drip
drip
drip
The pipes were acting up again last night, the
sound of the dirty water hitting rusted metal rousing
me from what little slumber I can get in this heat. The
summers are unbearable here; these dusty humid halls
only grow ever more painful once filled with guests.
I rolled out of bed, my body damp with a
thin sheen of sweat, and made my way to the window,
gazing down at the lush courtyard where many of the
tenants mulled around in the sun. I had little choice by
none other than my own sanity to get to work on those
pipes.
I could not find the leak – not in the guest
rooms, nor in mine, nor in the tower overlooking it all
– not even in the cellar, which was practically famous
for its dire need of repair. I did find an oddly endless
stream of crimson rust running down the length of the
pipes, stretching from room to room in an unnatural
pattern. Probably due to the leaks, wherever they may be.
drip
drip
drip
Another night with that damned leak, only
this morning my troubles have grown beyond mere
sweat. Last night my sleep only grew worse. It felt
disorienting, sickening even, making me wake with a
queasy stomach and absolutely excruciating pain in
my head.
As if to one-up my aching skull, my body was
also spotted–albeit lightly–with bruising ranging
from my knees to my neck, as if I had dove down the
stairs in my sleep. But I couldn’t slack off; that nagging
sound was still haunting me through every step of the
hotel, as if the sound itself knew it was driving me
mad, and it enjoyed watching me crack.
As I dove back into the maze of metal and
bolts, I attempted to follow the winding pattern of rust
once more, still to no avail. It winded and curved over
and under every room and corridor, vanishing into
places I could not reach, then practically reappearing
under my very step.
But with every minute that passed, the sound
still mocked me, haunted me, growing louder only to
fade once I thought I had finally found it.
After hours of work, endlessly tightening bolts
and screws to no end, I still could not find the
source. Though, to my displeasure, I now found
that same terrible rust now clinging to the head
of my wrench, only… how? I wondered to myself. It
was dry, as was every pipe I had altered.
I pondered that question through
another agonizing night, my eyes only closing for
mere moments before that agonizing drip came
knocking at my walls again and again.
drip
drip
drip
drip
It sounded different now, like a low voice laughing,
and damn this heat, my head was near its limit, this
had to stop. I fell out of bed, barely balancing on my
feet as the sheets clung to my body as if trying to
persuade me to stay in their embrace. My bruises
had darkened and doubled overnight, and my feet
were sore, as if I’d walked barefooted for miles.
The sun had not yet risen as I slowly dragged myself
to the courtyard, hearing mumbles from the early
rising guests about a friend of theirs going missing,
before making my way back towards that sound.
The rust was everywhere now, not a sliver
of that cold grey metal remained, only that sinister,
malice filled, ugly red corrosion. My tools were
covered in just the same, red and flakey, as if dipped in
a disgusting amalgamation of wax and refuse.
Drip drip drip drip drip it called again… and again…
and again.
I hear it, track it, hunt it from room to room.
I think the guests must know where it is, and they’re
hiding it from me so they can stay in their rooms,
resting, asleep. They didn’t want to stay, but I
won’t let them leave until they tell me where to
find it, or until that blood red leak runs dry.