The phone trembles with its first tentative ring, then bursts into an insistent, endless trill. Again?
The sound slices the quiet of the room like broken glass. Mark closes his eyes. Its her again the one whose name reads straight out of a romance novel Emily. Hes only met her a couple of times and, in a moment of foolish weakness, swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? No one has phoned him lately; it feels as if the world has erased him from its contact list, leaving him alone with that nagging melody and his own thoughts.
He presses his forehead into the mattress, trying to drown out the persistent tone. He wants to fling the phone out the window, smash it on the pavement until its nothing but shards of glass and plastic. If he cant fix his life, he thinks, he can at least destroy the thing that ties him to the outside world.
But the phone keeps ringing.
Mark throws himself out of bed and walks toward the sound. The device seems to sense his approach, buzzing louder, almost challengelike, as if saying, Come on, answer! He obeys some ancient reflex and picks up.
Hello?
This is me! a bright, carefree voice chirps, cutting through the silence with its lightheartedness. Why did you take so long?
Im busy, Mark growls.
And why did you come over then? Emily asks, and Mark imagines her smiling slyly.
Because my nerves arent steel! he snaps, almost roaring. Whats so hard to understand? Youre driving me mad with your calls!
I just feel youre at home and that youre not okay.
And what else do you feel? his tone drips with bitter sarcasm.
That you were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he huffs.
He wants to slam the handset down, curse with every filthy word he knows. Her daily calls for the past three weeks have landed at the bottom of his life, during a period when he wants nothing: no work, no leisure, no food, no drink. He only wants to disappear, to evaporate, to stop being a grain of sand in a massive, indifferent meat grinder.
Listen, his voice suddenly drops, flat and weary. What do you want from me? What?
A short silence hangs in the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Stop thinking for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I can feel it!
Then stop feeling! Who do you think you are, some saint or saviour of lost souls? Go help the old ladies cross the road, feed stray cats. Just leave me alone. Got it?
The silence in the handset thickens, then a few quick beeps. She hangs up.
Great, Mark thinks. She asked for it. Shes sticking her nose where it isnt wanted.
That day no one calls again. Not the next, not the one after. Emily doesnt ring a day, a week, a month.
The quiet he craved suddenly presses against his ears, ringing, absolute, unbearable. There is no salvation in it, only loneliness. In the evenings he catches himself staring at the phone, waiting. A ridiculous, humiliating hope grows inside: maybe now maybe soon
He stops going out at night, afraid to miss a possible call. What if she rings and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her and stay angry forever. The word forever scares him more than the barking stray dogs that seem to sniff out his vulnerability.
Soon another urge appears the need to vent. To spill the black, sticky mass that has been building inside. But to whom? A neighbour? He lives a simple life of wages, football and women a happy bloke.
So Mark begins talking to himself out loud. In his empty flat his voice sounds hollow and unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? he asks his reflection in the dark window.
You drove her away. Roughly, without ceremony.
But she called every day! Persistently! That means she cared, right?
And you told her she wasnt needed. You pushed away the hand that reached out in your darkest hour.
He argues, proves, gets angry at himself. In the end his inner voice his own self wins. It forces him to admit a simple, terrifying truth: those calls were his lifeline, a breath of air for a drowning man, proof that he still existed for someone, that he wasnt a ghost.
Emily never calls again.
Mark spends evenings simply watching the phone, the silence inside contracting into a huge, mute scream. Please, just ring he whispers.
The phone stays silent.
He collapses onto the bed well past midnight, never seeing a miracle. He drifts into a restless, jittery sleep and dreams he thinks he hears that familiar ring again.
Mark snaps his eyes open. He isnt asleep. The phone rings, genuinely, that relentless, living ring. He grabs the handset.
Hello? his voice trembles.
Hi, a familiar, longforgotten voice says. Did you call me?
Mark closes his eyes. A smile spreads slowly across his face the first in weeks. Bitter, tired, and oddly relieving.
Yes, he exhales. I think I did.
A pause follows, not the heavy, reproachful one from before, but a living, taut pause like a stretched string, free of battle. He hears her soft, steady breathing and his own heart thudding irregularly.
I, he stumbles, searching for words that arent excuses or fresh barbs, just plain truth. I sat and waited. Every evening.
I knew, Emily replies, quietly but confidently, without a hint of triumph. I was feeling awful too. But I decided I couldnt be the one to start calling anymore. That should be your decision.
He imagines her, perhaps also holding a phone, wrestling with the urge to dial his number. The picture oddly touches him.
Sorry, Mark says, the hardest word he can muster, burning his throat like a hot coal, but necessary. For acting like a prat.
Accepted, she says, a light, forgiving smile audible in her tone. Though yes, it was rude. I nearly cracked the kettle in my frustration.
He laughs involuntarily, briefly, relief flooding him. The mundane, alive detail pulls him back to reality.
Is he okay? he asks, now serious.
Fine. Ill cherish him like the apple of my eye.
They fall silent again, but now the silence belongs to both of them. They listen together.
Mark, her voice turns serious again. Whats really going on?
He closes his eyes. Before, this question would have sparked rage. Now he feels a strange weakness, a desire finally to speak out.
Everything, he says slowly, sliding onto the floor, leaning against the couch. Work has turned into hell. Debts have piled up like a snowball. I feel like Im walking the edge of a cliff, ready to fall. And theres this total emptiness, as if Im burned out from the inside. I want nothing. No one.
He talks at length, in fragments, not crying, just stating facts like a doctor giving a diagnosis. For the first time in months, someone listens without interrupting, without advice, without the usual pull yourself together or itll get better. Just listening.
When he stops, only her breathing remains in the line.
Thank you, Emily finally says. What did you say?
Now you understand why I was out of it? he asks with a bitter grin.
I do. Its no excuse for the rudeness, she replies firmly. But now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do with it? he asks, curiosity sparking.
For starters, she says decisively, go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boils, open a window for at least five minutes. Fresh air is vital for the brain, and you seem starved for it.
Mark obeys, rising from the floor.
Im going, he says.
Good. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end of the line. Then well sort out work, the debts, this abyss youre in.
Her voice carries no pity, no baby talk. Its solid, rocksteady confidence, the strength he has been missing.
Mark shuffles to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear. He follows her instructions: he fusses with the kettle, wrestles the stuck window, letting cool, rainscented air slip into the flat. He takes his first small steps forward toward life.
And he realises this is just the beginning of a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. For the first time in ages he doesnt feel alone in his crumbling fortress. Someone is offering a hand from the outside, and he finally feels ready to take it.
