I sit on the sagging couch, the springs pressing into my back like an uncomfortable reminder of my life choices. The air smells damp, heavy with mildew from the rain. The house is falling apart around us, and honestly, I don’t care. The old Reader's Digest article in my hands is soaked through, the ink smudging where it meets my fingers. It's a strange thing, this article. It’s a series of pieces written by human organs in the first person, each one telling its story. “I Am Jack’s Liver,” the title reads. It’s absurd. I read on, though. I don’t know why.

The rain outside is relentless, pattering against the windows like it's trying to get inside, like it has some sort of claim over the house. I can hear the drip-drip-drip from various leaks in the ceiling. Buckets line the floor, strategically placed under the worst offenders.

And then there’s you.

You’re riding that damn bike around the living room again. I can hear the wheels squealing against the floorboards, the tires slipping on the wet patches. The whole place is barely holding together, but that doesn’t seem to matter to you. It never does. Your laughter echoes off the walls, distorted and manic, like you’re the only one who sees the point in all this chaos.

“Why don’t you just sit down for a minute?” I mutter, though I’m not sure why I even bother.

I glance over at the piles of books and magazines, all waterlogged, scattered across the room like forgotten thoughts. I pull the article closer, trying to focus.

"I Am Jack’s Heart," it says now. The words blur. I rub my eyes and look up. The flashlight in my hand shakes as I point it in your direction. The flickering flames of tall candles surrounding us cast long, distorted shadows, their wax pooling like molten scars on the floor.

You’re still at it, spinning around in circles, as if you’re somehow free. But we’re both trapped here, aren’t we?

"You know," I say again, though I know you’re not listening. "I think I’m starting to get why the organs hate us."

You don’t stop. You never stop.