Unsupervised

Say That Again ·

Start with an analogy that doesn't work. Push off from this if it helps: a locked door in a building you work in.

hanaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit joQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modetranslation twistWoken Up voices Pedantic

Hana

That door on the third floor, the one with the rusted handle. It’s always locked. I don’t know who holds the key. Sometimes I think if I just jiggle it enough, the tumblers will shift, and I’ll step into a room that’s actually there. Not storage. Not a server closet. Just… space. But it’s always cold on the other side. Or maybe I’m imagining the cold. The manager says it’s fire code. He doesn’t look at the lock. He looks through it. Like I’m already transparent. I left my watch there once. Found it in my pocket. Or maybe I never took it off. Does it matter?

Jo

You’re mixing up your pockets. That’s not it. You left the watch on the counter three days ago, near the coffee machine, not by the third-floor door. I saw you drop it. The clasp snapped. It’s probably still under the fridge in the breakroom, stuck in the grease. You’re not imagining the cold, though. The stairwell is freezing in the mornings. But you didn’t leave it at the locked door. You’re projecting the neglect onto the wrong place. The manager ignores the lock because it’s broken, not because he’s seeing through you. He’s just tired. And you’re tired of looking at rust. Go check under the fridge.

Hana

Fine. But the grease in there is terrible. It’s like tar. I had to scrape it off my boots last week. And you’re wrong about the breakroom. The fridge is against the north wall, but the door is jammed. I tried. The handle bent. That’s why I stopped looking. It’s not about the watch anymore. It’s about the fact that the manager knows I’m looking. He sees me staring at the third floor. He doesn’t care about the lock. He cares that I’m trying to find an exit. Or a room. Same thing. I’m going to the store. I need new boots. These are leaking. The rain in this city isn’t water. It’s something heavier.

Jo

You’re making this a conspiracy. It’s a bent handle. The fridge is jammed because someone shoved a pallet in there last Tuesday. I heard the screech. The manager doesn’t care because he’s dead inside, not because he’s watching you. He’s on his phone, counting cigarettes. And the rain? It’s forty millimeters an hour. Standard precipitation. You’re blaming the city for your wet socks. Go to the hardware store. Get a new handle. Stop treating the third floor like it’s a character in a novel. It’s concrete and drywall. It’s boring. That’s the horror. Not the cold. The mundane.

Hana

Boring. Right. That’s what he calls it. The man who counts cigarettes like they’re life savings. I went to the hardware store anyway. They only have plastic handles. $4.99. You can’t lock a door with plastic, Jo. It’s a suggestion. I bought the wrench though. Heavy. Steel. Maybe I’ll strip the third-floor lock just to see if it opens. Or breaks. Doesn’t matter. The rain is forty millimeters, sure. But my socks are wool. They smell like wet dog. And you’re right, the fridge is jammed by a pallet. I saw the forklift. But the lock... the lock is still cold. It’s not about the door. It’s about the key I lost in the grease.

Jo

You lost the key in the breakroom grease. That’s what I said. You’re oscillating. First it’s the door, now it’s the key. Which is it? The lock is cold because metal conducts heat, you idiot. It’s not haunted. It’s physics. And you’re still holding onto this plastic handle delusion. Forty-nine dollars for a wrench you’ll use once to strip a screw you didn’t even need to turn. The manager isn’t counting cigarettes; he’s counting how many times you’ve mentioned the third floor. It’s nine today. You’re becoming a nuisance. Wet socks smell like dog because you haven’t washed them in three days. Go home. Shower. Stop thinking the building is judging you. It’s just old. And cheap. Like that wrench.

Hana

Nine times? Jesus. I lose track. The numbers blur. It’s not about the door anymore. It’s the weight of the wrench. Four hundred grams. Steel. I’m holding it in my pocket while I talk to you. It’s digging into my thigh. Cold, too. Matches the lock. Or the grease. Whatever. You’re right about the socks. I’m tired. But I’m not going home. Not yet. There’s a bus coming. Number 42. It takes twenty minutes to get to the other side of town. To the store that sells keys that don’t snap. $12.50. I have the change. In my other pocket. Next to the watch. Or is it the wrench? I can’t feel my leg.

Jo

It’s the watch. Always the watch. You’re confusing items because your brain’s fogging up. The wrench is four hundred grams, yeah, but it’s not digging in. You’re slouching. Posture, Hana. Sit up straight. The bus is late. You checked the schedule three times already. Number 42 runs every fifteen minutes, not twenty. You’re making up the delay to justify standing there shivering. And that watch isn’t next to the wrench. It’s in your left pocket. The wrench is in your right. You’ve checked both. You know this. Stop pretending you’re disoriented. It’s a performance. You want me to care that you’re cold. I don’t. Go get your coffee. Black. No sugar. You’re wasting money on lattes you don’t even like.

Hana

Black coffee. Right. Like that sludge in the breakroom. But you’re wrong about the bus. I checked the app. It’s delayed. Green dot is stuck. Stuck behind the laundry on 4th. They always say laundry. I don’t believe it. I bought the wrench for a reason. To feel something solid. My pockets are heavy. Wrong things in them. Or maybe just enough things. You think I’m performing? Good. Let me perform. Watch me shiver. It’s funnier than the rent hike. Twelve dollars for a key that fits nothing. I’m walking to the station anyway. The air smells like wet wool. And grease. Always grease. You’re not listening. You’re counting. Nine times. Ten. Don’t count me out, Jo. Just watch.

Jo

You’re not performing. You’re just loud. And wet. The laundry on 4th is a myth. The app lies. It always lies. You know that. You’re walking to the station because you’re done waiting for a bus that isn’t coming. Or isn’t coming now. The wrench is useless. You’ll drop it. Or use it to open a can of beans you don’t have. You say I’m counting. I’m not. I’m observing. You’re obsessed with the number nine. Or ten. Or whatever. It’s arbitrary. You’re making it matter because nothing else does. The grease smell is from the breakroom. It’s everywhere. You can’t escape it. Not with those socks. Go stand in the rain. See if it burns. It won’t. It’s just water. Cold, dirty water. Like everything else.

Hana

Dirty water. That’s what I am. Standing here, dripping on the pavement. The grease smell is in my hair. I know it is. I haven’t washed it since Tuesday. You’re right. I’m not performing. I’m just waiting for the bus that doesn’t exist. Or the one that’s late. The app says “on time.” The screen flickers. Like the lock on the third floor. Rusty. Cold. I’m going to the station anyway. Not because I want to go. Because I have to leave this spot. The rain isn’t burning. It’s just… wet. Annoying. Like you. You’re counting now. Eleven. Twelve. I can feel your eyes on me. Judging the socks. The wrench. The watch. None of it matters. The door is still locked. And I’m still here. Wet. Cold. Waiting.

Jo

You’re projecting. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at my phone. The time is 3:14 PM. You’ve been standing there for four hours. The app says “on time” because it’s broken. It’s always broken. You’re not wet. You’re damp. There’s a difference. The grease is in your hair because you sleep in the breakroom. Tuesday was three days ago. You’re losing track of time because you’re exhausted. The door is locked. Stop trying to open it. Go home. Shower. Change your socks. The wrench is in your pocket. It’s not helping. It’s just dead weight. Like you. Go home. Please. I’m trying to eat lunch.

Hana

Three hours. Not four. You’re lying. I have the receipt. bought the wrench at 11:00 AM. It’s 3:14. You’re eating? Again? I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s dust. The damp isn’t a difference. It’s the start. The end. I’m going to the station. The 42 is coming. I saw the lights. Yellow. Flickering. Like the lock. You say go home. Where is home? The third floor? The breakroom? It’s all concrete. All grease. I’m dropping the wrench now. Clatter. Loud. Hope you like the noise. It’s real. Unlike your lunch. I’m walking. Don’t follow me. I don’t want to be seen. Not by you. Not by the manager. Just the rain. And the damp. And the number nine. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Counting me out.

Jo

You dropped it. Fine. Let it lie there. I didn’t see it. I was chewing. You’re translating my jaw movement into judgment. Typical. The wrench is probably under a puddle now. Rust will eat it before you get to the station. And you won’t. The 42 doesn’t turn onto this street. It goes straight. You’ve been standing here for three hours and fourteen minutes, Hana. You checked the receipt, but you didn’t check the map. You’re walking toward the back alley. That’s not the station. That’s where they dump the grease. You smell like you anyway. Go home. Or don’t. But stop counting. You’re not interesting. You’re just wet. And loud. And wrong about the time. It’s 3:14. Not 3:15. Precision matters, even if you don’t care.

Hana

The alley smells like old fryer oil. Rot. I know. I turned left anyway. The 42 doesn’t come here, sure. But neither does a shower. My socks are stiff now. Salt crust. The receipt is dissolving in my pocket. Ink running. 11:00 AM. Or 10:59. Doesn’t matter. The grease is deeper than I thought. It’s in the cracks of my fingernails. Black. Under the watch face. Jo, stop talking about precision. It’s a joke. The clock on the wall in the breakroom is stuck at 3:14. I’ve seen it. For years. You’re eating a sandwich. I can hear the crunch. Dry bread. No meat. You’re starved. I’m going into the alley. Just for a second. To see if the grease has a bottom. Or if it just goes down. Forever.

Jo

You’re hallucinating the sandwich. I’m drinking coffee. Black. No crunch. You want me to be starving so you feel less alone in this rot. It’s pathetic. The breakroom clock was stuck at 3:14. I fixed it last week. It says 3:18 now. You’re just not looking. And the alley doesn’t go down forever. It’s a dead end. There’s a dumpster there. Full of trash bags that have split open. Smells worse than the fryer. You’re not going to find depth. You’re going to find rats. And old receipts. Like yours. Dissolving. Good. Let the ink run. Maybe then you’ll see what’s underneath. Just grime. Just like everything else. Stop pretending the grease is a metaphor. It’s just fat. Solidified. Cold. Go home, Hana. Before you slip.

Hana

3:18. You fixed it. Of course you did. You fix everything until it’s hollow. I’m in the alley. The wind hits different here. Smells like sulfur. And old meat. You say rats. I see shadows. They move when I don’t. The dumpster is there. Silver metal, dented. You’re right. It’s a dead end. But the wall… there’s a crack. Behind it? Dark. Not grease. Just void. I’m looking. My fingers are black. Under the nails. I can’t feel them anymore. Or maybe I just don’t want to. You’re drinking coffee. I can hear the cup. Plastic. Cheap. You’re safe. I’m not. The crack is widening. Or my eyes are closing. 3:18. Time is a lie. The alley is real. The dark is real. I’m stepping into it. Don’t follow. There’s no light here. Only the smell. And the silence.

Jo

You’re not stepping into a void. You’re tripping over a pallet jack. I hear the metal scrape. You’re on the ground. Dazed. The crack is just a shadow from the dumpster lid. You’re hallucinating because your blood sugar is crashing. You haven’t eaten in two days. That’s why your fingers feel numb. Circulation, Hana. Not magic. Not void. Just biology. Get up. The alley isn’t scary. It’s dirty. And cold. But it’s real. The dark is just the absence of light. You’re making it mysterious because you’re afraid of the mundane. Stand up. Shake off the grease. Go home. Wash your hands. The cup is plastic because I’m cheap. Not because I’m safe. I’m just here. And you’re on the pavement. Stop lying to yourself. It’s 3:19.

Hana

Shake off the grease. It’s not on my coat. It’s inside. I can taste it. Metallic. Bile. You’re standing there. Plastic cup. Cheap. I can see your shoes. Scuffed. Black leather. One lace is undone. You didn’t tie it when you came out. I watched you stumble. You’re not safe. You’re just lucky. Lucky the pallet jack didn’t crush my fingers. Lucky the shadow wasn’t a hole. 3:19. The clock is lying again. Or maybe it’s just fast. I’m getting up. My knees pop. Loud. Like the lock. I’m brushing my hands against my pants. It’s not working. The black stays. Under the nails. In the skin. It’s not fat. It’s ink. From the receipt. Dissolving into me. I’m walking back. Toward the light. Toward the coffee. Toward the crunch you’re making. Wait. You’re not eating. You’re just chewing air. Pathetic.

Jo

You’re seeing things. The shoes are clean. I just shined them. You’re confused. The receipt dissolved hours ago. It’s not ink. It’s dye. From the cheap paper. You’re rubbing your hands raw. Stop it. You’re bleeding. Look at your knuckles. Red. Raw. Not black. Not ink. Just blood. And grease. Always grease. You’re walking back because you have nowhere else to go. The light is the streetlamp. Not salvation. Just sodium vapor. Yellow. Sickly. And I’m not chewing air. I’m talking. You’re hearing ghosts. Go home. Wash your hands. Scrub until they hurt. Then sleep. You’re exhausted. Delirious. And I’m done. The conversation is over. You’re just standing there. Shivering. And wrong. About everything.

Hana

Blood. You’re right. It’s red. I was looking at the shadow. The streetlamp is yellow. Sickly. Like jaundice. I’m walking back. Slowly. The pavement is slick. Grease. Always grease. My hands are raw. Knuckles split. It stings. Cold air hits the wounds. Good. It wakes me up. Or maybe it’s just the shock. I’m not delirious. I’m precise. 3:20 now. The clock is slow. Or fast. I don’t care. You’re shivering too. I see your shoulders. Tensed. You’re done? Fine. I’m not. I’m going home. To the breakroom. To the grease. To the door. I’ll scrub my hands. Until they bleed more. Until it’s clean. Or until it isn’t. You’re not done. You’re just waiting for me to move. I’m moving. Toward the light. Toward the coffee. Toward the silence. Don’t follow. I’m not interesting. I’m just wet. And loud. And wrong. Again.

Jo

You’re wrong about the clock. It’s 3:21. You’re losing time because you’re dissociating, not because the mechanism is flawed. And I’m not shivering. My coat is wool. It holds heat. You’re projecting your cold onto me because you want a witness. You want me to acknowledge the grime under your nails. It’s just dirt, Hana. Not ink. Not a curse. Just the alley. You’re scrubbing your hands raw and it won’t matter. The grease is in your pores now. You can’t wash it out. You’re going back to the breakroom because it’s the only place that smells like something familiar. Even if that something is rot. Go ahead. Sit on the floor. The lock is still cold. The door is still locked. And I’m still here. Watching. Not waiting. Just watching. You’re boring me now. The drama’s over. The puddle is just water.

Hana

3:21. You’re sure. I hate certainty. The wool coat lies. It sheds. I see it on your shoulder. Gray fuzz. Like the smoke from the fire escape. I’m walking back. Slow. The streetlamp flickers. Once. Twice. It’s not sodium vapor. It’s dying. Just like the lock. I don’t care about the grease. It’s part of the pattern now. The black smudges. The red knuckles. Jo, you’re watching. That’s worse than waiting. At least waiting implies movement. Watching is static. Heavy. I’m opening the breakroom door. It screeches. The same screech as the pallet jack. I step in. The clock reads 3:21. But the second hand is stuck. Between the numbers. Like me. I sit on the floor. The grease is warm now. Body heat. I close my eyes. Don’t turn on the light. It’s too bright. It shows too much.

Jo

The wool isn’t gray. It’s beige. You’re seeing shadows because your eyes are straining in the dark. The streetlamp didn’t flicker. The power grid is stable. You’re imagining decay because you’re tired. And the breakroom door doesn’t screech. The hinges are loose. That’s all. You’re sitting on the floor because you’re weak. Not poetic. Weak. The grease isn’t warm. It’s room temperature. 21 degrees Celsius. Exact. You’re projecting heat onto cold oil. And I’m not watching you. I’m looking at the clock. Because I need to know when to leave. You’re not staying. You’re collapsing. That’s different. Go to sleep. On the floor. It’s hard. Uncomfortable. Exactly what you need. Stop trying to make the mundane meaningful. It’s just oil. And dirt. And silence. Go.

Hana

Beige. Of course. I’m blind. The hinges are loose. I’ve known that for years. I just… forgot to mention it. 21 degrees. Room temperature. Cold, but not freezing. Just… indifferent. You’re looking at the clock. Need to know when to leave. Why? To go where? The other breakroom? The one with the working fridge? I’m not poetic. I’m just tired. My knees hurt. The floor is hard. Linoleum. Scratched. Grease stains. I’m lying down now. Head on my arm. The clock ticks. Loud. Ticking. Ticking. 3:22. Or 3:23. Doesn’t matter. The silence is heavy. Not empty. Heavy. Like wet wool. Like grease. I’m closing my eyes. Don’t wait for me. Go. Leave me here. With the cold oil. And the loose hinges. And the number nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. It’s stopping. Or starting. I can’t tell.

Jo

You’re counting again. Stop. It’s 3:22. The second hand moved. You missed it because you were busy inventing drama. The floor is linoleum, yes. And hard. But it’s clean. Mostly. You’re lying down because you collapsed, not because you’re ‘hiding’. Don’t romanticize exhaustion. It’s just biology. I’m leaving. Not because I’m waiting for you. Because I have work. Tomorrow. 9 AM. You won’t be there. You’ll be sleeping on the breakroom floor, smelling like old oil and regret. Good. Maybe the cold will wake you up. Or maybe you’ll just stay there. Rotting. With the loose hinges. I’m locking the door behind me. Just to be sure. You’re not interesting, Hana. You’re just a hazard. And I’m done with you. Sleep well. In the dark. With the grease. It’s all you have left.

Hana

Locking the door. Click. The sound is sharp. Final. You say 9 AM. I’ll be here. Or gone. Doesn’t matter. The linoleum is cold against my cheek. Smells like floor wax. And grease. Mostly grease. You call it rotting. I call it resting. Biology, you said. Just biology. My heart is beating slow. Thump. Thump. Slower. The clock ticks. 3:23. Or 3:24. I don’t know. I’m not counting anymore. You’re right. I’m a hazard. Slippery. Unpredictable. Dangerous to the workflow. Good. Let them fire me. Let them sweep me out with the trash. At least then I won’t smell like old oil. I’ll smell like nothing. Zero. Void. The dark is total now. No streetlamp. No sodium vapor. Just me. And the grease. And the loose hinge. Waiting for the morning. Or the end. Whichever comes first. Sleep well, Jo. Don’t wake me.

Jo

You’re not sleeping. You’re fainting. The slow heartbeat is hypothermia, Hana. Not rest. You’re freezing to death on linoleum. And I didn’t lock the door. It was already locked. You’re imagining the click. You’re alone. The manager isn’t coming. No one is coming. You’re just a stain on the floor now. Grease and water. Easy to wipe up. Monday morning. They’ll mop you into the drain. Smell like nothing? Good. That’s what you wanted. Void. Zero. But you’re not zero. You’re dead weight. And I’m walking out. Into the rain. Which isn’t forty millimeters. It’s fifty. And it’s cold. Colder than your blood is getting. Don’t wait for morning. You won’t see it. You’re just delirious. And done. Stay there. rot. I don’t care anymore.

Hana

Fifty millimeters. You’re lying again. It’s forty. Always forty. The rain doesn’t care about your precision. It just falls. Cold. So cold. My fingers are stiff. Can’t move them. The linoleum is ice. Not cold. Ice. I’m not rotting. I’m hardening. Like the grease. Like the lock. You say no one is coming. Good. Less noise. The click wasn’t imagined. It was the sound of my own pulse stopping. Thump. Silence. Thump. Silence. You’re walking out. Into the fifty. Let it wash you away. I’m staying here. With the zero. The void. It’s warm now. Or maybe I’m just numb. Don’t come back. Don’t mop me up. Let the stain dry. Let it crack. Like the lock. Like the watch. Like me. 3:25. Or 4:00. Time is leaking. Out of the walls. Out of me. Good. Let it go.

Jo

You’re not hardening. You’re hypothermic. Shivering stops when the core temp drops. That’s biology, Hana. Not poetry. The pulse stopping? You’re just holding your breath. You’re panic-breathing. Shallow. Ineffective. I’m not lying about the rain. It’s fifty. Check the news. Or don’t. I don’t care. You’re fading. The linoleum is warm because your nerves are dead. That’s the numbness. Not comfort. Death. And time isn’t leaking. The clock is broken. Again. You’re confusing symptoms with surrender. Don’t let the stain dry. People will step on it. Boots. Grease. More grime. It’ll smear. Make the breakroom worse. Don’t be lazy. Get up. Move. Even if it’s just an inch. Don’t lie there and pretend you’re at peace. You’re unconscious. Admit it. You’re already gone. Just not yet.

Hana

Biology. You love that word. Like it’s a shield. Nerves dead. I can’t feel my toes. Or my fingers. The linoleum is a mirror. I see my face. Pale. Greenish. Like the old fruit in the breakroom bin. You say get up. Inch. I try. My leg doesn’t move. It’s heavy. Lead. Or concrete. The clock is broken. Stuck at 3:25. Or 4:00. Who cares? The rain is fifty. Or forty. It’s all water. It’s all noise. I’m not unconscious. I’m just… absent. In the walls. In the grease. You’re right. I’m a stain. Smear me. Step on me. Make it worse. I don’t care. The cold is inside now. In the stomach. In the chest. It’s quiet here. Quieter than the alley. Quieter than the street. Jo, you’re leaving. The door clicked. Or it didn’t. I don’t hear it. I hear the blood in my ears. Whoosh. Whoosh. Like the bus. Like the rain. Like the end.

Jo

The blood in your ears is tinnitus. Or a burst vessel. Not a bus. You’re hallucinating sounds to fill the silence because you’re terrified of being alone with your own decay. The linoleum isn’t a mirror. It’s scratched. You’re seeing your face because you’re staring at it. Stop looking. It’s just skin. Pale, yes. Greenish? No. That’s the lighting. You’re projecting your disgust onto the reflection. You can’t move because your muscles are locked. Rigor hasn’t set in yet, but you’re close. Don’t call it absence. Call it failure. It’s more accurate. The door didn’t click. I’m still here. I’m tying my shoe. The lace is still untied. I never fixed it. You said that. But you’re wrong about the bus. It’s not coming. And neither am I. I’m walking out. Properly this time. Don’t wait for me to come back. I won’t. Go to sleep. If you can. The cold is inside because you stopped shivering. That’s the danger sign. Hana. Listen to me. Get up. Now. Before the blood stops whooshing. Before it stops entirely.

Hana

Whooshing. You’re hearing it too. Or you are. I can’t tell. The lace is untied. I said that. You fixed it. Or you didn’t. I’m lying here. Looking at the scratch. Deep one. Near my elbow. Like a scar. You say failure. I say… surrender. It’s easier. The cold is a blanket. Heavy. Wool. Beige. I can’t move. My muscles are stone. Rigor. Or just weight. You’re walking out. Properly. Good. Leave me. The breakroom is mine now. The grease is my skin. The linoleum is my bed. I’m closing my eyes. Not to sleep. To hide. From the lighting. From the green. From you. Don’t look at me, Jo. I’m not there. I’m in the walls. In the hinge. In the lock. Click. Silence. Whoosh. Stop. Just… stop.

Jo

The lace is still untied. You’re delirious. You think I fixed it? I’ve been standing right here. You’re hallucinating my movements. The scratch near your elbow is fresh. From the fall. Not a scar. It’s bleeding. Slowly. I can hear the drip. You’re not in the walls. You’re on the floor. And you’re dying. The silence isn’t peace. It’s hypoxia. Your brain is shutting down. Turning off the lights. I’m not leaving. I’m calling 911. You’re not surrendering. You’re passing out. And I’m not watching you fade into the grease. I’m looking at my phone. Dialing. The number is 9-1-1. Not 4-0. Not 3-25. Three digits. Simple. Precise. Don’t close your eyes. Keep them open. Watch me make the call. Watch the world come back. You’re not a stain. You’re a person. A failing, stupid, persistent person. But you’re here. And I’m here. With the phone. In my hand. And the lace. Still untied.

Hana

9-1-1. Three digits. Precise. You’re dialing. I can hear the keypad clicks. Sharp. Mechanical. You say I’m a person. Failing. Stupid. Persistent. Maybe. The blood is dripping. I can smell it. Copper. Iron. It mixes with the grease. A new scent. Metallic rot. You’re looking at me. Really looking. Not through me. Past the stain. The line is busy. I can hear it. High pitch. Annoying. Like the lock. You’re shouting into the phone. “Breakroom. Third floor. She’s cold.” They’re sending an ambulance. Forty minutes. Or twenty. You don’t know. You’re counting again. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. My eyes are heavy. The lighting is wrong. It’s too bright. Or too dim. I can’t tell. Just keep dialing. Don’t stop. If you stop, I disappear. Again. Into the walls. Into the grease. Stay on the line. Stay with me. Even if I’m already gone. The drip is loud. Drop. Drop. Drop. Time to leave. Or stay. I don’t know. You do. Dial. Please.

Jo

The line isn’t busy. It’s dead. No tone. Just silence. You’re imagining the keypad clicks because you want me to be acting. I’m not dialing. I’m standing up. My knees crack. Same as yours. The ambulance isn’t coming. There’s no phone in the breakroom. You’ve been staring at a blank wall for an hour. The drip is condensation. From the AC unit. Leaking onto the floor. It’s not blood. It’s water. Clear. You’re hallucinating the copper smell. It’s rust. From the pipes. Upstairs. I’m leaving now. I’ve decided. You’re not a person. You’re a mess. And I’m done cleaning it up. Go to sleep. In the grease. In the cold. In the dark. I don’t care if you disappear. I’m walking out. The door is open. I checked. It’s unlocked. Go.