I...have not uploaded anything here for a while, have I? Well, now that I'm done with most of my university stuff having finished my first year and with only two assignments to just think about, I'll have a bit more time to get to writing oneshots and maybe expanding upon some of my passion projects.
Decided to try something a bit less happy and up-beat for a change. I've written a story or two like this before, and oddly enough, I find it to be a refreshing break from my usual style.
Oneshot #3 - Phone Call
A phone call.
Apparently, that’s all it takes. All it takes for you to be expressing guilt for what you have done despite your flash of rage just minutes ago. As you continue to berate yourself time and time again I excuse my attention away from your voice and allow my eyes to trail across my living room, a list of things to clear up instantaneously coming together in my head. To call it a “living room”, now that I think about it, would be incorrect. At this point, I am unable to decipher anything I used to own in this room, your flurry of rage having made quick work of clearing out any sort of life that come have emitted from it.
I turn towards my desk, which shockingly survived, and gingerly place my phone on its scratched surface. Your voice continues to dominate the space, but I feel immediate relief from not having to hear it as if you were practically cooing into my ear, standing right beside me. I kneel down as I acknowledge all of the paper scattered aimlessly across the living room floor. I reach for a sheet, recognizing its contents; my gift to you on our Anniversary, a story I’d written inspired by you, with a character drawn from your likeness. I can even spot the sketch of the protagonist on the couch. He’s crinkled and crooked, but he shouldn’t be.
My heart pounds, but I ensure I collect as much of my project as I can. I can tell I don’t have all the pages by the time I end up clearing all those that I could see, but for now, I put my own findings on the desk and look away. My eyes turn towards the shelves, along with a scratch on the wall from where they once stood, and my body follows them there. I dare not to touch the surface, in fear of pricking a finger, and I know I’ll have to call someone in to repair this; I’m in no mood to do such a task now.
Your voice continues to intrude my scattered thoughts, and it draws me to a picture I keep clipped to the mirror on the wall. I take the picture from its position and examine it; I can remember it perfectly. We had both met at a popular café across the street from where I work, where I’d ordered a salad, but didn’t have a place to sit, but you invited me to your table, and so we ate together. I remember the chuckles you made as you snatched up the tomatoes I had discarded from the salad as you claimed them for your burger.
But now, as I look at this picture, I no longer hear that chuckle. A snarl permeates on the picture, and I watch as a teardrop from my cheek finds itself a home between our faces of bliss. I look away from the photo and finally take note of the crack that lies across the surface of the mirror. Some pieces of the mirror were unlucky despite remaining mostly intact, scattering on the floor by my feet, but enough of it remains to finally bring my face to my attention.
A reddened cheek, a cut on the same cheek and another on my neck. The photo slips from my grasp as I bring my hand up to my face, daintily touching at each blemish as if my face were the very glass I am seeing it through. It stings. Everything stings. My fingers recoil at the pain.
I didn’t expect it.
I can’t even begin to process it. I still don’t understand what I could have done, or how you could have thought to have treated me like that. It was a new side of you I hadn’t seen before, but not one that I would like to know more.
Yet again, I find myself distracted from your voice, and as I focus again on it, I note your tone is one that I’ve definitely heard before. But now, I can tell that your voice cracks frequently as your apologies leave your lips; there is no pity or sorrow in your words. Instead, I am just a possession you have come to lose, and you care little of it other than the fact that you want it back for the sake of claiming it.
I decide enough is enough, and pick up the phone again. The caller ID blares at me the moment my phone tells I’m now holding it, and I feel a dagger twisting at my heart once again. But no tears fall. I let you utter a few more soulless pleas for forgiveness as I end the call – and the agony – for good.
Cleaning up the room can wait. I pick up my headphones, put on a song, and grab my coat. I need to clear my head.