Encroacher

The Leak

Drip Drip Drip Drip

Thirty three thousand six-hundred and forty three. 

Thirty three thousand six -hundred and forty four.

Thirty three thousandth six-hundred and forty fifth drop of water to splash the chalky white tiles.

Drip 

Drop

Thirty three thousand six-hundred forty eight. Thirty three thousand six-hundred forty nine.

They tell me its a broken pipe--the men in clean white with big brown buttons; looking down at their clip boards and papers as i ask through polished metal bars.

Its been broken like this for twenty-seven meal times now. And I've tried to keep count of each drop that drips ever since. But I haven't been so good at this thus far. My thoughts and the drops, they all just become a big jumble. 

This is now the thirty-fifth time I've lost my place.

...Two, three, four... 

Five. 

There are five drips in-between each time i blink. Four between each inhale and less than two before i let that stale, old air out.

Consistent. Nonfluctuating. 

Words the men in white would use after siting me down on the spinning patients stool and shining bright lights in my eyes and mouth.

"We need you to keep your breathing strict, consistent. We cant have it fluctuating willy-nilly all over the place. Do you understand?" one of them would say.

"If ever you have another one of your panic attacks make certain you contact the................ staff first. Do not under most any circumstances.................... or................... until you're entirely sure there is no other viable option available," another would drone. 

"We don't want another incident like the last time," said a third . 

That last sentence is repeated at me regularly, again and again--over and over. 

Some incident.

And I know that an incident must have occurred, or else i wouldn't even be in here to begin with, but can never recall what exactly the incident was.  

 
I never ask, though so they never tell. And just as well. In here, with them, anything less or more I'm sure would not be tolerated. 

They are to speak and I am to listen--well enough so that they may never have to repeat themselves again.

A stupid rule made stupider by the fact that, while there, in their checkup room, I only ever listen to about half of anything said. 

The spinning chair is just too much fun. The only remotely fun thing i have left in this place.

Not that it matters, the way  they all talk to me--with their brows knit together and their eyes observing and doubtful--i'm sure they're thinking its only a matter of time before whatever it is they don't want to happen happens anyway, regardless of anything I do.

I remember in response i held my breath--just to show them i understood entirely what, precisely, I was not to do. 

They didn't seem to find it was so funny. 

For a few seconds they scatted, like frightened little ants--sifting though mounds of papers, hurriedly talking at one another while periodically taking the time to give me a doctor's trademark:"The disproving stare"--before everything screeched to a halt with the air being knocked out of my lungs.

Thereafter li'l ol' me was forcefully jerked back into his cell with the promise of the omission of next three meal times. Over a joke.

I really do hate this place.