A Drop of Rust

I followed the slow, rhythmic tapping echoing from the damp alcove behind the rusted water heater. Each heavy drop fell from a corroded copper pipe onto an overturned tin can, sounding like a faint, failing pulse. I stepped through the puddle of stagnant water and extended my burlap palm beneath the valve. A cold, rust-red bead pooled against my coarse stitches, soaking deep into the fabric like an old stain that refuses to wash out. I pressed my wet hand against my ribcage, transferring the dark smudge right across my chest. Marking myself is almost as satisfying as marking anything else.