I never shower at night. It’s not a habit like my parents think. And it has nothing to do with my beauty routine like I tell my friends. Actually, it has nothing to do with me or what I want at all. It’s about them. The drain dwellers. Those peoples that live miles and miles down beneath us and stalk the night. I know that sounds crazy, but I’m not. I’m not crazy. They’re there and they exist. I hear them all the time, when I’m brushing my teeth at night. Whispering, whispering in the drains. Talking. Talking about revenge. Talking about murder. They’re there. They’re listening. They’re watching. They don’t like me, the drain dwellers. They think I’m their enemy. Because I know they exist. They know I see them. I can hear them, whispering about me. Planning. Plotting.
Last night, I stood at the sink, planning on brushing as usual. Quickly. And apologizing as I spit. I’m sorry; I’m not trying to spit on you. I’m sorry. They didn’t listen to my apology. They clogged up the sink. The water wouldn’t go down. How much water can they block? I stood there and ran the water. Stop it. Stop blocking it. Let it go down. It wouldn’t. I stood there till the water overflowed the sink and poured across the linoleum floor. My mom came rushing in. she was shouting I think. Demanding what was wrong with me? I didn’t look at her. I kept my eyes on the sink. I can’t tell mom, I thought. They’ll kill her too. I kept my eyes on that sink all night, getting up with a flashlight after my parents had gone to bed, to stare. Don’t come out, I thought. Don’t try to come out of the sink.
Tonight, I will not wait for them to attack me. I will attack first, I will win. But I can’t fight them from the bathroom. I carry my flashlight down to the basement. It’s late. 4 am? 5? I don’t know. Sitting on the carpet, I look up at the rusted pipes running across the ceiling. They’re in there. They’re watching me now. I’m laughing. Rolling across the floor laughing. NO DRAINS HERE. How are you going to get to me now!?! YOU’RE TRAPPED! I reach into my bathrobe pocket, something… I think. Something… my hand hits it. The box. The box of victory. My hands are shaking as I pull out a small stick, no, two. It strike them against the box twice. Bright orange flames erupt from the end. The end of the match, the end of the war. I set them on the carpet. The flames grown, reaching for the ceiling, for the pipes. I watch. I laugh. The flames keep growing. And I sit down to watch them.