oenix Wright entered hell, and set his keys and umbrella down and took off his shoes to step inside.
To others, his personal hell looked like a ground level studio apartment, neatly but mindlessly kept, with no distinguishing personal objects and blinds drawn against the watery April sunshine.
He went a little further inside, and stopped.
There were things he should do, and things he could do, but once he entered this place, nothing seemed important any more.
He glanced over the room. Kitchen tidy, photos he didn't dare look at for too long symmetrically arranged on the refrigerator door, table wiped down with one placemat out. Windows closed tightly against the light rain, bed made with clean sheets, couch cushions turned and television dusted, wardrobe organized and bathroom pristine. There were no books or papers out, no piles of projects waiting to be delved into. There was nothing to do. There was nothing he could do.
Phoenix checked his watch, on the wrist of the hand which still held copies of his heavily doctored resume and a cover letter that contained all the appeal of an empty gum wrapper. It was within two hours of when he customarily began dinner. Looks like another early night.
He changed out of his interview outfit and began his nightly routine. As he looked through the freezer for dinner options, he could already feel the cloudy numbness of the approaching dusk, filling his chest and head and smothering over his heart. On autopilot, he unwrapped the meal and put it in the microwave, then leaned against the counter to check messages on his answering machine while he waited. He pressed the play button, then rested his forehead in his hand to listen.
Two new messages. First message. Tuesday, April 22, 11:14:
Hi, Nick? I've been reading the news about your license suspension since I last called, but… Are you okay? I know we talked a few days ago, and you asked me to give you some time to calm down and think, but I-
Maya's voice cut off, and the telephone rang on the counter in front of him. Phoenix startled, badly, and laid a hand over his racing heart while he looked to see who was calling. It was Maya's number.
Phoenix stared at the ringing phone, paralyzed alone in the bright kitchen. His other hand made it to the counter and stopped before it touched the phone, shaking from the fright. On the third ring, a wave of bitter frustration overwhelmed him, and that hand snatched into a fist. What would I even say to her? What could I possibly tell her that would sound remotely believable when I don't even know what happened myself?
The call rang through to the answering machine.
Hi Nick, said Maya, sober and cautious. Hi Mr. Nick, said Pearl, echoing her cousin's tone. Phoenix could feel the frustration fade, almost instantly, into nothingness. He stood up straight and stared absently at the answering machine.
Just calling to say hi again, I guess, said Maya. I called earlier today, but you must not have been home. How are you doing? I've been thinking about you all day. Um, Pearl? Did you want to say something?
The phone line scuffed. Hi Mr. Nick, said Pearl, causing some small, muffled part of his gut to plunge with slick shame. Um...I miss you, and I hope we can talk soon. I'm not really sure what… uh, call us soon, okay? Bye. She handed the phone back to Maya.
Nick, call me soon, okay? She said, a pleading overtone entering her voice. I'll be sleeping in the men's' quarters tonight so I can get better call service. I miss you too. I hope to talk to you soon. Bye.
The answering machine fell silent.
What am I doing? Phoenix thought. He had no answer.
The microwave beeped. He barely tasted his dinner and cleaned up afterward in a timeless blur. They don't deserve to be treated like this. Just call them. They're your close friends. They won't even care if you can't say a word. They still love you. He went to the kitchen, and stood before the phone.
I'm not the person they know anymore.
It was the crushing feeling Phoenix awaited to lay above him each night, heavy and cold and lonely, blocking out the rest of the world beyond its planes and corners. I'm not the person who saved them all those times. My badge is gone. That person isn't here anymore.
Instead, he skipped the newest answering machine message and listened to the second.
Two new messages. Second message. Tuesday, April 22, 14:21:
The machine played silence, then a dial tone. Phoenix deleted all the messages.
Maybe I'll think of something tomorrow. I don't have anything scheduled. I'll have some time. As if sleepwalking, his body moved to the living room. That is the worst part, he thought, collapsing onto the couch and flipping on the television. There is always too much time.