By morning she'd be feverish with lack of sleep. She'd polish, scrub, sand, clean with restless energy. But the coming night would shackle her beneath her worn sheets once more until the sun, slow-filtered through moss and leaf, unlocked her. She'd spring up and repeat the process all over again. Then, when she could think of nothing else to do, she'd sit in a patch of sunlight and listen to the drip of black cypress water in her heart.
One night her taps started leaking. Not just one, as if a seal had gone bad, but all of them at once. The drips from the bathtub sounded like a slow finger drumming on the porcelain, waiting, relentlessly waiting. She felt she was in a cave, smothered in darkness, waiting for something to move and confirm her worst fears.
Stay tuned for our next episode when I publish my next installment of short fiction, The Melting Man, whose protagonist shouts:
“I don’t think, I know!” he shouted, his bird voice echoing up and down the hall. “Scoff if you must, scoff, scoff, scoff. But each drip of rain as touches me might as well be acid. It burns, it hurts, it takes a piece of me away!” He pulled up the sleeve of his raincoat. “Look!”
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