Confessions of a DPH Addict

**Entry Four: Static Behind My Teeth** I don’t remember when I started. Or maybe it’s still starting. The pink ones… they talked first. Whispered from my palm, told me they’d… fix things. Quiet everything. Or maybe they said… quieten. That word doesn’t exist, but they made it exist. So I swallowed thirty of them before they changed their minds. Now… everything hums. Like the lights. Or the veins in the walls. Or me. I slowly but surely lose my mind. Mind? What mind? In the kitchen the clock says 4:44. Keeps saying it. It likes that number too much. It's a cursed number. They all are. I tried to breathe quieter so… the ceiling wouldn’t notice. Still heard me. Still… moving. Like a slithering snake. Ready to swallow me whole. I think there’s air beneath the floorboards. A slow, wet kind of breathing. No. No, it’s behind the wallpaper. I saw it bulge once. Like lungs. ... I wrote something down earlier. Don’t remember what. The notebook’s on the counter. Or is it? Every page says the same thing now: You can still leave. But I can’t find the door. I stood up—wait—no, I didn’t. My body stood up without me. Took three steps. Stopped. Fell over. Hard. Bump. Pain. DPH cause. Tilted its head like it heard something behind the fridge. Maybe it did. Did I? Something keeps knocking from in there. The sound’s soft. Plastic heartbeat kind of soft. Red velvet cake with butter soft. ... My phone keeps vibrating. Why? No one’s calling. I pick it up anyway, out of habit. “MOM.” She says—no—she hisses— “Lock the window before the red one climbs in.” I drop the phone. It doesn’t land. It just… stays, floating. Buzzing like it’s laughing at me. ... I don’t like my reflection. She keeps blinking wrong. Twice for every once. Head tilted like a broken puppet waiting for strings. I told her stop that. She smiled. The smile stayed after she turned away. I can’t clean it off the glass. ... The pills told me they’d help me sleep forever. But the room’s awake now. Alive. Whole thing stretching, sighing, creaking in its joints. Like it’s trying to stand up around me. The air tastes pink. Static and sugar. And metal. My tongue’s numb. I can't feel it no matter what. ... There’s writing under my fingernails, scratched there like splinters. A note? A name? It says, Irina, don’t answer the knocking. But— If I don’t answer, will it stop? Will anything ever stop? ... I think someone’s in the kitchen. No. I knowsomeone’s in the kitchen. The light flickers. Once. Twice. Someone breathes in rhythm with it. I say, “Hello?” It answers in my voice. But cracked. Dragged through gravel. I laugh. Then choke. Because something in my throat moves when it laughs. Not mine. ... Time’s gone funny again. I blink, and plates are stacked wrong. Table closer. Chair turned toward me. I remember sitting in that chair once. I remember feeling safe in it. Now it looks like it’s waiting to eat. The shadow underneath it won’t stay flat. It ripples. Reaches. Refuses to lie still. ... The floor hums. Feels like it’s breathing through carpet fibers. I can smell dust and something coppery. My hair sticks to the back of my neck. Something wet there—sweat? No. Too thick for sweat. I touch it. It pulls back. ... The walls pulse with my heartbeat. No— Ahead of it. Like they’re rehearsing my death in real time. I think the pills were meant to do this. To ruin my life forever. Maybe it’s part of the cure. Let the body forget what silence means. Maybe then the ghosts leave. ... Oh. There’s someone crying in the bathroom. Sounds like me, but different timing. Echo-delay kind of thing. I say “Stop it.” They stop. Then whisper it back. ... Something’s on the ceiling. Can’t see it directly, only in corners. Crawling? Or just watching. Every time I look up, it freezes, pretending to be shadow. Clever thing. Smells like smoke and medication. ... The pills lied about sleep. They make everything louder. Walls whisper. Pipes sob. Breath— Breath everywhere. Even my notebook breathes. Its cover flexes. Inside— Words move when I’m not looking. Change shape. One page says: You swallowed the wrong ones. ...l The hum’s stronger now. Feels alive. Speaks through electricity. I unplugged the lamp, but it kept glowing pink. Light puddled on the floor, soft and alive. It quivered when I stepped in it. Felt like heartbeat underfoot. Maybe that was mine. ... I can’t feel my teeth. They're bleeding. Only pressure where they should be. Something buzzing behind them. Like tiny machines crawling out slow. My mouth tastes like metal and bleach. I can hear my gums whispering. They’re gossiping about me. ... Wait. Someone’s knocking again. Bathroom door this time. I tell them I don’t want to talk. They tell me that I knocked first. I didn’t. I don’t think I did. Who knows anymore? ... The curtains twitch like lungs, breathing light in and out. Street outside’s gone black. Only one flicker left — window across the hall — someone standing there. Looks… like me. Same clothes. Staring too long. When I blink, she’s closer. Next window. Right across mine. When I blink again, she’s gone. No, she’s still here. The room smells like her skin. ... I can feel something beneath my nails again. Scratch marks on the walls, fresh, red. But where’d I get red from— Blood runs too slow now. Comes out thick, coughing. I taste iron on my palm before I see it. I think I chewed my lip open. I think that’s fine. Maybe it wanted out. Maybe it needed to bleed. ... The TV turned itself on. Screen full of static. Within it— a shadow pacing. The height of a person but wrong proportions. It tilts its head just once. Then the static speaks. Hollow, wet voice: You’re doing great, Irina. I tried to throw something. My hand didn’t move. My body was stuck in place. Super glued. ... The hum’s heavier now. Feels like pressure in the jaw, ears, bones. Every second stretches until it screams. I think the house is chewing the air. You can hear plaster grind behind the walls. Soft gnawing, wet gulps. Like it’s feeding. I’m not sure on what. ... My phone’s blinking again. Text from unknown number: **GO TO MIRROR.** I shouldn’t. But I go anyway. She’s there. The reflection. Her smile’s split wider this time. Teeth too many. Jaw stretching wrong. I cover my mouth. She doesn’t. Her lips move independent of mine. “You opened the wrong door,” she says. The words don’t sound like sound — more like pressure, like glass creaking. “Which door?” I ask. She grins wider. The mirror bulges outward, wet. “It’s behind you.” ... I turn. There’s no door there, just wall. Except now the paint looks soft, pulsing, wet. Fingers press through from the other side. Slowly. Patiently. Skin pale, nails black, moving like something tasting for light. ... I step back. Trip. Hit the table. Hands sink through wood like butter. The pills scatter. Bottle tilts — pink dust floating in the air. It smells like flowers that rot mid‑bloom. ... The fingers on the wall stretch longer. Join into something that breathes. It whispers again: Time to finish swallo— I scream too soon. The voice cuts short. For a moment there’s quiet. Only the hum. Only dripping light. Only me. Maybe I’ll sleep now. Maybe I already did. Maybe— The clock still says 4:44. Smiling little teeth where the numbers should be. It laughs once. Then stops. The hum doesn’t. And the wall… keeps breathing. ***