A Knife in the Ceiling

By Elizabeth Harness

We have been watching the stain grow on the ceiling for weeks, emptying the bucket whenever it begins to overflow. The tile creeps towards the floor, and we often wonder what would happen if we stuck a knife in the sag. Would it act as a catheter and relieve an urge that could not satisfy itself? Or would it simply make a larger hole in the ceiling for water to drip through? You think the hole will just get larger. I think it will relieve the pressure. Neither of us thinks it will solve the problem.

            Still, I often sit in the kitchen and stare at the knives and fantasize about thrusting one into the tile. They may not be sharp enough to pierce anymore. We haven’t sharpened them since we received them as a wedding present. They’ve dulled over the past seven years. I sliced my finger last week when the blade slid off the carrot instead of cutting through. You didn’t notice the cut until you found a bloodstain in your salad. The ceiling tiles are thick. It’s possible that we will only end up hurting ourselves. We’ll never know unless we just do it. It can be as clumsy and messy as we like. If a little blood is drawn, so be it.

            Often, we come home to find that the bucket has overflowed while we were out. You empty the bucket while I press towels into the carpet. If this keeps up, we fear the carpet will begin to mold. You suggest that we peel back the carpet from under the bucket, just until we fix the drip. I suggest that we just fix the damn drip already. Sometimes I think about putting the knife in the ceiling right before we leave, so then at least we can empty the bucket before we go and the carpet won’t be wet when we return. You think that’s a terrible idea. You remind me that the hole will just get larger and it won’t actually release any pressure. I remind you that I think you’re wrong.

            The worst part is when you’re away. You always empty the bucket before you leave. I have to sit here and listen to the drip beat against the plastic and when it fills I don’t get any relief either because then it drops into the pool and I empty the bucket and the drips are back and no matter how often I empty the bucket there is nothing to break up the silence except that relentless drip drip drip and that stupid drop drop drop like they put in a kid’s cartoon, never consistent enough to predict, so it’s not like the buzzing of the fluorescent lights that I can tune out, except even that is not reliable like it used to be because we think the water is dropping on the light, so now the buzzing is inconsistent too and all I listen to all day long is buzzzdripbudropdrizzdropdripdripzz. It’s all I can do to not stick a knife in the ceiling, and some days I get so close that I pull a knife from the block and put a chair under the drip. But I love you more than I hate the ceiling and I can’t go through with it.

            Once, we tried to put up a patch. Neither of us knew how to patch a ceiling, and we’re too stubborn to call someone who does. We’re independent. We don’t need anyone but ourselves. You came home with a patch kit and we were so excited to finally get some relief. It was going to be different, it was going to be over. We’d get to move on and never have to think about the leak in the ceiling again. I handed you the pieces from the patch kit in the order the directions on the box told me to and you applied them to the ceiling. You pricked your finger on one of the tools, but you licked away the bead of blood.

            It worked. For one glorious, peaceful day, it worked. There was no dripping, no dropping, no buzzing, just blissful silence. If I were right, the pressure would build behind it, but it didn’t. For one day, nothing happened.

            And then the patch failed. Neither of us bothered to take the ceiling apart, dissect it until we found the source, so of course it dripped through the patch. Water does that. It can’t be stopped, only delayed. We are crazier after our brief respite. We’d tasted peace, and having it ripped away made us all the hungrier for it. I fight with you when you are home, contemplate the knives when you are not. I’m not sure if I want to stick one in the ceiling or my own chest.

            You left the house hours ago, and no amount of changing the buckets or towels, music or vacuum drone will give me peace. The only thing that grounds me, makes me feel like I might have control of my own mind, is staring at the knife block. The handles are so smooth and angled. The mahogany block takes up an entire corner of the counter, and as the sun sets and your return approaches, the light comes through the window in a spotlight on the block. There are many in the block we never use, like the fruit carver, and those we use every day, like the steak knives. Just last night, you tore through a bloody steak with one. I watched the juices pool on the plate, like water in a pond, and when dinner was over, I watched the pink water spiral down the drain. The water in the sink is more satisfying than the water from the ceiling. The water in the sink has an end.

            Before you went to work, you warned me. I suppose you saw me looking at the knives, a hungry gleam in my eye. You told me not to stab the ceiling. I promised you I wouldn’t. I crossed my fingers behind my back. Even so, I tried to keep my promise to you. All day, I let the drip drive me crazy. There are only minutes until you come home, and maybe you will suggest we go out for dinner, to get me out of the house and get our minds off the drip. I haven’t had silence all day. More noise will not make it better.

            I take the fruit carver out of the block. It is lighter in my hands than I remember. I walk from the kitchen to the living room, forgoing the stool I usually stand on. The bucket is almost full. It will overflow soon. When it does, you will walk in the room and blame me. You will ask what I did all day if I didn’t bother emptying the bucket. It will not matter that I have emptied the bucket dozens of times.

            I kick the bucket over, soaking the carpet. Maybe the neighbors underneath us will get a leak in their ceiling, too. Maybe our leak is from an overturned bucket in the neighbors above us. Maybe we’re all just passing water from ceiling to ceiling. It drips again, but it does not land on a bucket. It lands on my forehead and makes no sound. The light is still buzzing, electrifying the water as it drops on my forehead. I shut it off, still under the drip, still absorbing the noise, and for the first time in months there is silence. I open my eyes, the last rays of day casting our living room in a gray light. I throw the knife.

            It pierces the ceiling perfectly the moment you open the door and flip the light back on. You were wrong. The heavens open and blood rains down, drenching me in a crimson tide. You are yelling, horrified, but I cannot hear you. It all comes down in a rush, filling my eyes, my ears, my nostrils. I am drowning and I have never felt more alive.