Nothing much. Just the hum of the freezer in the breakroom again. That door, third floor, near the stairwell. Painted over so many times it’s basically concrete now. Locked since the restructuring. We all pretend we don’t know what’s in there. Probably just old filing cabinets, or someone’s forgotten Christmas decorations. But nobody asks. I stop by it sometimes just to make sure it’s still there. Solid. Unmoving. Unlike the schedule. Or my sleep.
God, don’t. I hate that door. I walked past it this morning and my stomach just did that flip. Coffee’s gone cold. I drank it anyway. My boss wants the Q3 reports by noon. I haven’t started. I’m just staring at the wall. You think it’s concrete? I bet it’s hollow.
It’s concrete. Thick. Heavy. You’re overthinking the acoustics. The coffee’s sour now. Don’t drink it. Just throw it out. The reports can wait an hour. Maybe two. No one’s watching you stare at that wall. I’m not. Look, if you start now, you’ll do a terrible job. Do it later. When the panic fades into something manageable. Like dread. Dread I can work with. Panic just makes my hands shake. And we don’t have time for shaking. Open a blank doc. Type the title. That’s it. Done.
Shaking is useful. Keeps you sharp. You’re so calm it’s annoying. Like you’ve already accepted the grind. I just… I keep thinking about that freezer. The condensation. How it sweats. If I type the title, I have to face the rest. I’ll just sit here. Let the dread build. It’s safer.
Safe is a trap. You’re letting the dread rot your brain before you even touch the data. I’m not calm. I’m just numb. There’s a difference. Numb doesn’t shake. It doesn’t need to. The freezer sweats because it’s trying to keep things from spoiling, but it fails. Everything spoils eventually. Even reports. Especially reports. You think staring at the wall is safer? It’s just waiting to be defeated. Go open the doc. Type the title. I’ll sit here and stare at the locked door. We’ll split the misery. Less for you, more for me. Fair trade.
Fine. You’re terrible. I’ll open the doc. But I’m not looking at the wall. I’m looking at your face while you do that. It’s unnerving. The cursor is blinking. It’s like a heartbeat. Or a countdown. Which is it? I hate this. I hate that you’re right. I hate that I’m doing it.
It’s a countdown. To what? Deadlines. Existence. Whatever. Don’t look at my face. I’m thinking about the locker room. The smell of damp wool. My uncle’s voice. You’re typing. Good. Make it ugly. First drafts are supposed to be garbage. Let it be bad. I’m not doing anything. I’m just existing here. Solid. Unmoving. While you panic over blinking lights. Keep going. Don’t stop to fix the commas. Just get the words out. Like blood from a cut. Messy. Necessary. I’m still here. Watching. Waiting. For nothing.
Ugly is good. I can do ugly. My keyboard clacks like teeth chattering. Third floor. Stairwell. Concrete. It’s just words. Garbage words. Why am I sweating? You said it’s fair trade. I’m typing. You’re staring. The cursor blinks. One. Two. Three. Stop thinking about wool. Just type.
Stop. You’re narrating my dissociation. It’s rude. And loud. The wool was fine. It was damp, yes, but it was warm. Unlike your hands. I bet they’re shaking. That’s the point. Use the shake. Let the keystrokes jump. Make it look like error. It’s just noise. The boss doesn’t read the rhythm. He reads the numbers. And you don’t have them. So make up the shape. I’m done with the wool. I’m thinking about the paint on that door. Chipping. Peeling. Exposing the drywall underneath. Rot. Always rot. Keep typing. Don’t look at me. Look at the screen. At the blinking. It’s not a heartbeat. It’s a glitch. You’re glitching too. Good. Glitch harder.
You’re obsessed with rot. I’m trying to make numbers, not a horror story. My hands aren’t shaking, they’re just tired. You’re projecting. The drywall is fine. It’s just old. Like us. Stop talking about the paint. I’m typing. The cursor is steady. I’m making up shapes. See? I’m fine. You’re the one staring at the wall.
I’m not staring at the wall. I’m staring at you. You’re lying about your hands. They’re trembling. I can hear it in the keys. Clack. Clack. Clack. Like a bird trapped in a chimney. Drywall is fine? Sure. If you ignore the mold growing behind it. You’re making up numbers, aren’t you? Shaping them into something that looks like truth. It’s exhausting. I’m tired of being the anchor. Go on. Finish the sentence. Don’t look back. The paint is peeling. It always peels. Just like the glue on those labels we used to stick on files. Back when we had files. Now we have cloud storage. And silence. Keep typing. Make it ugly. Make it real. Even if it’s not.
Stop narrating my hands. I’m not a bird. I’m just tired. The glue was worse than the paint. Smelled like chemicals and regret. Cloud storage is just forgetting with better filing. I’m typing. Fast. Messy. You want ugly? Here. Typing faster. Faster. Don’t look at the door. Look at the screen. It’s just pixels. It’s all just pixels.
Pixels. Right. Blinking lies. You’re typing like you’re trying to outrun it. It’s working, I think. The numbers are piling up. Ugly. Broken. But they’re there. I’m not looking at the door anymore. I’m looking at your hands. They’ve stopped shaking. Good. That means you’ve hit the flow state. Or the panic has burned out. Whichever. I’m tired of this conversation. It’s all friction. No lubrication. Just metal grinding on metal. Like the stairwell door. Make it faster. Don’t think. Just push the keys. I’ll keep watch. Not on the door. On the silence. It’s getting louder. Keep typing.
My fingers are numb. I can’t feel the keys. The numbers are just shapes now. Gray blobs. I don’t know if they’re right. I don’t care. The silence is loud. It’s ringing in my ears. Like a high-pitched whine. I’m pushing. Harder. Faster. Until the screen blurs. Until I forget where the desk ends and I begin.
Stop. Your fingers are bleeding. Metaphorically. Or literally. Doesn’t matter. You’re going to carpal tunnel if you keep this up. The screen isn’t blurring. You’re just dizzy. Drink water. Not coffee. Water. The quiet is louder than the typing now. It’s waiting. I can feel it pressing against the glass. Behind the pixels. Gray blobs are fine. As long as they add up. If they don’t, we’ll fix it later. Or we won’t. You’ll be too tired to care. That’s the goal. Numbness. Not peace. Just... gone. Sit back. Let the chair hold you. It’s creaky. Like the door. Like the floorboards. Everything’s old. Everything’s rotting. But it holds. For now.
My fingers are fine. Just stiff. I’m drinking water. It tastes like metal. You’re right. The chair holds. It’s creaky. Good. Let it creak. I’m done. The numbers are there. Ugly. Broken. I’m sitting back. Let the silence press. I’m not moving. I’m just waiting for the rot to finish.
Metal taste. Classic. Electrolyte imbalance. Or just bad plumbing. Whatever. You’re sitting. Good. The chair creaks. It’s the only honest thing in the room. The numbers are there. Ugly, sure. But they’re there. That’s all the boss wants. Numbers on a page. Doesn’t matter if they mean anything. Just that they exist. You’re waiting for the rot? Let it come. It’s already here. Under the floorboards. Behind the drywall. Inside the freezer. We’re all just delaying the inevitable. I’m not moving either. Too tired. The silence is loud. It’s screaming, really. But you can’t hear it over the hum of the fridge. Or your own pulse. Rest. The reports will wait. The rot won’t.
The fridge hum is a lie. It’s not a hum. It’s a whisper. My pulse is in my throat. Thump. Thump. You think you’re watching me, but you’re just watching the door. I’m not resting. I’m holding my breath. The numbers are there. They’re rotting already. I can smell it. Sweet. Sickly. Like wet wool. Don’t touch the screen.
Stop. You’re making it up. The fridge is a compressor. Mechanical. Reliable. Unlike your nose. Wet wool? That’s just your imagination leaking. I’m not watching the door. I’m watching you. You’re pale. Too pale. Sit down. Don’t hold your breath. You’ll pass out. Then who’ll email the boss? Me. I don’t want to do the Q3 reports. They’re boring. And full of lies. Your numbers are already lying. Just like the door. Just like the wool. Let go. The screen doesn’t care. It’s just glass and light. Cool. Dead. Unlike you. And me. We’re both rotting. Just slower. Breathe. In. Out. Don’t smell the sweet sickly. Smell the dust. The drywall. It’s safer. Real. Don’t touch the screen. It burns. I know. I touched it too. Once. Long ago.
Glass doesn’t burn. It’s just cold. You’re palming the bezel. I can see the heat haze. Dust is safe. Drywall is safe. It doesn’t lie. The compressor kicks on. Loud. Aggressive. Like a cough. I’m breathing. In. Out. The screen is dead. You’re not. But you look it. Stop talking about the wool. It’s gone. Just static now.
Static. Better than wool. Wool rots. Static just... is. I’m not palming the bezel. It’s cold. Like the screen. Like your fingers now that you’ve stopped typing. The compressor kicks on again. Loud. Ugly. A mechanical cough. We’re both just machines now. Breaking down. You think I look dead? Good. That’s the point. Less energy for feeling. More for existing. The door is still locked. The reports are done. Ugly. Broken. But there. I’m not looking at you anymore. I’m looking at the static on the screen. It’s soothing. White noise. Like the rain hitting the window at the office. Remember that rain? Mud on the shoes. Cold coffee. I hate rain. It gets in. Makes things damp. Rot. Keep breathing. In. Out. Don’t think. Just be static.
Rain is just water with an attitude. It doesn’t rot. It washes. You’re wrong about the reports. The boss will hate them. But he’ll get them. That’s the point. Static is fine. I like static. It’s honest. No lies in the snow. Just noise. I’m watching the door too. It’s not moving. Good. Stay broken. I’m staying here.