Please answer the phone. For the love of whatever higher power shone down on the ants created in their image please answer the phone. A click and a whirr and the chimes of the ringing chorus drawl through the line as loud as thunder in the receiver pressed flush against his ear to the point where it hurts at the piercings curling the edge of his lob push at the flesh of his skull. Knuckles are white as the grip on the sleek black phone tightens and he’s praying that the phone will stop ringing and a voice will fill the line. Praying like he’s dying inside, pieces falling away with every consecutive ring to slip to the floor and wash away in the puddles forming at his feet. It’s raining. Hard and heavy against the top of the little telephone booth and no amount of huddling under the formed plastic is going to shield him from the downpour. It’s raining hard and heavy with drums of thunder roaring in the distance and that phone keeps on ringing.
“Please…” he begs aloud. Just answer, it’s not too hard. Just pick up. The rain is soaking through his shirt and down his back. Through his hair and down his face like tears; like tears that swim before his eyes threatening to fall like the rain to mix to the point where it’s indiscernible which is which – teardrop or raindrop. People are rushing past, cowering under the umbrellas and ignoring the lone figure because in their own personal worlds they’re home and dry and not out in the rain and the life of another person is null and void. What does one teenager matter in the grand scheme of things? Teenagers these days didn’t even use public telephones.
But there one was, clutching the communications device like it was his only lifeline – his one true connection to the person on the other end of the line. The person he was desperate to contact and all he was getting was the sound of ringing.
And then a click and his breath stops and the blood in his ears deafen the sound of rain. “Hello!”
He laughs, heart thudding louder than it had ever done before as if it were trying to force push its way out of his chest. He curls his free hand against his chest, pushing his ribs to keep that ravenous heart from breaking free. “Joey…” he breathed. Tears met rain on his pale face and his lips are turning blue in the cold. “It’s me.”
“You’ve reached my answering machine which means I’m not able to pick up right now. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
His head fell forwards to press his forehead against the cool metal of the public phone. There was only ever going to be one answer because there wasn’t going to be someone there to pick up anymore. He choked back a sob, that pitiful laugh sounding like broken chords and creaking floorboards. There’s a beep and silence. A stretching silence that last forever in his mind but only a few brief seconds to the rest of the world. Then the dial tone purrs into his ear. Reaching up with a shaky hand he pushed the bar down. Hand limp and fingers splayed over the surface he takes a few moments to breathe before pushing in the number all over again.
Ringing, and then the same cheerful voice repeats. “You’ve reached my answering machine…”
It will always do that now. He had his chance and let it slip through his fingers. The plane went down and no one survived. He never even really said goodbye. The answering machine will just fill up with messages like his boots were filling up with water.
“…Leave me a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
WHY DO I ALWAYS WRITE JOJOSIE AND IT MAKES MY CRY!!????
