The Kitchen Sink

At fourteen, I learned to fear the sound of breathing. Not just any breathing, but the wet, rattling inhale-exhale of a man who had smoked for forty years. That was my uncle, Martin, who moved in with us after my father left for a job overseas. He was my mother’s brother, a hulking man with yellowed fingers and a perpetual squint, as if the world offended him. He took my father’s room, my father’s chair, and, worst of all, my father’s habits. He would sit in the living room, watching television with the sound off, just staring at the screen—or at me when I walked past. I started avoiding the living room entirely, spending my afternoons in the community garden down the block or in the library, where the air was clean and the silence was kind. But at night, I couldn’t escape. Our house was small, and Martin’s room was next to mine. The walls were thin, and I could hear him breathing through the plaster—a slow, whistling drawl that made my skin crawl. I developed insomnia. I would lie in bed, counting the seconds between his exhales, praying he’d fall asleep before I did. The only place that felt safe was the kitchen. It had a lock on the door, and for some reason, Martin never lingered there. He hated the fluorescent light, he said. It made his eyes hurt. So I took to brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink, right after dinner, before Martin settled in for the night. It became a ritual. I would fill my mouth with mint, scrub my teeth until my gums ached, and spit into the drain, watching the foam swirl away. One night, as I was rinsing my brush, I heard it—the unmistakable sound of Martin’s breathing, right behind me. I froze, my hand gripping the sink, my reflection in the window above the faucet a pale, terrified ghost. I turned slowly, ready to face him, but the kitchen was empty. The breathing was gone. I chalked it up to my imagination, the insomnia playing tricks on me. But the next night, it happened again. And the night after that. Every time I brushed my teeth, I heard that wet rattle, closer than before, sometimes so close I felt a warm, stale breath on my neck. But whenever I spun around, no one was there. The kitchen was always empty, the lock on the door still engaged. I told my mother, but she dismissed it. ‘It’s just the pipes,’ she said, but I knew better. I knew the sound of Martin’s breathing too well. It haunted my dreams. I saw him standing over me, his mouth yawning open, a black void emitting that slow, steady wheeze. I started sleeping with my door locked, but the sound of his breathing came through the keyhole, through the cracks in the wall, a constant companion. When I was seventeen, Martin died of a heart attack in his sleep. I remember the silence that followed, the deafening absence of that sound. I thought I was free. But the hearing didn’t stop. Even now, at twenty-two, living in a studio apartment with my own bathroom, I still brush my teeth in the kitchen sink. And sometimes, when the water runs and the foam is swirling, I hear it—that wet, rattling breath, right behind me. I turn around, but there’s no one there. Just the empty room, and my own reflection in the window, staring back at me. The other night, I heard it louder than ever, and I felt something brush against my neck. I spun around, and for a split second, I saw Martin’s face in the reflection of the toaster—his grey, bloated face, his lips parted, as if he was about to speak. But then it was gone. I stayed there, my heart pounding, the toothbrush trembling in my hand. And I realized the breathing wasn’t coming from behind me. It was coming from my own throat. I was the one making that sound now. I looked in the mirror above the sink, and I saw my own face, my own eyes wide with horror. But my lips were moving, forming words I didn’t speak: ‘I’m still here.’ I dropped the toothbrush and stumbled back, but the sound followed me. It’s been two days now, and I haven’t stopped breathing that way. I try to hold my breath, but my lungs betray me, filling and emptying with that same wet rattle. Last night, I called my mother, crying, and she said, ‘Oh, honey, that’s just the old house settling. You inherited Martin’s asthma, remember?’ But it’s not asthma. It’s something else. It’s him. I can feel him inside me now, curling in my chest, his breath mixing with mine. I don’t know how much longer I can keep brushing my teeth. I don’t know if I’m brushing away the plaque or scrubbing his presence from my mouth. I might stop brushing altogether. I might just let the rot settle in. Because maybe, if I can’t hear my own breath, I won’t hear his either. But I think I already know the truth. He’s not behind me. He’s inside me. And he’s still breathing.