Drip-Drop by Troy McCombs

(8 ratings) Rate this Story (5 best) 1 2 3 4 5   1 comments /

There the sound grew louder, more obnoxious. Almost instinctively, I went to the fridge and yanked the door open. Again, the sound ceased. I examined the contents: the half-empty gallon of milk, the two-liter bottle of cola, and the carton of orange juice, but nothing was leaking.
Quickly thinking, I swung around and fixed on the faucet, expecting to find it broken (again). It, neither, was the culprit of which was seeping that maddening dripping sound. I stood there a moment with open ears, but heard nothing exc- ept the ravage torrent of rain bombarding the window.
I went back into the living room and slumped back into the cushions of the couch and lay on my stomach, closing my eyes once again.
A few long, soothing deep breaths later, and—
Drip-Drop . . .
Drip-Drop . . .
Solemnly I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore it, to pretend it was not there, but it wouldn't ta- ke no for an answer. That's when it grew even louder—
Drip-Drop . . .
Drip-Drop . . .
It was coming from somewhere above.
Biting my lip, I jumped to my feet and dash- ed into the hallway. I looked upstairs, sensing it was coming from up there. Maybe the roof was leaking . . .
As I ascended each step, the sound became rhythmic and more irritating . . .
Drip-Drop . . .
Drip-Drop . . .
Drip-Drop . . .
I searched the hallway ceiling tiles for a damp spot, but found nothing.
Drip-Drop . . .
I examined the bedroom ceiling—nothing.
Drip-Drop . . .
Lastly I checked the spare bedroom but found no evidence of a leaky roof.
Once again it stopped. I listened for just a moment, expecting its return, but heard only peace.
I passed the bathroom door, but strangely it was closed. I rarely left that door closed unless I was inside. Though I hadn't used the bathroom for a couple of days due to a suppressed hunger and thirst spawned from stress, I could not recall closing it. Oddly enough, the idea of taking my usual bath made me uneasy. I was not only overwhelmed from being fired: not three days ago I'd caught my fiancé, Nikki Thompson, the woman for whom I had fallen in love two years ago and the woman who'd promised she'd never leave me—straddling and screwing my best friend in my own bed. I couldn't get that horrible up and down image and that terrible moan of pleasure from my two favorite people, out of my head. They certainly screwed me behind my back, and I caught them. Both, the bitch and my ex-best asshole friend, I cut out of my life for good. To hell with them . . .
For what I hoped would be the last time until morning, I crawled back onto the couch, lay my head on the pillow, drew a deep, cleansing breath, and tried helplessly to forget the problems that were arising in my pitiful little life.
I lay there for a few moments, just became co- zy, and then . . .
Drip-Drop . . .
Drip-Drop . . .
Drip-Drop . . .
I fought to ignore it, to cover it with sleep, but the more I tried to block it out, the louder it became .