The grout.

CW: Graphic horror, physical violence, gore and abuse

The grout is dirty. When I first moved in, it was a pleasant off white that blended into the tiles almost perfectly, only noticeable by the slight groves in the floor, the gentle sandpaper texture next to smooth ceramic.

It sticks out much more now, stained disgusting yellowish brown that bleeds into the cracks in the not-so-smooth tiles. I trace the spider-web fissures with my toe. Up, left, right, down, up, right, up, down.

The dead skin on my foot catches and rips, pulling up a small chunk of the tile as it does. It's not supposed to be so brittle, the ceramic. It wasn't when I moved in.

I've only been here two months.

I lean down from where I sit, upon the lip of the bathtub—stained that same vomit brown, the bottom slick with a greasy film, drain clogged with something viscous—and feel the small hole with my pointer. It’s not that big, but as I work my finger into it, I feel the rest of the tile pop and come up from its place.

I retracted my hand and went back to tracing the cracks with my toe. The tiles feel a bit smoother, now. Wet.

“I don’t know how to fix this.” I sigh, placing my elbow on my knee and placing my hand in my palm. Maybe there was a YouTube video about fixing broken tiles. And cleaning grout. And bathtubs.

My eyes flickered over towards the toilet, just a few steps away. Flies hovered around it, buzzing and buzzing and buzzing. Something was spilling out from under its lid, stringy and black and oily.

…Toilets too. I don’t even have a proper toilet brush. Maybe the neighbours would let me borrow theirs? No. That’d be weird. Who borrows a toilet brush?

“That’s no surprise,” I hear someone say, and I look up from the floor to see him staring back at me. “you never were very smart.”

“Rude.” I replied, but there was no heat in my tone. He wasn’t wrong. I look back down at the floor. The cracks look worse.

“What’s the plan? Do you have one?”

“Nope.” I pop the p, licking my lips. They’re dry, split at the corners. I pick at the skin with my teeth. It tastes like iron.

“You have to start somewhere.”

“Sure.” He goes silent. Behind me, the bathtub tap drips.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It’s not a comforting sound.

Eventually, the silence grows too much, and I look up at him again. He’s still there, staring back at me. “Are you going to sit there forever?” He asks, tilting his head to the side.

I blow the hair out of my eyes, glaring at the strands. When was the last time I got a haircut? I can't remember.

“Don’t know.” Is my reply. “No.” I add, but I don’t get up. My legs are stiff. I can’t feel my toes.

“Will Sophie be back soon?” He questions, and I blink.

Sophie.

I forgot about her. She's working right now. Though, she never told me what her job was. Something with knives, I think.

“What time is it?”

“Not sure,” He shrugs, “There’s no clock in here.”

I hum in acknowledgment, and I turn to look at the window above the toilet. It doesn’t help me; the curtains are heavy and stained black with something. They don’t let any light through. I can’t tell if its day or night.

“You should clean before she gets here.”

I hum again.

I don’t get up.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Check under the sink. There might be some bleach and sponges under there. You could start on the grout.”

Finally, I move. Slowly, I slide down into the floor, leaving the lip of the bathtub, and crawl towards the sink. My legs are weak—they drag and pull behind me. Dead weight.

My hand brushes against the mat in front of the sink. Its fibres are matted and sticky with something thick, like glue. It used to a nice rich blue, like a summer's sky. Now it looks like it was rotting. I’ll have to get a new one.

I settle in front of the cupboard under the sink, on top of that mat, and I reach out to grab the handles. I tug.

It doesn’t budge.

I tug again.

The door creaks, but doesn’t give.

Sighing, I let go. I run a hand down the length of the door, wedging my finger underneath a section of flaking paint. I can feel the wood underneath—rotting and wet. It must have swelled with the liquid and fused shut. I don’t know how it got so damaged.

I’ll have to fix it too.

I crawl away from the sink, off the mat, and lean back against the bathtub. It isn’t comfortable. My legs are curled and twisted beneath me. My feet are bent at an odd angle. It almost hurts, but it mostly feels numb.

From this angle, I can only just see his face.

“No luck?” He asks, and I can’t see his mouth moving.

I nod.

“Maybe there’ll be some in the kitchen?”

I shrug. I don’t know.

“Well, there’s no harm in looking, right?”

There isn’t.

I look forwards the door. It looks like the cupboard; paint decaying and wood wet and swollen, but it isn’t the same. The cupboard was fused shut.

The door was not.

It was cracked open, barely, too heavy to be swaying, and there was a small stream of light spilling into the bathroom. I stare, absently running my nails against the broken tiles.

I don’t move.

“Aren’t you going to check?”

I’m not.

I can’t.

“Why can’t you?” I look up at him. His eyes are crinkled and squinted, amused.

I don’t answer. My tongue feels too big in my mouth. I go to chew on it, but my teeth feel brittle and rough. Like I haven’t brushed them for weeks.

Distantly, I hear a door open.

“Why can’t you, Alex?”

I take a deep breath, and my lungs feel full of something viscous. My ribs groan and pop.

“Alex?”

Up, left, right, down, up, right, up, down.

“Alex.”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I lick my lips, and I taste iron.

“Sophie’s home.”

The bathroom door slowly, sluggishly, opens. It leaves a streak of something black-brown against the tile.

Her silhouette is blacked out by cold light.

She stands there for a minutes, and then she walks in. The barely there pitter-patter of her bare feet against the tile echoes in the bathroom. She stops in front of me.

For a second, it looks like she’s looking down at me.

Then, she leans down into the tub behind me, reaching in with one hand.

I feel something grip my right leg. It feels like there’s bugs under my skin. Maggots and ants.

Sophie leans back, and there’s something hanging from her grasp. It’s long and wider around the bottom, and she’s holding it from the ankle.

Ankle.

My ankle.

My leg.

I feel her nails digging into my flesh, and it gives way without any struggle. Like the wood. Wet and swollen. Decaying and dead.

“Ah.” He says, after Sophie walks out and the door is shut again.

I turn around, peering into the bathtub, and freeze.

“That’s why you can’t.”

There’s a body. I pull myself back up onto the lip of the tub with heavy arms—dead weight, dead weight—staring down at it. It's split apart; legs severed from hips; arms from torso, ribs cracked open and organs swollen and putrid. It's missing its head.

Quickly, I look towards the toilet. The stringy, oily messy overflowing from its lid. I blink, and I think I can see the inside of it. Dark and humid and wet. Maggots and ants.

“There’s nothing to fix.”

I can’t breathe.

“You can’t fix anything when she killed you.”

My eyes slowly return to him, the mirror above the sink.

“This is what happens, Alex, when you’re not very smart.” I say, and I’m not smiling anymore.

"I won't follow pretty girls home next time." It's a hollow promise. There isn't a next time.

Two months.

Two months dead.

Dead.

… the grout is dirty.