Crawl Away

[felonwort]

i'm waiting upstairs

[022-677-8819]

It wasn’t cold. Not at the end. He held my hand. The little spaces in between us

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Lettie…

"Don't say that. Don't you ever say that name, ever, you hear me? Where did you hear that?"

It seems you've upset him. Greatly. He'll need a moment to himself before he's calm enough to answer questions again. Maybe think about your question a bit more before you ask it.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

What kind of a man are you?

Vincent is not sure how to answer this.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion and skepticism, and he does his best to give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe your question was harmless and the meaning behind it is something completely different to what it currently sounds like: an accusation of something. But there's nothing for him to be accused of. At least, nothing he's aware of.

"A protector. At least, I try to be." From his children to the innocent bystander, he feels that responsibility. To protect those who otherwise cannot do it themselves. "Is there a reason for your question?"

[022-677-8819]

[022-677-8819]

he never moved on. not completely.

he didn't find you in time. i'm sorry.

I wish I found him that night. I wish I hadn’t been fooled by the wrong man.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Did you have a bad time there?

Suddenly Vincent isn't really in the mood for coffee anymore.

He sets his mug aside, shifting in his spot and turning his head away from the source of the question completely, breathing calculated and measured. He doesn't say anything, but he thinks it.

He had the best time.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

What’s wrong with the cherry kiss? It’s a nice little club

Vincent's grip on the mug tightens, and his jaw alongside it. He wishes you'd stop persisting, that they'd go back to the normal questions. How do you even know about–

"The one thing that made it nice isn't there anymore."

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Have you ever been to the Cherry Kiss?

Vincent face hardens, and his eyes flit away from you to anywhere else. Down at his mug. Something stirs in his expression, but he won't let you see.

"...I don't know what you're talking about."

[022-677-8819]

i wish -

[a snippet of not for me by chet baker. garbled.]

lend my sweater. the interior walls should be warmer.

Distantly, she feels the sensation of what was supposed to be warm. Soft, enveloping, surrounding her. Growing around her bones, all the ones that had sunken into the dirt too deeply for recovery. “It would’ve been nice.”

[022-677-8819]

there's no more heroes here.

[garbled]

can they supposed if they aren't around?

“I’m not meant to leave here, I’m pretty sure at least.” Laughing, her voice overlaid with crackling static and the echo from the basement. Somedays it won’t repeat her correctly. When the crickets and beetles start to roam through cracks in the plaster.

“It’s cold in here. I gave him my coat. My jewelry too. I hope they let him keep it.”

[murdersinthemaking]

It’s Mother’s Day.

Do you even remember her face?

Discarded in the bottom pile of an evidence locker, a system they never bothered to update past poorly scanned copies.

“You’ve done absolutely fucking nothing, every time I come here! I want him arrested, anything! Just talk to him, actually interview him instead of sitting on your stupid, idle asses!”

“Mrs. Mathis, please. We can have our medical examiner go over you now to see if there’s actually any evidence. Our actual examiner isn’t in tonight, so it’s going to be one of our officers.”

[022-677-8819]

🐞

It rings out clearly, no interference or dropped signals. Colette, parked outside a motel and whispering into the receiver of her flip phone. You’re not on the other end for once.

“I know, I miss you too. You’re coming tonight? I’m just outside, let me know when you’re checked in.” A pause, checking over her shoulder again. Laughing like the gentle ring of a landline, she cozies up towards the window. “Oh yeah, I dropped him off at my sisters for the night. Donny gets on really with her son. Yes, he did have ballet yesterday, they’ve been talking about a real performance. Out of town too.”

Curling her hair around her finger, she glances up at the glowing neon of the motel. “Christian? No, no I haven’t seen him for a bit. He’s been out of town for a while. Not answering the phone…”

[022-677-8819]

🐞

[022-677-8819]

[bitter silence, as if those words, that tone stir a visceral reaction.]

[garbled] ...sorry, miss. i don't know. how [garbled] reach you from here.

[another bit of static, mixed with old music.]

here. i'll help. the [garbled] a house?

A dial up, the chiptune melody of old internet starting up overtakes her voice. It crackles again, the quiet click of another phone joining the line. Crickets chirp, the dull drone of highway traffic. “I don’t think I’m supposed to leave.” Colette’s voice comes through perfectly practiced, re-recorded.

[022-677-8819]

i -

[a choked gurgle]

ariadne worth. who is donny?

The line crackles, the connection occasionally dropping. But she’s still there. Waiting.

“My son, have you seen him? It’s-“ It drops once more, the dial tone bouncing off the concrete floor. There’s very little she can grasp at down here, the walls level and smoothed, the floor cold and unyielding. Some days, she finds herself. The one out there. Pieces blown between police stations and the ditch. Neither of her eyes were buried.

“He left and he’s just-he hasn’t called me…”

[022-677-8819]

Do you pick up the phone

[022-677-8819]

I had no one else to call.