I pour the olive oil down the kitchen sink. I pour the vegetable oil down the kitchen sink. I cool down and feel calmer after I pour it down, steadying myself. In the time that I cool down, so does the oil. It slowly solidifies in the pipes.

I have been pouring it down the sink for a couple of months. It has been a couple of months since he has let me see my friends. Since he has made me quit my job. Since he has taken my phone. My choices have slowly melted away, becoming his and no longer mine. 

I was doing the washing up and realised that it had happened. The oil had found its home in the pipes. I kept washing the dishes until the sink was full with dark, dirty water. And I could feel it then. The thick, sticky oil on my palms, my fingers and my wrists. A second skin. I briefly tried to pick at it with my fingernails, to peel it off. It wouldn’t budge. 

He walked into the kitchen. He looked at the sink and asked me what I had done. I turned away from him and turned the tap back on. I watched the dirty water spill over the edges of the sink and across the counters. It found its way to the floor and puddled and pooled around my feet.

He was shouting at me. I couldn’t hear him though. I was in the water. I was in the pipes. I had solidified.