Broken Pieces

Morning

I wasn't afraid of the dark as a child, at least no more than most children. I didn't believe in a monster under my bed, or in the closet, or under the stairs. My monsters walked in daylight and called me by name. In fact, the dark was a refuge. In the dark, I could hide. In the dark, I was safe. In the dark were my dreams.

Some kids dreamed of flying or dancing. I dreamed about a forest I'd never seen and sounds that were just a whisper away from being music, if only I could figure out how to capture them.

Last night, it was almost like the sound of anxious fingernails tapping on a coffee cup. Almost. I scrubbed my face against the pillow and rolled out of bed, fumbling my way to the kitchen. I tried to keep the sound in my mind long enough to test my theory. I grabbed a mug and filled it with water, giving it a few test taps. It wasn't quite right. Maybe it needed to be hot water. I put the kettle on to boil and made some toast. While I waited I grabbed a spoon. Tapping on the side of the mug, then removing a spoonful of water, and tapping again until I could find the right frequency. The whistle of the kettle startled me out of my scientific process. I heard the door down the hall open and close and the soft, muffled footsteps of my roommate.

"What is it this time?" they asked.

"Nails on pottery, I think," I mumbled, grabbing a plate for the toast that had just popped.

They moved to the fridge, nodding and yawning. "Try not to break anything this time."

I gave them a pinched smile and poured the water into the sink and reached for the kettle. They were right to remind me. Sometimes the sounds that lingered from my dreams kept me so distracted, accidents seemed drawn to me like an unfortunate magnet.

"Hey," they called. I tilted my face towards them, but kept my eyes on the mug. "I mean it. I won't be here to help you clean up."

"I got it, Morgan. Safety first, safety second--"

"Coolness third," we finished in unison.

"Big day! You ready?" they shouted, reaching for their own mug and hopping up on the counter.

"It's not a big deal," I mumbled as I slid into my chair at the table.

"You haven't taken a vacation in three and a half years," they continued, thankfully dropping their voice to a normal level.

"Well, I am now, so, you know," I let my voice trail off, tapping the mug again. I needed to keep my hands busy so I didn't press them to my scars. Morgan knew almost everything about me, had helped me turn this haunted house into a home. I hated to make them worry.

"I wish you would come with us," they said, leaning over, elbows on knees.

"Thanks, but..." Saying you were taking time to recover led to a lot of painful, nosy questions. Worst if the recovery was mental, not physical. If you just called it a vacation, the nosy questions were a lot easier to handle.

"I get it. I just hate the thought of you all alone, in case something happens."

I nodded. "I won't be alone. I've got all these sounds to keep me company." I pushed a smile onto my face. Morgan sighed, but smiled back.

I didn't have long before I needed to be at work, so I crammed the bread into my mouth as fast as I could. I really should have taken the time to butter it, but I needed to get back to the mug. Maybe I needed a bigger mug. Or a smaller one. There were too many variables. I set the mug aside and filled it with hot water anyway. The sound still wasn't quite right. Maybe my nails weren't long enough, or I needed to try those fancy acrylic ones. I closed my eyes and made a list of the things I wanted to try. It was as good as a written one if I did it right away.

Rushing through the rest of my morning, I made it to work on time for the first time that week.

The day passed quickly enough, and I slipped out a few minutes past five o'clock and caught the train right before it left the station. That was good luck. Maybe it meant I'd be able to figure this sound out tonight. I reviewed my list of variables to try, making a secondary list of supplies to gather.

"Vinegar, oil, a paintbrush, toothbrush."

"I'm sorry, are you talking to me?" A business woman next to me looked up from her phone, smiling in embarrassment.

I ducked my head. "No, sorry, just thinking out loud. Sorry."

She shook her head, long dark hair dancing. "Oh, it's no problem. I was focused on this work thing and didn't want to miss something important." I looked back up, focusing on a safe spot just above her eyebrows so I didn't make actual eye contact. Her smile was different now. Hopeful maybe.

I smiled back and turned my face to the floor, biting my lips together to keep my list inside my head until I could get off the train and back to the quiet of the house. Morgan wasn't home, so I had room to spread out.

I gathered a selection of mugs from the cupboard, and as many bottles of different density liquids as I could. I was going to figure this out. Why I would dream about someone tapping on a mug full of soy sauce was a mystery for another time. If that's even what it turned out to be.

The wind outside clattered through the thick leaves, heavy with blossoms. "Shh, I'm trying to think."

"Sorry," a voice answered.

"Thank you," I replied before I realized. I froze, trying to listen harder, thinking about the ear equivalent to squinting. "Excuse me?" I looked around, out the window to the deck, around the kitchen, over the counter to the living room. No one appeared. No one answered.

I took a step towards the back door, trying to move as quietly as possible, but I'd never really learned how to sneak. That required knowing where all my edges were at every moment and I just didn't have enough time to think about that. So, if someone were listening to me as hard as I was trying to listen to them, they would have had an easier time following the clack of the zipper to my hoodie against the counter and the squeak of my bare feet against the tile.

Since no one pounced on me for the purposes of murder or mutilation, I straightened up and walked outside, wincing at the heat, even this late. The trees still clattered and the sun hid behind them. No one lurked on the deck or lounged on the chairs. I walked to the railing, avoiding the stains hiding under years of fresh paint and peered over. The creek bed below was dry and no sign of man or animal caught my eye. I shrugged and headed back inside.

As I pulled the door open, the air whistled around it, sparking an idea. A new sound, like the rubbing of a wet finger around the rim of a glass, burst into my brain. The sounds were related somehow. I needed new supplies.

Glasses, water, a towel. I gathered them in a basket and headed back out to the porch, flipping the outside light on with my elbow.