There was an incessant dripping. Constant. Taking long enough breaks to make her think it had finally stopped, only to begin again with fervor. She checked every faucet, spout, and shower head in her apartment. Every drain was dry, there were no drips.
And yet…
Drip.
Drip drip drip.
Drip.
Dripdripdripdripdripdripdripdrip.
Dripdrip.
Drip.
She felt unhinged. Like she was positively about to come undone. Unraveled. Call a plumber, her girlfriend had suggested. But how did one explain to a plumber what to fix, or where to look, when she could never even find evidence of water? There was just…
Drip.
“ARGH!!!!” she shrieked, flinging the magazine she had been attempting to distract herself with across her kitchen. A vase of red flower fell over off the counter, the glass shattering on the tile floor. She put her hands to her face, and dragged her fingers down her skin. “I’ve gone mad, that’s the only explanation,” she muttered to herself.
On the other side of her kitchen, was the hall closet. Inside the hall closet was perched a poltergeist, cuddled neatly amongst her towels, it’s ghostly lips poised for another ‘drip’.
Inktober 2023, Prompt #7: DRIP
Whitney Writes... 
Leave a comment