The hurling sound of the gas is rushing through the pipeline tearing up the metal each time. The air making itself visible with the sound it creates as it rubs itself against the pipes.
The cat is screaming desperately, meowing as he scratches the door of the apartment he is locked up in. His tiny claws against the wooden existence of the door leaves scars only visible to the eye that searches for them.
The eerie voice of an old woman talking passionately about some TV show she’s watching. Loud enough to share her constructive criticism with the whole apartment.
Clock wise sound of a woman’s pacing through an empty black hallway. The heels of her shoes hitting the ground with the same time range in between, just like a metronome. The detector of the light, buzzes accordingly scared to turn the lights off in her presence.
Time is reduced to the number of the scratches on the door. It is reliable as long as you count the steps of the pacing lady’s shoes took. One more burst of gas through the pipe. Now two and silence and one more. Time is passing by one gush to another.
The gas meter hanging next to the door, it belongs to, sneezes one more time. The gas is hurled up deep into its way, licking the cold smoothness of the pipes with its sandpaper tongue. The tearing of the air happens once again with the sound they produce.
The paws of the cat are merely a bundle of fur now. A smooth petting sound slowly descents into the echoing shadows of the night. He is silence. He is empty. As his violent effort diminishes, he is no longer.
No sound of the old lady. Her granddaughter never called; just like her, they were tired of listening to her too. She outran herself. She exhausted her existence. She is no longer.
The shoes made a very last sound. The sound of a rigid mass brushing against some other mass. No steps, no progress. She is no longer.
The gas meter turned again just like it is supposed to, again, and again the gas roared in to the dark cave, which was the metal beholder of its path. The sound of the machine working filled the empty.
Nothing alive made a sound.
By Gizem Gözde Uçar
Gizem graduated from Koç University with a double major, she writes, translates, illustrates, draws, tells stories, teaches and tutors. She also volunteers in TEGV and has a workshop there called “Fairy Tale Workshop.” She has two cats and imaginary friends. She can be found on instagram here https://www.instagram.com/gizemgozdeucar