Drip. Drip. Drip.

Mrs. Nobles, at the tender age of ninety-three, had long intended to call a repairman about the leak in the ceiling.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She knew she had to have it fixed eventually, she wouldn’t be around much longer. Her husband was long deceased, and her son, who was paying for medical school and supporting a family of five, couldn’t be bothered with something as arbitrary as a leaky ceiling.

Drip. Drip.

Then again, the dripping was at times relaxing, monotonous, never ceasing, never changing its pace.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And so she sat, contemplating what to do about the leaky ceiling. What to do about her upstairs neighbor’s inability to repair his leaky laundry faucet. She and her upstairs neighbor were quite similar. Both elderly, both lazy, both with estranged family members and deceased spouses. Mr. Rhodes was his name. The old woman never had a problem with Mr. Rhodes, never a squabble, never a spat. He paid his rent, kept his front stoop clean, his hedges trimmed. All in all, Mr. Rhodes was a nice old gentleman with no family, no connections, and something against repairing leaky faucets.

Drip. Drip.

Upon reconsideration, the leak was beginning to drive her a little crazy. She looked up once again from her usual post. Positioned in the weathered arm chair that had once belonged to her husband, Mrs. Nobles had a decent view of her entire one bedroom flat. The mildew covered kitchen, the ancient, peeling, hideous wallpaper, the blinking Christmas tree strewn with dated ornaments. Though it was late May, the woman’s worsening arthritis and faltering sense of ambition had made the task of dissembling the tree an impossible feat.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She stared long and hard at the rusty stewed tomato can nestled in the corner of the sitting room. The rusty, metal can sat directly below the old man’s laundry room faucet, and its primary purpose was to catch the incessant drips that echoed the monotony of the woman’s hum-drum life. Occasionally, the can would begin to overflow with mildew strewn liquid and lint. This situation was painfully resolved by dumping the can over the nearby balcony and into the shrubs below.

Drip.

Being the exhausted person she was, she had finely developed her ability to tune everything out and remain focused upon a single stimulant. She decided to devote her attention to the drips coming from the darkening, moldy ceiling tile, hoping the rhythm would finally put her to sleep. In doing so, she noticed a discrepancy in the monotonous pattern. A certain weight could be detected in the droplets. Listening to the drops fall one by one, tiny additions to the deep pool of troubles that had collected in the oxidized can below, she sensed a difference. A just noticeable difference. The drops had increased in weight, in volume. An element of heaviness had come over the drops, over the room, over Mrs. Nobles. The discrepancy she had picked up sent a chill down her spine. Mrs. Nobles’ life had been the same for so long. Things didn’t just change, especially not the dripping of the leaky ceiling, the miserable metronome that had kept time to her lazy routine for over fifteen years.

Drip. Drip.

Maybe if she just ignored it.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Maybe she could use the earplugs her son had given her for Christmas a few years back. They were intended to block out the noise of the bullfrogs in the pond behind her unit but still…

Drip. Drip.

Where were those earplugs?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Where were those goddamn earplugs?

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was decided amongst Mrs. Nobles and the antiquated objects in her apartment that she was to investigate the change in drip patterns. She reluctantly began the slow process of lifting her fragile, ninety-three year old frame. Rising out of the crumpling chair that smelled of tobacco and aftershave, the ancient woman felt the movement shake her bones. The exhaustion of ninety three years jostled her muscles and snapped her tendons, a move so painful and tiring that she felt as if she might need a nap. She hobbled slowly, steadily, grasping onto various objects as she traveled, leaving crackled, dusty handprints.

Drip. Drip.

A sudden urgency was added to the situation. She felt as if her final days depended upon how quickly she reached the can of stewed tomato ghosts. She sped up slightly, bringing the pace to an agonizing crawl. At last, upon reaching the metal can, she discovered the source of the heaviness. The liquid had gone dark. Dark with loneliness, dark with hate. It had turned sour to smell and had a metallic shine. Her failing eyes scanned from the leaky ceiling tile down to the tainted water rippling in the can. She stared intently at the pool of linty water and waited for the periodic disturbance in the calm. It came.

Drip.

She watched in horror as the tiny droplet landed into the pool below. It seemed to move in slow motion, pushing through the liquid and quickly seeping into the rest of the mixture. Red. Red. All she saw was red liquid mixing with yellow and bleeding slowly, but also quickly into the moldy water that filled the can. Bleeding was an appropriate word because that’s just what was causing the discrepancy. That’s just what was dripping from Mr. Rhodes’ ceiling.

Drip. Drip.

It was blood.