I've not written ER in a while, so forgive this sad, lonely attempt. Um, inspired by a conversation with Jo about how Carter and Abby totally speak on the phone every night. Was meant to be fluffy but eh, angst is my middle name, just can't escape it. Thanklies to Jo for the beta (and helping me procrastinate, and listening to me ramble... okay, so thanks for everything. Hee.)
Oh yeah, lyric in italics at the start is from 'Deep and Meaningless' by Rooster. Check it out, it's awesome.
If you call me today I'll say that I'm fine; but I bet you can tell by the tone of my voice it's just a lie.
A bitter, angry wind drives raindrops into the window with such a force that they bounce right off and continue their trek to the ground, seven storeys below. If you look hard enough through the few drops that stick to the glass, you'd see a woman standing by her desk, a cordless phone in her hand and tears running down her cheeks. She'd be around five foot four, give or take half an inch, with brown hair and fearful eyes. She'd never sit down while she's on the phone, because if she sits down, she knows the tears will come hard and fast and they'd never stop.
x.x.x
She never says much during these conversations. They're practically the only time she ever uses the phone, and she utters the grand total of around twenty words each night. They're the only words she really says anymore. She has no job, no flatmate, no contact with the world – save for weekly grocery shopping.
He, on the other hand, speaks a mile a minute – his work, Africa, her. Kem. She never used to think she could ever really hate someone… but she does, and with a passion. Not a night goes by without a phone call, and she's grateful – really, she is, or so she tries to tell herself. This means that not a night goes by without hearing her name, picturing her face, hearing her voice.
Some nights when she hangs up, she seeks comfort in a friend older than he – a glass bottle filled with intoxicating liquid. Only it's never full anymore, it's always half empty; ever the pessimist. Her poison of choice is usually vodka, though she's rather partial to whiskey on occasion. When the bottle is empty, it's often flung across the room, to hit the wall and land, smashed, on the floor a foot or so away. So many bottles have been flung now that the wall is dented and the ice blue paint chipped. She never sweeps up the glass, it stays there like a trophy. She avoids walking around the apartment without adequate footwear.
Tonight's phone call is worse than the past three months' combined. Two words, and the carefully erected walls crumble and fall within milliseconds; as effortlessly as the tears rolling down her face and the blood seeping from her closed fist as she crushes the shards of glass closer and closer to the flesh of her palm.
"Kem's pregnant!"
She throws two empty bottles at the wall this time, before she's even hung up. She tells him she's making supper and that she has wet hands, a bottle of oil slipped and smashed on the floor. She's become an expert at concealing the tears; he doesn't know any different. He buys her story and she silently thanks the lord that she's had more than enough practise at lying over the years.
He talks excitedly, ecstatic at the prospect of becoming a father. He saved a life or three that day, the bombing is dying down slowly for a while. She smiles and nods, congratulates him quietly. He doesn't know that she quit her job – he doesn't have to know, and she's not going to tell him. He hasn't got a clue about how she lies awake all night, crying silent tears. When he asks what's wrong, she tells him she's had a tough shift, she's tired, she should go to bed earlier and get an extra hour's sleep.
She's never once told him that when he hangs up, she says more than two words at a time.
Click. "The caller has hung up."
"I love you…"