He was captivated by the sound. They splattered, rhythmic in their dance of
falls.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He watched them fall, one by one, entranced. Could he have made that?
Tears rolled down his cheeks, tears he hadn't noticed. Tears he had learned not to notice.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
They tinted the counter red for him, gave him a momentary calm, and he smiled as he took up his rag and began to wash the dishes. He never thought to check his arms.
He did his duty quickly, efficiently, the only thing on his mind being the tapping they made. Such a beautiful sound...
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He hummed a light tune, its beat matching that of the splatters. He scrubs harder on the grime on that plate.
The sink water is tinting red, but he takes no notice.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He sighs contentedly as he rinses his current dish, putting it on the table to dry. After all, it wouldn't do to let the red splatter the white, would it?
His humming turns into words, a sweet song of love and life.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Red was everywhere, but it did not bother him. He could clean it up, after all. He would, just like he always did.
He counted the dishes in the water, taking a moment to put a bit more soap in. Then, he began to scrub once more.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water was steaming, near boiling point, yet he never flinched once as he let his hands sink in, wash over his skin...
It washed away the red.
Drip. Drip. Drip...
The sound was slowing, so he slowed his tune. He began to wash a fork.
He was slightly disappointed when he had to wash the red off...
Drip... Drip... Drip...
The slowing of that sound began to irritate him. He did the dishes more quickly, as though he was trying to beat it to its end.
He began to pant.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
He scrubbed frantically, taking barely any time to rinse before starting on the next dish.
The red was beginning to diffuse...
Drip... Drip... Drip...
He was shaking now, adrenaline rushing through him. He fought for speed, only barely registering his own perfectionism enough to make sure everything came off.
The red was nearly gone now...
Drip...... Drip...... Drip.........
The sound disappeared, and he desperately began to sift through the dish water, trying to find what he needed. He had to make the sound come back.
He found what he needed and, with an ecstatic cry, he pulled it out of the water.
Nothing...
He grinned widely as it glinted in the sunlight coming through the kitchen window. It was beautiful...
He cradled the blade in his hand.
Silence...
He pressed the blade to his skin, not even registering the pain that shot through his arm. He needed the sound.
He was delighted when the red came back again.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, tears he hadn't noticed. Tears he had learned not to notice. He puts the blade into the water, the sink water turning red, but he takes no notice.
He begins to work again, humming his tune. Distantly, he reminds himself that he has to clean up the red...
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
"The Mystery of Pain"
By Emily Dickinson
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He watched them fall, one by one, entranced. Could he have made that?
Tears rolled down his cheeks, tears he hadn't noticed. Tears he had learned not to notice.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
They tinted the counter red for him, gave him a momentary calm, and he smiled as he took up his rag and began to wash the dishes. He never thought to check his arms.
He did his duty quickly, efficiently, the only thing on his mind being the tapping they made. Such a beautiful sound...
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He hummed a light tune, its beat matching that of the splatters. He scrubs harder on the grime on that plate.
The sink water is tinting red, but he takes no notice.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He sighs contentedly as he rinses his current dish, putting it on the table to dry. After all, it wouldn't do to let the red splatter the white, would it?
His humming turns into words, a sweet song of love and life.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Red was everywhere, but it did not bother him. He could clean it up, after all. He would, just like he always did.
He counted the dishes in the water, taking a moment to put a bit more soap in. Then, he began to scrub once more.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water was steaming, near boiling point, yet he never flinched once as he let his hands sink in, wash over his skin...
It washed away the red.
Drip. Drip. Drip...
The sound was slowing, so he slowed his tune. He began to wash a fork.
He was slightly disappointed when he had to wash the red off...
Drip... Drip... Drip...
The slowing of that sound began to irritate him. He did the dishes more quickly, as though he was trying to beat it to its end.
He began to pant.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
He scrubbed frantically, taking barely any time to rinse before starting on the next dish.
The red was beginning to diffuse...
Drip... Drip... Drip...
He was shaking now, adrenaline rushing through him. He fought for speed, only barely registering his own perfectionism enough to make sure everything came off.
The red was nearly gone now...
Drip...... Drip...... Drip.........
The sound disappeared, and he desperately began to sift through the dish water, trying to find what he needed. He had to make the sound come back.
He found what he needed and, with an ecstatic cry, he pulled it out of the water.
Nothing...
He grinned widely as it glinted in the sunlight coming through the kitchen window. It was beautiful...
He cradled the blade in his hand.
Silence...
He pressed the blade to his skin, not even registering the pain that shot through his arm. He needed the sound.
He was delighted when the red came back again.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, tears he hadn't noticed. Tears he had learned not to notice. He puts the blade into the water, the sink water turning red, but he takes no notice.
He begins to work again, humming his tune. Distantly, he reminds himself that he has to clean up the red...
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
"The Mystery of Pain"
By Emily Dickinson