mean, really burned it? Because if you didn’t, and that shadow is still here…

Marc

I didn’t tell anyone. Why would I? It’s my business. The shadow is yours. You have double vision. It’s the cold. I told you, turn up the heat. The shirt is red wine. Merlot. Cheap bottle. Spilled it. On the floor. And my shirt. Messy. I’m not neat. I’m a mess. I’m sitting on the floor because the chair is hard. Harder than you remember. I’m digging in the garden. For worms. Earthworms. They like the ashes. Nitrogen. You saw the shadow because I was holding the shovel. Two hands. One shadow. You’re seeing things. The red is wine. It stains. Like guilt. But I have none. I have addresses. I have ink. I have the window open. The wind is loud. It sounds like voices. M. Miller is loud. He’s singing. Singing the address. Backwards. It’s funny. Why are you laughing? I’m not laughing. I’m crying. Quietly. So the ink doesn’t smudge.

Cass

Laughing? I’m not laughing. I’m hyperventilating. You’re crying on the floor, covered in cheap Merlot, talking to a phone book entry that’s been dead since 1994. M. Miller died, Marc. I read the obituary. Buried in Oak Ridge. You’re digging for worms in ashes that might be… I don’t know. I can’t think.

Your hands are shaking so bad the ink is bleeding into the fiber. It’s not dry. It’s a smear. A bloody smear. And the window? I closed it. Ten minutes ago. It’s shut. Locked. There is no wind. There is only the radiator, blasting heat, and you, shivering in the dark.

Stop writing. Just stop. Put the pen down. You’re not sealing them in. You’re letting yourself out. Or in. I don’t know anymore. But that shadow? It’s not mine. It’s standing right behind you. And it’s holding the shovel.