image from Bing.com
The drip drove him insane. At least that’s what I think. His kitchen sink had it in for him, I’m sure. It only dripped when he was trying to concentrate on writing or sleep. Then, in uneven and shifting intervals, the thud of a drop of water hitting the sink bottom. Sound rippled out getting louder, amplified by the cupboards, the sofa, his bedroom door until it reached him like a deafening bomb blast. Reverberated inside his head, shaking his brain, bouncing it off his cranium. Ear drums beat like standing in front of speakers at a heavy metal concert.
When the sixteenth plumber found a perfectly well-behaved faucet, he gave up. Tried not using it – washing dishes in the tub, drinking from the bathroom sink tap. Might have a day, a month or an hour of silence, then thud, plomp, plop, gurgle, thud. Noise-cancelling headphones, jack-hammering ear plugs, “egg-crate” sound proofing. Nothing worked – when the kitchen tap dripped, he heard it.
Became paranoid and hydrophobic. He claimed any faucet, tap, sink he came close to would begin to drip. Fiddling with the taps, stuffing paper towels up the spout, he said nothing would stop the dripping. He just stopped. Working. Washing. Socializing. Going outside. His world was the drip.
I found him curled in the corner of his bedroom. Called 911. He’s being assessed at a psych facility. Had to strap him down. He wouldn’t drink water to take some pills. And then the faucet at the food station began to drip, drip, drip . . .
For LindaGHill’s SoCS: drink
* from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner