I was sitting in the bathtub, staring at the moldy ceiling,
as the lavender-scented bubbles of my bubble bath deflated. They weren’t
popping with excitement or abruptness, just deflating slowly and sadly and
melting back into the oily water. I melted among them, too cold to remain in
the tepid water but also too cold to get out and walk across the bathroom for
the closest towel.
When I
finally summoned up the courage to get out, I reached forward and yanked the
plug before I could chicken out. The bubbles around me sighed, and then I heard
a strange sound. It began as a faint whining noise and got louder and louder.
No, not whining. It was like someone speaking underwater, you know that
gargling sound that isn’t really a voice but pretends to be. Goosebumps
blossomed across my skin. I wanted that noise to stop.
My courage shrank as the tub filled
with cold air. The water and all the corpses of the sad bubbles swept past my legs
and down my toes into the gaping drain.
I couldn’t
take my eyes off that drain, that black hole, that toothless mouth. The more
water that went down it, the louder and more high-pitched the sound became. I
clapped my hands to my ears, but the sound was still there. I sang a loud
version of “God Bless America,” but I could still hear it.
At last,
the drain cleared, and through my clenched fingers, I finally recognized the
sound. The drain was screaming—a high-pitched scream that told of beached
whales and drowned ships and tortured people lost in dark depths. A scream that
started in the deep black of ocean trenches and ran all the way up, past ancient
wrecks and bloated monsters and rotting limbs, through the river and the water
table and out my drain.
I couldn’t
take it anymore. My whole body shivered with cold and dread. In one swift
motion, I slammed the plug back into the drain. The screaming stopped
immediately. I stared at the drain one minute longer, then got out and grabbed
the towel. Its frayed red threads dangled around me like tentacles.
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