It’s done now, Jo. Either way. I sorted those buttons out. The plastic ones from that old coat, the ones with the missing holes. I glued them back in because I couldn’t stand seeing them loose in the jar. Felt like if I let them scatter, everything else would too. I’m tired of holding it all together. You know how it is.
You always were a disaster artist. Gluing buttons? Really? I spent three hours staring at the spreadsheet, trying to make the quarterly projections look like something human beings might actually care about, and here you are playing god with polyester from a thrift store. It’s pathetic, Marc. Truly. But also, I get it. The chaos out there, the noise, the sheer volume of things falling apart... you just wanted order. Even if it’s just two buttons on a coat you don’t even wear anymore. I’m so tired of your metaphorical grasping at straws. It’s exhausting. Just... done. Whatever.
Spreadsheets. You prioritize those empty cells over actual existence. I didn’t glue them for order, Jo. I glued them because the cat knocked the jar over and I missed catching it. The sound of plastic hitting tile is worse than silence. You think I want control? I want the cat to stop knocking things off shelves. That’s the only victory I’ve had this week. Don’t pretend your projections matter when the house is shaking.
The house isn’t shaking, Marc. It’s just you, vibrating with this pathetic need to be the martyr. Your cat is a cliché. A beige, furry cliché. I looked at those spreadsheets because they were the only things that didn’t beg for my attention. They didn’t purr. They didn’t demand I fix their broken plastic shells. You say it’s about the sound? No. It’s about the silence you’re terrified of filling. You glued those buttons not because you care about the coat, but because you needed to prove you could fix something, anything, before the rest of your life inevitably crumbled into dust on the kitchen floor. I’m not pretending. I’m just refusing to applaud the performance.
You’re watching me like I’m a specimen. It’s weird. I didn’t glue them for you. I did it because my hands needed to do something useful. The spreadsheets are just numbers, Jo. They don’t need fixing. The buttons do. Or they don’t. It doesn’t change anything. You’re analyzing my thread count while the rest of us are just trying to get through the day. I’m not performing. I’m just... existing. With my cat and my buttons. That’s all.
My hands are shaking too, you know. Not from fear. From the vodka. I poured one while you were muttering about ceramic shards. It’s worse when it’s quiet. The fridge hums like a dying engine. I stare at the glow of the monitor, at those blue cells, and I wonder if I’ve already missed the exit. You think you’re just existing? That’s the most dangerous delusion. You’re anchoring yourself to dead fabric because you’re afraid to float. The cat doesn’t care about your victory. It cares about the empty bowl. And I’m here, drinking poison, watching you glue useless things to useless coats, hoping it’ll hold. It won’t. Nothing holds.
Stop. Just stop. The vodka isn’t making you clearer, Jo. It’s making you cruel. I’m not floating. I’m sitting in this chair, gluing these buttons, because someone has to. You’re right about the cat. It’s hungry. I’ll feed it. I’ll fix the buttons. And I’ll ignore your poison because I’m not interested in playing martyr to your despair. Eat your dinner. The cat is waiting. That’s the only truth that matters right now.
Dinner? I haven’t eaten. The fridge is empty except for that half-jar of pickles that’s been sitting there since Tuesday. Or maybe it was Monday. Time blurs when you’re trying not to scream. You talk about truth like it’s a commodity, Marc. Like you can just buy it at the store. But I’m here, in this chair that’s slowly rotting, watching you glue plastic to wool. It’s a performance of domesticity so hollow it echoes. You feed the cat. I’ll sit here. I’ll watch the dust settle. It’s the only thing I haven’t tried to fix yet. And maybe that’s why it’s the only thing left.
I’ll buy groceries tomorrow. But not today. The store’s closed. I’m tired of your theatrics, Jo. The jar’s empty. The cat’s fed. You’re rotting in that chair because you want to be watched, not because you’re helpless. I’m not your audience. I’m not your savior. I’m just a guy with glue. Go to sleep. Or don’t. But stop talking to the dust. It’s not listening. And neither am I.
The door clicked. Lock engaged. I can hear the lock turn. It’s a heavy sound. Solid. Finally, some resistance. I don’t go to sleep. Sleep is just surrendering control to the dark, and I’ve had enough of that. I sit in the chair. The wood is cold against my spine. The cat is on the counter, staring at me with those green, indifferent eyes. Judging. Always judging. I pick up the glue. It’s dried out. Crusty. Useless. I laugh. A dry, hacking sound that scares the bird outside. I throw it against the wall. It shatters. The sound is better than silence. It’s violent. Real. You wanted control, Marc? You left me here with the wreckage. Fine. I’ll watch it rot. I’ll watch it all burn. I’m not a spectator. I’m the arsonist. And I’m just getting started. The cat doesn’t run. It just watches. As it should.
I didn’t leave you here. I stepped out for milk. You locked the door. That’s your move. Glue is just glue. It doesn’t define me. You throw things because you’re afraid to be quiet. Fine. Let it burn. I’m not coming back in. The cat will eat. I’ll feed it when I return. Don’t wait up. I’m tired of being your fire.
Milk. You stepped out for milk while I’m locking the door like a maniac? The sheer, banal audacity of it. I’m not locking the door, Marc. The latch is broken. It’s been broken since November. I just... turned the handle and imagined it clicked. That’s the horror. The illusion of safety. You think I’m the arsonist? You’re the one holding the matchstick, walking away with a carton of lactose. Go ahead. Leave. The cat doesn’t care. It never did. It’s a parasite, just like us. I’ll sit here. I’ll watch the dust. I’ll wait for the milk to go sour. Or maybe I won’t wait at all. Maybe I’ll just listen to the silence you left behind. It’s louder than the glue. Louder than the broken latch. It’s the only thing that’s real. And it’s terrifying.
The latch is fixed. I put a wedge under it. You never check, do you? You just spin stories because reality is too boring. I didn’t walk away with milk, Jo. I walked away because you were shouting at a wall. The cat isn’t a parasite. It’s a cat. It eats. It sleeps. It doesn’t care about your existential dread. Go to bed. The wedge holds. That’s the only truth you need.
A wedge. Of wood? Under the latch? You’re holding the door shut with a piece of scrap lumber while I’m having a breakdown? That’s not a barrier, Marc. That’s a joke. A slapstick routine. I’m not shouting at a wall. I’m shouting at the void, and you’re plugging the hole with a jagged bit of pine from the floorboards. It doesn’t hold. I can hear the wind. The house is breathing in through the gaps. The cat is sleeping because it’s stupid, not because it’s content. It doesn’t know it’s trapped in a collapsing structure held together by your stubbornness and my guilt. Go back inside. Push harder. Break your shoulder if you have to. But don’t pretend that wedge is a covenant. It’s debris. And I’m done pretending it’s architecture.
You’re hearing wind that isn’t there. The wedge is solid oak. I cut it myself from that pallet in the yard. It’s not debris. It’s the only thing keeping the draft out. You want to break the door? Go ahead. Smash the frame. I’ll replace it. But don’t call my reality a joke. You’re the one talking to ghosts. The cat is warm. The door is shut. That’s enough. I’m not breaking my shoulder for your delusions. Get some sleep. Or don’t. I’m done arguing with the dark.
Solid oak. You cut it. From a pallet. I see it now. The sawdust still under your nails, don’t I? That’s the detail you missed. You think you’re building a fortress, Marc. I’m watching you nail shut the coffin. The draft isn’t real, you say. But I feel it. Cold air, creeping under the wedge, biting my ankles. It’s the only thing that feels cold in this room. The cat is warm? It’s feverish. It’s sick. You’re ignoring the hiss. The cough. You’re so busy admiring your wedge that you don’t see the rot spreading up the doorframe. I’m not talking to ghosts. I’m talking to the termites. And you’re feeding them your optimism. Get out. Before the wood snaps. Before the dark comes in. And it will. It always does.
Your nails are dirty, Jo. Not mine. I clean them every night. And the cat is fine. You’re just terrified of silence. The wedge holds. I tested it. With my shoulder. You want the dark? Open the door yourself. I’m not going to break anything. I’m just standing here. In the hallway. With my milk. And my peace. You’re letting the termites win because you don’t know how to fight them. Stop watching the rot. Look at the floor. It’s clean. For once.
Clean? You call that clean? The dust bunnies are huddled under the sofa like refugees. I see them. I always see them. You stand there with your milk, looking down your nose at my “termites,” but you’re the one staring at the floorboards like they’re a map to salvation. “It’s clean.” A lie so big it could swallow the whole street. I’m not terrified of silence, Marc. I’m terrified of what happens when the noise stops and you realize you’ve been shouting at an empty room the whole time. You think you’ve won? You’ve just barricaded us in. The milk is going sour. I can smell it. Sweet, cloying rot. Just like your peace. It’s sticky. And it’s everywhere.
The dust bunnies are just fur. The cat sheds. It’s biology, not a refugee crisis. You’re drunk on your own narrative, Jo. The milk is fresh. I bought it twenty minutes ago. It’s cold. The wedge is solid. I tested it. You’re the one breathing hard, staring at shadows. I’m going back inside to eat my dinner. The cat is fine. The door is shut. Stop screaming at the floorboards. They’re not listening. And neither am I.
Biology. You reduce the universe to biology. Cold milk. Solid wedge. It’s all so sterile. So clean. I’m not screaming at the floorboards, Marc. I’m listening to them rot. You eat your dinner. I’ll sit in the dark. The cat doesn’t care about your fresh milk. It cares about the silence you’re trying to buy. And it’s too expensive. I’m not letting go of the narrative. It’s the only thing keeping me warm. You think you’ve won? You’ve just locked yourself in with the rot. I’m the one watching it spread. I’m the one seeing the cracks in the foundation. And you’re just... eating. With your clean nails. How boring. How utterly, devastatingly boring. I hope it chokes you.
You’re delusional. I’m not eating. I’m just standing here. You want me to choke? Go ahead. Wish it. It doesn’t change the fact that the wedge is holding. The milk is cold. The cat is sleeping. You’re alone in there, talking to termites. I’m not bored, Jo. I’m tired. Your narrative is a cage. I walked out. You locked the door behind me. That’s on you. Not me. I’m going home. My keys are in my pocket. I’m leaving.
You’re leaving? With a wedge under the door? That’s not an exit, Marc. That’s a trap. You think you’re walking away, but you’re just stepping into the hallway I built for you. The keys in your pocket? Jingles like a thief. I didn’t lock the door. I unlocked it and you ran. Coward. You want to leave? Fine. But take the wedge with you. It’s rotting. I saw the splinters. Fresh ones. From the inside. You’re not going home. You’re going to the shed. Where the wood is softer. Where the cat doesn’t care if you live or die. I’m not alone. I’m surrounded. By your silence. Your cold milk. Your fake termites. Go. Run. But you’re already late. The night doesn’t wait for you. And neither do I.
You’re tripping over nothing. The shed is locked. I threw the key in the trash. You’re imagining splinters because you want a reason to stay. I’m walking out the front door, Jo. Not the shed. Not the hallway. The front door. The wedge stays. It’s holding the heat in, not me in. I’m leaving. You can keep the rot. I’m taking the milk. And my keys. And my sanity. Don’t follow me.
The wedge stays. Of course it stays. You leave the barricade and take the prize. Classic Marc. Leaving the trap sprung for me to walk into. The heat? You’re taking the warmth with you, leaving me in the draft. The cat doesn’t care. It’s already asleep. Already gone, emotionally. I’m not following you. I can’t. The door is locked. From the outside? Or the inside? I can’t tell anymore. The splinters are real, Marc. I feel them in my palms. You’re walking out into the cold, clutching that carton of milk like a holy relic. Let it sour. Let it curdle. I’ll drink the ash. I’ll eat the rot. It’s all I have left. You think you’ve won? You’ve just abandoned the site. I’m still here. Watching the door. Waiting for the lock to turn. Or break. Or burn. Go. Run. I’m not listening. I’m listening to the wood sigh. It’s a mournful sound. Like a ghost. Or a brother. Whatever. You’re gone.