Savor All the Emotions
Pick Up The Phone
Frown. Twitch. Eyes that roll into the back of the head. Itchy rope that clung to wrists and rubbed them raw. Burning thirst that would allow you to crack your lips just to suck the blood out of them. Dark that hurt your eyes and would never let them adjust to light again. Desperation that told you God wasn't really there.
Everything I was feeling locked inside this little cell. Light bulb burned out hours ago, hard concrete walls and floors serving as a pillow. Dirty, greasy, bruised and contruised.
Damned clown. Worse than the clowns at the carnivals, who smell like vomit from all the nauseated children they deal with day in and day out. Who have creepy clown powers that are like Spider-Man's but gayer. That damned Joker.
“Haaahooooohehehehehe!” I shouted into the dark, letting it bounce off the walls and hit my ears again, “Oh, dear, dear, dear. What have we here? Sad little tears. Pent up for years. Flee from your fears. Pick up the phone, pick up the phone fucker!”
“Phone” echoed loudly and clearly, hitting the walls and bouncing around. I frowned. Phone? Phone? What about a ph-
“Phone!” I screamed, hitting my head against the wall and hearing a sick crack. Rub, rub away at the ropes around the wrists until it burns and bleeds but they fall away, “Phone!”
In my pocket. Waiting, charged. Just itching to be touched, pressed, sending a call that would make me free and wild and able again. Sane again. Pull it out. Hit the buttons. Wait. Wait. The phone rings and nobody answers it, just keeps that shrill little trill going and going.
“Pick up the phone!” I muttered, grinding my teeth and letting an eye twitch, “Pick up the phone fucker! Damn it, Logan, pick up the phone!”
“Wer ist dieses?” I heard a soft, familiar voice coo, and I sighed in relief. He answered the phone, he picked up the phone. “Dieses ist Logan.”
“Dieses ist Patrick,” I muttered, grinning wildly and licking my lips, running my tongue over the cracks and letting them burn, “Ich benötige hilfe. Ich bin verfangen worden.”
“ Durch wem recht?” He was scared, confused, angry, I could tell. Could picture his pretty grey eyes fill with worry, tears spilling over. Oh, Logan. Needn't worry so much. “Wo sind Sie? Erklären Sie mir!”
“Die Spassvogel. Lager. Vollziehen Sie meinen Anruf nach.” I loved Logan. His easy German talk and his willingness to bust me out from anywhere. Any time. Made me smile, warmed my heart. He was like my brother from another mother.
“Oh. Die Mühe, die Sie in kommen. Dumm.” He was smiling, I could tell. His bright white teeth showing and scrunching up his face, his little pointed nose turning upward. “Halten Sie fest.”
Freedom. Sweet, sweet freedom.
I cackled a bit, rocking back and forth. Humming and muttering and singing songs. And then the door burst open.
“Oh, Precious! Wer war, dass Sie benannten?” He grinned, pale yellow teeth glinting and eyes wide and crazed, “Sie können nicht entgehen!”
And the beating began.
Everything I was feeling locked inside this little cell. Light bulb burned out hours ago, hard concrete walls and floors serving as a pillow. Dirty, greasy, bruised and contruised.
Damned clown. Worse than the clowns at the carnivals, who smell like vomit from all the nauseated children they deal with day in and day out. Who have creepy clown powers that are like Spider-Man's but gayer. That damned Joker.
“Haaahooooohehehehehe!” I shouted into the dark, letting it bounce off the walls and hit my ears again, “Oh, dear, dear, dear. What have we here? Sad little tears. Pent up for years. Flee from your fears. Pick up the phone, pick up the phone fucker!”
“Phone” echoed loudly and clearly, hitting the walls and bouncing around. I frowned. Phone? Phone? What about a ph-
“Phone!” I screamed, hitting my head against the wall and hearing a sick crack. Rub, rub away at the ropes around the wrists until it burns and bleeds but they fall away, “Phone!”
In my pocket. Waiting, charged. Just itching to be touched, pressed, sending a call that would make me free and wild and able again. Sane again. Pull it out. Hit the buttons. Wait. Wait. The phone rings and nobody answers it, just keeps that shrill little trill going and going.
“Pick up the phone!” I muttered, grinding my teeth and letting an eye twitch, “Pick up the phone fucker! Damn it, Logan, pick up the phone!”
“Wer ist dieses?” I heard a soft, familiar voice coo, and I sighed in relief. He answered the phone, he picked up the phone. “Dieses ist Logan.”
“Dieses ist Patrick,” I muttered, grinning wildly and licking my lips, running my tongue over the cracks and letting them burn, “Ich benötige hilfe. Ich bin verfangen worden.”
“ Durch wem recht?” He was scared, confused, angry, I could tell. Could picture his pretty grey eyes fill with worry, tears spilling over. Oh, Logan. Needn't worry so much. “Wo sind Sie? Erklären Sie mir!”
“Die Spassvogel. Lager. Vollziehen Sie meinen Anruf nach.” I loved Logan. His easy German talk and his willingness to bust me out from anywhere. Any time. Made me smile, warmed my heart. He was like my brother from another mother.
“Oh. Die Mühe, die Sie in kommen. Dumm.” He was smiling, I could tell. His bright white teeth showing and scrunching up his face, his little pointed nose turning upward. “Halten Sie fest.”
Freedom. Sweet, sweet freedom.
I cackled a bit, rocking back and forth. Humming and muttering and singing songs. And then the door burst open.
“Oh, Precious! Wer war, dass Sie benannten?” He grinned, pale yellow teeth glinting and eyes wide and crazed, “Sie können nicht entgehen!”
And the beating began.
♠ ♠ ♠
Two capri suns, a handful of popcorn and 300 texts later, this chap is finished.