Disclaimer:
The Caller belongs to Kiefer Sutherland (mmmmm...), Joel Schumacher (hurrah and quite possibly hurray as well), and 20th Century Fox Productions (ya boo... just kidding!). Anybody and anything else that you don't recognize is probably mine. No dollars, loonies, euros, pounds, francs, yen, rubles, dinars, pesos, or any other forms of currency have changed hands here.
Author's notes:
If you haven't read 'On the Line' yet, here's all you really need to know for this story (that won't be explained further on): the Caller (I've decided to name him David) from 'Phone Booth' is going out with a lovely girl named Kate, an artist who used to live at a homeless shelter. This story is told from her point of view, a month after the end of 'On the Line'.
Dedicated, as before, with much love to Becky.
---
It's been snowing hard the last few days, and they haven't cleared the streets yet, so I'm sitting at the table and sketching on a piece of paper. I just came back from a tattoo artist in the area who pays good money for my designs, with the agreement that she keeps my name attached to the artwork.
Jenna looks like a dragonfly; her bones jut sharply out of her skin and her tattered sports clothes hang limply off her too-skinny frame. She slathers on layers of neon-hued makeup over her pale, translucent skin, that glows underneath the neon lights of the parlour, and wears sparkly fake eyelashes around her lurid, murky green eyes. She's high-strung and panicky, and constantly puffing on a cigarette with trembling fingers, but she's nice to me and she always gets the cash on time.
I smooth out a line with a stroke of my pencil, rounding the rough edge. A little touch over here, a darker shadow there, and... done.
My fingertips are smudged gray-black with the pencil lead. Around this time of year I'd normally be soaking my hands in hot water, trying to burst swollen blisters; now my fingers are smooth and unmarked, thanks to my new pair of warm woolen gloves.
I smile as I wander over to the sink to wash my hands off. The gloves were a gift from David, who insisted on buying them for me. He surprised me with them a couple of weeks ago, slipping them onto my hands with both his arms wrapped around my waist.
I find it hard to reconcile everything I know about David. I've seen the rifle, I stumbled upon it when I was searching through the closet. It was stashed away in a corner, covered with debris--a cunning, cruel weapon, slender and shining, made of sharp steel and cold iron. Beside it lay a cardboard box full of cartridges and another stocked with bullets.
And yet his hands, which know how to aim with such deadly precision, are always gentle when they touch me, and he looks at me with worship in his bright eyes. His kisses taste like melting honey; his skin is warm and rough to the touch when we lie in bed together, and his heartbeat is strong and steady under my cheek.
The water gurgles in the sink, gushing from the tap and bubbling over my hands. I scrub away at the stains, rubbing the black smears off my fingertips until they're a raw red. Outside the kitchen, the phone rings.
Hastily wiping my wet hands on my jeans, I go over to answer it. "Hello?"
There's a short, silent pause before an unknown man's voice cuts coldly across the line. "Who is this?"
I instantly bristle at the tone, something skittering and shivering down my spine. "Who are you?" I demand.
Click, and dial tone. I replace the receiver and wander back to the table, well aware that my eyes are dark with worry. It could be just a wrong number or a prank call, but I remember the rifle in the closet. If somebody's angry with David...
I'm still staring into space, resting my chin against the bridge of my folded hands, when a low patter of footsteps sounds behind me. "Something wrong, sweetheart?" David says lightly, stroking back my long hair with his cool fingers.
"A man called earlier," I answer, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. "He sounded angry, and he hung up before I could get his name."
David considers this in silence, his gray eyes grave, before shrugging. "It was probably a wrong number. Don't worry about it." He bends down to kiss the nape of my neck, trailing his lips up to my ear and purring, "You know, it is getting rather late..."
"Mmm." I arch my neck at his teasing caress, still preoccupied. David sees this and straightens up, his hands tensing slightly.
"Kate, it's all right," he says soothingly. "You're safe here, remember? I won't let anything happen to you."
"I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about you," I retort.
David smiles--his quirky, crooked grin that pokes slyly at the corners of his mouth. "You, of all people, should know by now that I am more than capable of taking care of myself." I have to smile at that, and he leans down to kiss me. "Now stop worrying," he murmurs, his mouth a breath away from mine, "and come to bed."
Later on, the anxiety drifts across my mind again; this time I close my eyes, bury my face in the crook of David's neck with a soft sigh, and lose myself in sleep.
---
The Caller belongs to Kiefer Sutherland (mmmmm...), Joel Schumacher (hurrah and quite possibly hurray as well), and 20th Century Fox Productions (ya boo... just kidding!). Anybody and anything else that you don't recognize is probably mine. No dollars, loonies, euros, pounds, francs, yen, rubles, dinars, pesos, or any other forms of currency have changed hands here.
Author's notes:
If you haven't read 'On the Line' yet, here's all you really need to know for this story (that won't be explained further on): the Caller (I've decided to name him David) from 'Phone Booth' is going out with a lovely girl named Kate, an artist who used to live at a homeless shelter. This story is told from her point of view, a month after the end of 'On the Line'.
Dedicated, as before, with much love to Becky.
---
It's been snowing hard the last few days, and they haven't cleared the streets yet, so I'm sitting at the table and sketching on a piece of paper. I just came back from a tattoo artist in the area who pays good money for my designs, with the agreement that she keeps my name attached to the artwork.
Jenna looks like a dragonfly; her bones jut sharply out of her skin and her tattered sports clothes hang limply off her too-skinny frame. She slathers on layers of neon-hued makeup over her pale, translucent skin, that glows underneath the neon lights of the parlour, and wears sparkly fake eyelashes around her lurid, murky green eyes. She's high-strung and panicky, and constantly puffing on a cigarette with trembling fingers, but she's nice to me and she always gets the cash on time.
I smooth out a line with a stroke of my pencil, rounding the rough edge. A little touch over here, a darker shadow there, and... done.
My fingertips are smudged gray-black with the pencil lead. Around this time of year I'd normally be soaking my hands in hot water, trying to burst swollen blisters; now my fingers are smooth and unmarked, thanks to my new pair of warm woolen gloves.
I smile as I wander over to the sink to wash my hands off. The gloves were a gift from David, who insisted on buying them for me. He surprised me with them a couple of weeks ago, slipping them onto my hands with both his arms wrapped around my waist.
I find it hard to reconcile everything I know about David. I've seen the rifle, I stumbled upon it when I was searching through the closet. It was stashed away in a corner, covered with debris--a cunning, cruel weapon, slender and shining, made of sharp steel and cold iron. Beside it lay a cardboard box full of cartridges and another stocked with bullets.
And yet his hands, which know how to aim with such deadly precision, are always gentle when they touch me, and he looks at me with worship in his bright eyes. His kisses taste like melting honey; his skin is warm and rough to the touch when we lie in bed together, and his heartbeat is strong and steady under my cheek.
The water gurgles in the sink, gushing from the tap and bubbling over my hands. I scrub away at the stains, rubbing the black smears off my fingertips until they're a raw red. Outside the kitchen, the phone rings.
Hastily wiping my wet hands on my jeans, I go over to answer it. "Hello?"
There's a short, silent pause before an unknown man's voice cuts coldly across the line. "Who is this?"
I instantly bristle at the tone, something skittering and shivering down my spine. "Who are you?" I demand.
Click, and dial tone. I replace the receiver and wander back to the table, well aware that my eyes are dark with worry. It could be just a wrong number or a prank call, but I remember the rifle in the closet. If somebody's angry with David...
I'm still staring into space, resting my chin against the bridge of my folded hands, when a low patter of footsteps sounds behind me. "Something wrong, sweetheart?" David says lightly, stroking back my long hair with his cool fingers.
"A man called earlier," I answer, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. "He sounded angry, and he hung up before I could get his name."
David considers this in silence, his gray eyes grave, before shrugging. "It was probably a wrong number. Don't worry about it." He bends down to kiss the nape of my neck, trailing his lips up to my ear and purring, "You know, it is getting rather late..."
"Mmm." I arch my neck at his teasing caress, still preoccupied. David sees this and straightens up, his hands tensing slightly.
"Kate, it's all right," he says soothingly. "You're safe here, remember? I won't let anything happen to you."
"I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about you," I retort.
David smiles--his quirky, crooked grin that pokes slyly at the corners of his mouth. "You, of all people, should know by now that I am more than capable of taking care of myself." I have to smile at that, and he leans down to kiss me. "Now stop worrying," he murmurs, his mouth a breath away from mine, "and come to bed."
Later on, the anxiety drifts across my mind again; this time I close my eyes, bury my face in the crook of David's neck with a soft sigh, and lose myself in sleep.
---