You can’t be calling… you’re dead…

His voice in my ear. Whispering sweet nothings and sweeter apologies. That quite resonance that I remember well. The laugh that can barely be heard. Delicious promises of the way things could be, if only I would say yes. Just be agreeable to the conditions set before me. It won’t be how it was, it’ll never be bad again.

There’s more static than there should be, in this day and age. A crackle almost like a fire accompanies every word. The voice sounds distant, as well, a million miles, or a few dozen years, away from where I am. The tinny quality of usually dulcet tones unnerves me, yet I say nothing. I cannot bring myself to interrupt.

The promises. The assurances. They flow like a river, refreshing water breaking a painful drought. These words I’ve longed to hear for so long. How often have I wished for them? This sentiment which I’ve ached for.

I don’t think my fear is disproportionate. The fact that I’m frozen in place is an acceptable one. The ache in my belly, those worms writhing in displeasure, gnawing at me. The strain of locked-up muscles competing with the overwhelming urge to bolt, fight or flight mixed with the agony of immobile joints…

After all, it’s not every day I get to talk to a dead boy.


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