The faucet turns on. I glance at the kitchen, water gushing into the sink. I race in and slam the handle down, forcing the water off. Then, the tv springs to life. Frantically racing to the coffee table to grab the remote, I turn the tv off.

“OW! Jesus fucking Christ!” I yell, as every possible noise a house can cause has erupted all at once.

A cacaophony of music from the unused, dusty stereo.

Voices from a mindless reality show, blaring at full volume.

The oven timer—persistent.

Faucets from each sink and bathtub.

The alarm clock ringing, though it’s 10:03 p.m.

The box fan, with a forceful _whoosh!_

__

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME?! SHOW YOURSELF YOU FUCKING COWARD!”

As sudden as it started, everything stops. The apartment is eerily silent, leaving only my heavy and erratic breathing audible.

The intercom to the left of the front door jolts to life. A voice comes through—staticy and familiar.

The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention as I hear my own voice slip out of the intercom.

“You know you can’t trust her, Ben.”

Desperately, I press the button to respond, as if it’s just the delivery man arriving with my sweet and sour takeout.

“Who, Ben? Who can I not trust? Please, PLEASE!”

I lift my finger off the button, hands shaking violently, dreading the voice I anticipate.

_Crackle._

__

The static continues for seconds that feel like minutes. I’m about to give up and fall back into this madness I can’t escape when the voice answers the question I’ve been dreading.

“Gabrielle.”