Excerpt

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Splish.

The echo of the water as it slams into porcelain reaches her across the great expanse of mustard yellow. Each drop that lands chips away at her sanity.

Perhaps if it were rhythmic she wouldn’t be so irritated.

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Splish splash splish.

Inhale.

Splash splish.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Water never seems to stop. She can think of nothing as tediously unrelenting as a dripping faucet. Something about its composition must make it so painfully persistent – but she can’t imagine what. What drives something to push forward?

The drop forms at the tip of the rusted metal spout. Time is not on his side, however… it’s only a matter of seconds before the next drop hurls itself down the pipe and threatens to overtake the first. The next drop may land somewhere else, or it may just pass him by. But he can’t take any chances. The utter horror of the third possibility is what causes him to plummet. To leap into oblivion. If he didn’t… he would lose himself. If he allowed the next drop to collide – to merge into one – he would no longer exist. And that is a risk no drop can take.

Splish splash splish.

Three heroic drops launch themselves forward. They don’t know how it will end… but they know it’s worth the risk. They know what lies behind them, and they’re certain that’s not where they long to be.

Splash.

She wishes they would stop. Perhaps if they realized the only thing that lay ahead was another pipe. Another dark tunnel. Another ill-advised leap.

Turning on her side, she finds herself face to face with a digital display.

3:27

It seems the only thing as persistent as a leaky faucet is the passage of time.

She carefully removes the blanket and slips silently out of bed. She doesn’t want to disturb him. Though she doubts any noise on her part will. If he can sleep through the pounding of water as it smashes into the tub – he can sleep through the next world war.

Padding stealthily to the bathroom she surveys her options.

Logic.

She can reason with them. Convince the drops that there is nothing to jump for. Nothing beneficial about moving forward. No hope for a future any different than their current, daily droll.

But then, when has water ever responded to a rational plea?

The second option seems more likely.

Clamping her fingers tightly around the chilled metal knob, she twists it clockwise. The knob resists.

Of course it does.

She wraps her left hand around the remaining exposed metal and leans forward before turning the knob with all the strength she can muster. It remains unresponsive. The only thing that appears to budge is the skin of her palm as it rips and burns.

The screams of the drops increase in volume, only to be outdone by the thud as they sprawl helplessly on final contact.

Releasing her death grip on the knob, she retreats into the sink. She runs the flushed pink flesh of her hand under the cool water before reaching for a towel. As it absorbs the moisture from her hands, a solution presents itself.

Throwing the towel beneath the spout of the tub, she finds herself uncharacteristically pleased. It may not silence the screams… but it will soften the impact.

One step at a time.