I've always loved the little spot above the drain. As a child, I used to marvel at it, wondering what could block the light from above, and why I couldn't see it. I used to try to make the spot move, or change its shape. It was always round, and I guessed that it had to do with the nascent whirlpool forming above the drain. I didn't quite know how water could block light and still remain clear, though I had a vague idea. After all, didn't it bend and distort the shape of the drain as it spun around? I used to request baths just so I could conduct further study.
Once I knew that the whirlpool and the anomolous spot where one and the same, my love was united; complete. I began to see all things as related, and I knew that to love one thing was to love everything. Reality was beauty; to understand it was to beautiful yourself. I used to chase the whirlpool with my finger, attempt to reverse it; failing that, to merely disrupt. It always came back. I learned you cannot destroy natural forces, only enjoy them. I tried to guess which hole in the drain the whirlpool would come from. I tried to change it by plugging that hole. Sometimes, I would just sit back and watch it flow, an unostentatious marvel in fast glass, constant yet unmoving, solid yet fluid. It would pierce like a thin needle of air, barely there. Then it would grow, turning from whirlpool to outright vortex, a column of emptiness. I used to wonder what could hold it together, why the water didn't just drain evenly. I never wondered that it was beautiful, though. I always knew.
Under the water, I'd been listening to my heart beat. I closed my eyes and lowered my head into the water, slowly. I could feel it pool over my closed eyelids and creep up my face to gently kiss my lips farewell as they sank under the surface. I could feel my head wanting to bob to the surface, but I resisted. I let my mind drift, listening. I thought about people, and monitored my heart rate. Some sent it skyrocketing. A number of times the quite was disrupted by the loud footfalls of the kid in the upstairs apartment. Surprisingly, the angry thoughts of violence that resulted always caused my heart rate to drop to where it was almost unnaturally slow, no matter how fast it had just been beating. Maybe that tells me something about myself. I borrowed Red Dragon from the library, so I'm going to be reading about serial killers, with their fantastically slow heart rates. Thump. Thump.
Gasp. I sat up, sucking air into my lungs.