Narrative: Working Copy, The Name Fits.

Liminal Darkwave, sound effect, playful, animal sounds, mechanical, field recording, typewriter, spoken word, conversational, male vocals, dark ambient, industrial noise, drone, harsh noise

STUDIO

The apartment is unlocked.
Not damaged. Not abandoned.
Just unlocked.

My name is printed beneath the bell.
Same spelling. Same middle initial.
I press it.
The bell rings somewhere behind me.
(Don't press it again.)

Inside, the rooms are too ordinary.
A table set for one.
A lamp already on.
Water running quietly in the bathroom.

On the kitchen wall, someone has marked my height.
Not as a child.
Yesterday.
(I wasn't here.)

The name fits. I don't.
The name fits. I don't.
Everything knows where I belong.
The name fits.
I don't.

The bedroom has no bed.
Only a rectangle in the carpet where one should be.
I step inside it.
The ceiling light goes out.
The hallway light goes out.
Then the kitchen.
One room at a time.

I step outside the rectangle.
Every light returns.
(Do that again.)
I don't.
The bathroom tap stops anyway.

There is writing beneath the wallpaper.
Not words.
Measurements.
Shoulder width. Reach. Stride.
Each one matches me.
Except the last.
DEPTH.

I measure the wall with my arm.
It is thicker than the room allows.
Something shifts inside it.
Not toward me.
Alongside me.
(Keep walking.)

The front entrance won't open.
There is no lock on this side.
I call my own number.
A phone rings inside the wall.
Once. Twice.
Then my own voice answers.
Hello?
(hello?)

I don't speak.
It says:
YOU'RE STANDING IN THE WRONG PLACE.

The name fits. I don't.
The name fits. I don't.
The room is right.
The measurements are right.
The name fits...
I don't.

The apartment begins correcting itself.
The kitchen loses half a meter.
The hallway becomes narrower.
The bathroom wall moves forward without making a sound.

I stand where the bedroom rectangle was.
There is less room now.
(That's enough.)

Another adjustment.
Less.
My shoulder touches wallpaper.
Another.
Then everything stops.

The entrance opens.
I can see the corridor.
I step toward it.
The bell rings behind me.
My name is no longer beneath it.

I walk into the corridor.
Behind me, the apartment settles.
A new name appears beneath the bell.
I don't recognize it.

The name fits.
(You don't.)

2074/7500

The apartment is unlocked. Not damaged. Not abandoned. Just unlocked. My name is printed beneath the bell. Same spelling. Same middle initial. I press it. The bell rings somewhere behind me. (Don't press it again.) Inside, the rooms are too ordinary. A table set for one. A lamp already on. Water running quietly in the bathroom. On the kitchen wall, someone has marked my height. Not as a child. Yesterday. (I wasn't here.) The name fits. I don't. The name fits. I don't. Everything knows where I belong. The name fits. I don't. The bedroom has no bed. Only a rectangle in the carpet where one should be. I step inside it. The ceiling light goes out. The hallway light goes out. Then the kitchen. One room at a time. I step outside the rectangle. Every light returns. (Do that again.) I don't. The bathroom tap stops anyway. There is writing beneath the wallpaper. Not words. Measurements. Shoulder width. Reach. Stride. Each one matches me. Except the last. DEPTH. I measure the wall with my arm. It is thicker than the room allows. Something shifts inside it. Not toward me. Alongside me. (Keep walking.) The front entrance won't open. There is no lock on this side. I call my own number. A phone rings inside the wall. Once. Twice. Then my own voice answers. Hello? (hello?) I don't speak. It says: YOU'RE STANDING IN THE WRONG PLACE. The name fits. I don't. The name fits. I don't. The room is right. The measurements are right. The name fits... I don't. The apartment begins correcting itself. The kitchen loses half a meter. The hallway becomes narrower. The bathroom wall moves forward without making a sound. I stand where the bedroom rectangle was. There is less room now. (That's enough.) Another adjustment. Less. My shoulder touches wallpaper. Another. Then everything stops. The entrance opens. I can see the corridor. I step toward it. The bell rings behind me. My name is no longer beneath it. I walk into the corridor. Behind me, the apartment settles. A new name appears beneath the bell. I don't recognize it. The name fits. (You don't.)

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