Nine One One

Warning: Includes mention of murder and abuse

1.

The glass on my windows began to frost over again. It was another winter. I wondered about the girl that I had left in Whitterim. Was she healthy? How was she managing?

We have lived apart for around 10 years now. There wasn’t enough room for the both of us in our little town where everyone knew us. We were joined at the hip, her and I, and all knew it. But a time came when I had to escape from her, from me, from everything.

Mom never knew where I went the day I snuck out of the house, dad didn’t seem to care. A week passed before I saw my face on the television – news reporters zooming in on my 'family’ waving placards with my name painted with a streaky red marker, begging me to come home. For old times sake, I kept my old number in a silver flip phone sealed in a lockbox along with other items tied to my old self. It was my way to hold onto what would otherwise be tossed in a sea of forgetfulness.

Last Friday, I checked the phone to see if anyone had called. Not many do these days. I remember how full my voicemail used to be: dad shouting through the wires about all the disappointments I had caused him, old ‘friends’ making snide remarks about my welfare, my mother sobbing and begging me to come home. It was through this feigned anonymity that some felt safe enough to reveal their true selves. Perhaps they used this number as an outlet. Perhaps they really hoped I would hear.

I sank into my couch, turning towards the crystals forming at the window panes. Each winter became more suffocating than the last; I struggled to tread above the water. I wanted to call her but I couldn’t. I felt my chest almost invert in my body. I knew I couldn’t stay here forever. I had to go back. I had to tell the truth.

2.

Her and I were broken shells of who we were to become.

We grew up together as neighbours, often escaping the turbulence of our households to a creek near to where the cows graze. When I was 11, she comforted me after my dad chased me out of the house. She was 14 when I brought her to the beach my mother showed me. We screamed at the seas, releasing our anger upon the creatures below us. We were there for each other through thick and thin. I don’t know who I would be without her.

The breeze brushed away the auburn leaves before my driveway on the evening after my 17th birthday. As I approached our creek, excited to tell her the latest report on a boy I liked, I stumbled upon her crouched by the water. She was crying, letting her tears travel downstream. When the leaves rustled under my feet, she acknowledged my arrival by turning around, as she always does. Cracking a broken smile, she quickly whispered to me so that the birds wouldn't hear her.

The blood on her clothes wasn’t hers.

They ruled it an accidental death. No one was found liable. The funeral processions were swift and precise, almost as the incident was anticipated months before. It only took a few days for the town to move on. The return to "normal" was frightening - it was as if nothing had actually happened.

She came to my house two weeks later, smiling. She had finally got what she wanted. Her skin looked brighter, her mind seemed clearer. But I was sinking. I couldn’t wrap my head around her disposition. I knew how he treated her all these years – I saw how she receded. I hated him, I hated what he had done, but, even still, I couldn’t justify a life taken.

She told me not to leave the town without her. “It was us or nothing,” she repeated. But I couldn’t see her the same. My insides rewired themselves as if I had fled the scene. His face appeared in my sleep; he was begging me to tell the truth. I saw him everywhere. I couldn’t think rationally anymore.

So, I left telling no one. I had to disappear, without trace, so she would live.

3.

All those years ago, I would often take solace in the cold. On this particular night, however, the winter could no longer pacify the anguish I was feeling inside. I wanted to run entirely from that scene in my life where my morality and loyalty collided. I took out the silver phone again. Could I justify death when it’s unlawful? If I cannot, is the next option to betray someone who trusts me, someone who might just, at last, be living? Must I sacrifice myself? Could I carve out my heart, my memories, my emotions, just so I could breathe again?

I clenched the phone between my palms.

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

The clock hands synchronised their movements with my heartbeat.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Time slowed down.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The phone rang. It was her.

4.

I paced about my room, wondering what to do. Should I answer the call I’ve been dreading? Should friendship persist in such a great tragedy? Was this friendship? How could I bear to hear her voice when she dumped her secret on me to keep? What was more important to me? Could I live clothed in her bloody linen for eternity?

In defeat, I let the phone ring. I was frozen. Subdued. The battle in my members became too great for me to ignore.

To be

or

not to be.

5.

I heard a voicemail come in. It was her, as I had expected. Something told me to listen to what she had to say. What could she say? We haven’t spoken in years. I’ve ignored all of her other calls. I was not who she remembered me to be.

I dialed voicemail, disassociating through the automated messages.

Then, I heard her.

“Hi Amy, its Salina. I wasn’t sure if you still use this number, but I wanted to check in on you. I’m doing well now; I managed to move out of Whitterim some months ago. I hoped we could catch up sometime, secrets and all.

Please call me back at (847) 262- 7681. Okay, bye.”

The inflections in her voice were the same. After ten years of running from her, from myself, I realised in that moment that she hadn’t really changed at all. But, there was no remorse in her voice, no discomfort. She sounded like she did before she sat at the creek, stained red. It dawned on me: she chose to forget it. She forgot him. She had forgotten me.

It was enough.

6.

“911, what’s your emergency?”