Author's Notes:
It's a Phone Booth fic! And slashy, no less! :-) Just a drabble of a thought while watching a great movie.
***
Pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
Unctuous voice, deep and mellow. He's in his fifties, balding on top with slicked-back greased gray hair, wearing an expensive business suit with brand-new shoes. His briefcase bulges with papers and files.
He's John Westerfield. He beats up his wife and drinks himself stupid every night. His colleagues at his firm call him dedicated and brilliant. The world turns on lies, doesn't it? Doesn't it?
"Hello? Who's there?"
I can't do it. Not now.
Hang up. Dial tone.
Disconnected. The caller cannot be reached. To hear this message again, press 1. Dial tone.
How long has it been?
No, wait. I can answer that myself. Three months, five days, and eleven hours. If I tried to count the minutes I'd go crazy.
So, new question. Tell me why I'm doing this. Tell me why I've lost my drift, lost my focus, lost all interest.
Forget it and move on. Try again. Take a deep breath and start over.
Call the number. It's ringing once, twice, three times...
Pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
He's Terry Soransen. He's a college student in his early twenties, tall and lanky in a ragged t-shirt with jeans. He does his major in psychology and manufactures snuff films on the side featuring kittens, puppies, and child prostitutes.
He has dark hair. Dark, tousled hair, so loose and disheveled you could run your fingers through it...
I can't do this.
Hang up. Dial tone.
Disconnected for three months, five days, and eleven hours. The caller cannot be reached. He's in Los Angeles. He quit his job, packed his things, and took Kelly to the West Coast two weeks later. To hear this message again, press 1. Dial tone.
The venom in my voice burns my tongue, and to swallow is to be poisoned.
I wait. I chew my nails. I stare out the window. I take off my glasses and wipe them clean. I tap my fingers on the table. I get a drink of water. And I wait, and I wait. And I keep waiting for something that's not coming.
Pick up the phone.
I listen. I hear the things I could have said, the whispers in my ear, the laughter and the loving teasing, the endearments. I hear the raw flashes of anger, the shaking sobs that tore at this bitter and caustic heart, the furious swearing and the pleading. The lies, the excuses, the fear. The fear.
Hang up. Dial tone.
I won't cry. If I cry now, I'll have nothing left.
I finger the rifle. Such a pretty little toy. The cold, polished steel, the smooth, sleek surface, the solid heft. The trigger curving underneath my finger.
I won't cry. But maybe I will take this rifle outside, and find a quiet little corner where nobody's watching. Maybe I'll indulge myself with another victim.
I can already see him through the tactical scope. A man in his thirties, dark hair, thick glasses. The silent type, quiet and intelligent; cunning, cold, and controlled. Someone who couldn't love until it was too late.
He's got a rifle to his head. He's ready to fire.
And then--
Hang up. Dial tone.
***
So, what do you think? Let me know!
It's a Phone Booth fic! And slashy, no less! :-) Just a drabble of a thought while watching a great movie.
***
Pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
Unctuous voice, deep and mellow. He's in his fifties, balding on top with slicked-back greased gray hair, wearing an expensive business suit with brand-new shoes. His briefcase bulges with papers and files.
He's John Westerfield. He beats up his wife and drinks himself stupid every night. His colleagues at his firm call him dedicated and brilliant. The world turns on lies, doesn't it? Doesn't it?
"Hello? Who's there?"
I can't do it. Not now.
Hang up. Dial tone.
Disconnected. The caller cannot be reached. To hear this message again, press 1. Dial tone.
How long has it been?
No, wait. I can answer that myself. Three months, five days, and eleven hours. If I tried to count the minutes I'd go crazy.
So, new question. Tell me why I'm doing this. Tell me why I've lost my drift, lost my focus, lost all interest.
Forget it and move on. Try again. Take a deep breath and start over.
Call the number. It's ringing once, twice, three times...
Pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
He's Terry Soransen. He's a college student in his early twenties, tall and lanky in a ragged t-shirt with jeans. He does his major in psychology and manufactures snuff films on the side featuring kittens, puppies, and child prostitutes.
He has dark hair. Dark, tousled hair, so loose and disheveled you could run your fingers through it...
I can't do this.
Hang up. Dial tone.
Disconnected for three months, five days, and eleven hours. The caller cannot be reached. He's in Los Angeles. He quit his job, packed his things, and took Kelly to the West Coast two weeks later. To hear this message again, press 1. Dial tone.
The venom in my voice burns my tongue, and to swallow is to be poisoned.
I wait. I chew my nails. I stare out the window. I take off my glasses and wipe them clean. I tap my fingers on the table. I get a drink of water. And I wait, and I wait. And I keep waiting for something that's not coming.
Pick up the phone.
I listen. I hear the things I could have said, the whispers in my ear, the laughter and the loving teasing, the endearments. I hear the raw flashes of anger, the shaking sobs that tore at this bitter and caustic heart, the furious swearing and the pleading. The lies, the excuses, the fear. The fear.
Hang up. Dial tone.
I won't cry. If I cry now, I'll have nothing left.
I finger the rifle. Such a pretty little toy. The cold, polished steel, the smooth, sleek surface, the solid heft. The trigger curving underneath my finger.
I won't cry. But maybe I will take this rifle outside, and find a quiet little corner where nobody's watching. Maybe I'll indulge myself with another victim.
I can already see him through the tactical scope. A man in his thirties, dark hair, thick glasses. The silent type, quiet and intelligent; cunning, cold, and controlled. Someone who couldn't love until it was too late.
He's got a rifle to his head. He's ready to fire.
And then--
Hang up. Dial tone.
***
So, what do you think? Let me know!