At one point in my life, I nearly lost my sanity. The madness started off as a nightmare, then it leaked into my days.

  At first, it was quiet and slow, like the daddy long-leg spider spinning its web in the corner of the ceiling. Then, with a few seconds between each one, water droplets dripped from the faucet into the sink. Each drop rang the same flat, dead note, echoing throughout the apartment. The wallpaper had turned increasingly yellow with every drop, but not a vibrant yellow. Rather, it was sickly and jaundiced, like a dying canary with its feathers falling off.

  There was a tear as well. A loose sliver of wallpaper flapped back and forth as the wind blew in through an opened window. It reminded me of the way fatty, loose, and wrinkled skin jiggles within an old woman's armpit. The flap of wallpaper hid something, resembling a head. It lacked eyes, mouth, or nose—just the veiled impression of a head. But before I could get a good look, I was torn from the mystery by the screech of my alarm clock.

  I went into the kitchen to find that yesterday’s delivery of bread had gone bad. The nightmare had eaten it from the inside out, leaving nothing but black crumbs for me to scrounge from the floor. When I opened the fridge door, an odor assaulted my nostrils. All the beverages had gone sour, the eggs were cracked, and the greens had browned and withered. With a sigh of defeat, I closed the fridge door. I would have to buy new groceries.

  But that would mean leaving this apartment, going outside.

  Outside.

  Out into the world, with all its chaos.

  That was where the nightmare wanted me to go. But I wasn't ready, not yet. I couldn't just walk out my front door. It wasn't that easy. Going outside required preparation, and even thinking about the process of getting ready made my head throb. My chest started to ache, as if all the air had been squeezed out of my lungs. I sat in the kitchen, motionless, only listening to the noise of eight spindly legs as they incessantly worked toward some unknown goal.

  The spider had spun its web across the ceiling, and the light danced upon it, its long, pale fingers plucking the strings. In an odd way, I couldn't help but marvel at its beauty as it shimmered. It resonated with the muted buzz of trapped insects, mummified victims awaiting their demise in Saran wrap. I could feel their suffocation as the air was squeezed from their lungs. Their frantic movements came to an abrupt halt as the spider reeled them closer. A silent panic enveloped the walls, and its deathly yellow tinge cast a darker hue than congealed mustard over everything around it.

  Like the fading bathroom light, which glowed in a murky gold that shimmered weakly now and then, my reflection in the mirror appeared as a featureless black shape. Cold drops traced over my closed eyelids, the bridge of my nose, my lips, my chin, and cheeks. One of my molars was loose in my mouth, and I lazily flicked it with the tip of my tongue while the rest remained firm and pearly white. There was no pain, only the dread of unlocking the front door, weighing heavily on my stomach.

  How did it all start? How did it come to this? There was a time in my life when I didn't feel this unending sickness, this terrible sense of foreboding. There was a time when nightmares confined themselves to my sleep, and sometimes I didn't dream at all. In those innocent days, I had a job, a dull, dead-end office job with my own cubicle. It was a white, square space, and I was just one of a hundred dull, white-collared office drones in identical cubicles. Faceless, uniformed, synchronized. That's what I remembered from the old days.

  I sat there, looking at papers stacked in rows that reached such towering heights they seemed to stretch into infinity. Just gazing up at them would strain my neck, their sheer magnitude bearing an intimidating resemblance to the frieze of Roman columns. It brought to mind arched ceilings adorned with intricately carved animal faces and mythical gods entwined in vines. It served as a reminder of just how small and insignificant one could feel, like an ant that could easily be squished beneath the toe of one of those carved deities.

  Yet, in my cubicle, there was no beautiful artwork to behold. Instead, my gaze was met with an endless, nauseating expanse of blinding, bright whiteness. The fluorescent lights overhead forced my irises to shrink to the size of a grain. The towering stack of paperwork loomed over me, trembling with every touch, as if threatening to crumble into a million pieces. As the electric fan above blew in my direction, one lone piece of paper teetered on the edge, inching its way over and descending like a delicate feather, finally landing right in front of me.

  The page before me remained blank, serving as a mere surface for my coffee mug. Suddenly, I found myself unable to lift the pen, unable to write. All I could manage was to shift uncomfortably in my chair as my left leg trembled uncontrollably. The fluorescent lights above grew increasingly brighter, their heat intensifying as if licking at the back of my neck. I felt overwhelmed in the vast expanse of cubicles, lost amidst the faceless crowd where everyone consumed the same sandwich and salad, where our dreams blended together into a monotonous haze. In this world, each one of us bore monosyllabic names and identical haircuts.

  In an abrupt act, I dropped the pen and abandoned my desk. In the blink of an eye, I found myself outside, perched on the ledge of the 49th floor of the building. The wind jeered at me with a malicious force, while the city and its inhabitants below appeared smaller than ants. Leaning against the building, most people would tremble at such dizzying heights. However, I calmly observed the birds soaring by, vanishing into the clouds as they drifted across the vast expanse of the blue sky, akin to white caps crashing against rugged rocks on a distant shore.

  I stood at the precipice, poised to leap into the vast unknown, longing to finally awaken from this torment. Yet, I did not. Instead, I found myself returning to my desk once more. My coffee mug, bearing a small crack at the bottom, bled onto the blank page, leaving behind a peculiar mark. It almost resembled the shape of a head, faceless and haunting, with invisible eyes that seemed to follow me relentlessly. Though I crumpled up that sheet of paper and discarded it, its presence lingered. As I sat at the desk, absentmindedly rolling the pen between my fingers, its shadow loomed over me, breathing down my neck, prickling my skin and hair like nettles.

  The paperwork continued to mount, growing higher and higher, causing the Roman columns to tremble and sway unsteadily. Under its weight, the desk's joints creaked and shuddered. My shoulders ached, worn down by the relentless gaze of the faceless presence. The once-bright light above me became blinding, making the ink from my pen seemingly vanish from the white page. As the pen slipped from my trembling hand and fell to the floor, the colonnade collapsed, its destruction drowned out by a cacophony of shuffling papers, ringing phones, and the mocking chatter of the wall clock ticking away. I ran down the hallway, propelled by a surge of desperation, bolted through the emergency door, and descended 49 flights of stairs with reckless abandon.

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  For eight months, I could not bring myself to return to that suffocating cubicle. I imagined it sitting there, empty and abandoned, with only traces of my work lingering stubbornly, like weathered remnants of ancient Rome's walls and columns. I remained stagnant, caught between the past and the future, unable to move backward or forward. Instead, I remained anchored to this apartment, gripped by an inexplicable fear that constricted my lungs and relentlessly throbbed in my heart. In this little studio, I believed I was safe, if only for a fleeting moment. But now, I could no longer divert my gaze as the nightmare crept out from within the walls, causing the lights to flicker and devouring my food from the inside out.

  But still, I couldn't bring myself to step outside, not today. The sky appeared too yellow, too sickly. Perhaps tomorrow would offer a better opportunity. The outside air seemed tainted, unfit to breathe on this particular day. There was something amiss, something poisonous lingering in the atmosphere. Its taste lingered in my mouth, reminiscent of chewing on cotton balls soaked in stale mustard. No amount of milk or vodka could wash it away. It clung to my tongue, playfully flicking against a dangling nerve of one of my teeth.

  I vigorously brushed my tongue with a toothbrush, scrubbing until its pristine white coat turned crimson. I winced as I rinsed it with hot water, hoping to alleviate the sensation. Yet, the taste persisted, stubbornly clinging to the tip of my tongue.

  Like a horrible itch.

  Burning.

  Stinging.

  Pinching pain.

  A glorious red ring with a yellow gem.

  I tried to pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, and tears welled up in my eyes. The stinging pain radiated from the tip of my tongue, spreading through my entire being. Yet, it remained, gleaming at me like an ugly sun smirking behind a shroud of smog. The wind persistently blew through the flap in the wallpaper, seeping in through the window. I could sense the presence lurking behind it, fixating its gaze upon me.

  As I locked eyes with it, I stood frozen in place. My mouth hung open as the impossible unfolded before me.

  It formed a smile without lips and let out a laugh. The sound was flat and dissonant, akin to the incessant drip of water from that wretched loose faucet, slithering down the sink's throat. That same corroded throat into which I had gagged and expelled blood and bile from my stomach. I felt as if all the blood had been drained from my face. With trepidation, I raised my eyes to the dirty mirror above the sink. Reflecting back at me was nothing but a husk, a ghost of my former self.

  But upon closer inspection, I noticed a change. It crept along at a sluggish, excruciating pace. It began with the whites of my eyes, now tinged with yellow. Yellow. And my pupils were as pitch-black and vacant as a sinkhole. My teeth, too, were misaligned and yellow-ish brown. I had neglected to brush them for weeks, perhaps months, to the point where a layer of plaque had encrusted their surface and wedged between them.

  The tooth at the back could no longer find its place. I tapped it once more with the tip of my tongue, feeling its jagged edge scrape against the tender yellow sore. And then it dislodged, bouncing around in my mouth. In sheer disgust, I spat it out. The blood marked a trail to the sinkhole, dangerously close to its edge. I ran my tongue over the remaining teeth, sensing them shift in their positions. Soon, one after another, they cracked and fell, and the little red dots swirled and twirled along with them in the sink. Only a few teeth stubbornly clung to the front, refusing to let go.

  You look so ugly. I remembered those words. A colleague had once said them to me during lunch.

  "And you look like smeared shit," I shot back. We sat in the corner of the cafeteria, hunched over our sandwiches and coffee. That lipless, smiling joker told me to calm down, claiming they didn't mean it. Oh, how the others laughed. I couldn't bring myself to look any of them in the face.

  Weren't we supposed to be friends? Friends who winked and smiled as they plunged knives into your gut, watching your insides spill onto the floor. Friends who pretended to sympathize as they picked up your organs, attempting to put them back, telling you it was just a joke. All wounds heal, they said. But this scar remained hidden beneath my clothes. I was the punchline of the jokes friends liked to share.

  When lunch ended, everyone returned to their cubicles. Everyone except me. I sneaked away for a quick trip to the restroom. It was then that I began to feel the tooth move. I flicked it with my tongue.

  Flick. Flick.

  As all of this came to me, I couldn't even stand to look my reflection in the eye. At least, not without feeling the urge to destroy it, shattering every remaining shard of glass into the sink. The thing behind the wallpaper smiled wider, revealing a row of straight white teeth held together by browning gums. Its deep chuckle resonated throughout the apartment, grating against my skin and pinching my nerves. With every ounce of my dwindling strength, I clenched my fists.

  Don't laugh at me.

  Don't.

  Laugh.

  I pushed away the dangling piece of wallpaper and came face to face with it. Straight white teeth. Wide white eyes. Look how it mocked me. Sneered at me. What did it want from me? Why had it intruded into my world?

  "Go back! Look at everything you've taken from me. Please, just let me have this day!" I pleaded.

  It said nothing in response. Its smile only widened, stretching across the wall and tearing new lines through the wallpaper. The wood snapped and cracked. The nails and joints creaked from within. The wall heaved in and out like someone dying from laughter, gasping for air in desperate suffocation.

  Stop laughing.

  I took hold of the fluttering piece and traveled along the wall, crushing it in my clenched fist. It felt strange in my hand, warm and soft, almost like dry human skin. The thing's smile now appeared strained, as if it were attempting to endure some hidden anguish. Despite its pride, it couldn't let me hear its soft squeaks of pain. But the more I ripped away, the deeper I dug my fingers into its soft tissue, the tighter it clenched its teeth. With each tightening grip, it began to bleed, its blood seeping under my fingernails. Tears welled up in its eyes.

  Nowhere inside me was there an ounce of pity for it. I felt nothing. Seething contempt was all that remained within me. I tore away at every inch of its skin, dismantling it from one end to the other until there was nothing left but its fragile bones. Its discarded skin littered the floor, staining the carpet with its blood. Cockroaches scurried in and out of its empty sockets, while termites nibbled at the wood in its final dying breaths. Just as I began to turn away, I noticed something at the center. Stuck between its ribs was a dead canary. The bird's color had faded to gray, its lifeless body consumed from the inside out, its remaining insides shriveled to crumbs.

  I cooled myself down with a handful of freezing water from the faucet. When I opened my eyes, I no longer saw the featureless black shape staring back at me. My teeth were intact. The bubble on my tongue had burst, oozing its yellow pus. Its taste was sour, like mustard churning in expired milk.

  The faucet continued to leak.

  I realized I had forgotten to properly wash my hands. My fingernails were caked with blood and grime. I reasoned that I could do it later, perhaps before I went grocery shopping. You see, I could do everything later. But right now, all I wanted was sleep.

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