For the first of the three scenes I went with a scenario I’m fairly certain most people can sympathize with:
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each flat and fairly innocuous drip slams home into the basin of my sink, the sound drilling itself into my brain from across the apartment. The faucet has been leaking for days, and each day I’m told “maintenance will be in tomorrow.” Don’t they understand? Can’t they see my pain? Tap. Tap. Tap. Silence now, a stitch in time granting respite against the noise. Perhaps God has heard my pleas for rest? Is my torment over? My body relaxes against my will, my brain readying for the inevitable. A second later I hear it; the soft, high-pitched ring of breaking surface tension. In the split-second that follows I imagine I can even hear the air rushing over the liquid smooth sides of the falling drop, the Devil’s hammer that had gathered its strength, mocking me with a moment’s respite before falling. Splat! Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.