âHey,â a voice cut through the blackness, unfamiliar in its sound, but abrupt and sharp. Phillip stirred halfheartedly and uncomfortably, as if rolling in his grave. âHey, buddy. Wake up.â A small groan passed his lips, quiet and barely audible as the teen was plucked out of the abyss of his slumber, but was still lingering. One more time maybe, he hadnât returned to his mortal form yet. âHey! Buddy! Wake up!â
Phillipâs eyes snapped open and light flooded over him so fast he thought he would go blind. Air forced its way into his lungs, forcing its way down his dry throat like knives and shards of glass. The sounds of the city clawed at his ears, yelling, car horns, sirens, trucks going over the sewer grates, and his nose was attacked by the stench of garbage cans and cat piss. His body rolled automatically, tossing him to the side like a piece of garbage as he vomited the contents of his stomach on the ground of the ally way. Three heaves and he was done, letting out low animalistic groans as he tried to push himself up but felt instead the searing pain of failure and his bruised body. A hand pat down on his back, prompting a whine as pain shook his limbs.
âHey, man⌠You alright?â the same voice that woke him into this hell asked him worriedly. Phillip rolled onto his side, blurry eyes trying to focus on the face, but he couldnât match it up to anyone in his memory. âYouâve been passed out for two days now, I thought you were dying, kid.â
The teen let out a muffled grunt. âFeels like I am,â he slurred, his voice croaking. The sound of it made him uneasy, like he had risen from the dead. The guy chuckled and shook his head. He held out his hand, placing a few quarters in Phillipâs open palm before he leaned in and helped the kid sit up. Phillip complied, barely awake.
âLook, kid. Youâre too young for this shit. Trust me, you donât want to end up like me, do ya?â The curly haired boy looked up and around for the first time, taking in his surroundings. They were under a small fort made out of a garbage bag, sitting on a pile of dirty towels laid out as if they were blankets. He scrunched his nose up, so thatâs where the smell was coming from. He looked down groggily at his own bruised and battered hands, the three quarters in his palm. The man rubbed his back soothingly. âCall your mom, kid. Go home. Get better. Build yourself a life, because this isnât it.â
The teen stared down at his hands, all of it slowly sinking in. He felt that hand rubbing his back in slow soothing circles, but it felt like the world was crashing around him. His chest ached, his body was sore, and he was in a haze. Next thing he knew, he was walking through the neighborhood he woke up in, quarters tight in his grasp. His eyes wandered, seeing things perfectly clear now. He looked over at the people he passed, all sick and shaking from the cold, hiding in the recesses of buildings and allies in cardboard shelters and trash bag canopies. Starving, helpless, homeless, and incredibly unhappy. He looked down at himself. He was dressed in clothes he had never seen before, dirty, matted, and used, obviously worn for days. A stench carried off of him that was unrecognizable. He blended right in. And he couldnât remember how any of it had happened. He checked the newspaper, eyes wide as he realized that the last day he remembered was over a week ago. Had he been completely zonked that whole time?
Tears welled up in his eyes. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? He made his way over to the pay phone, relieved when it was finally in sight. He closed himself in the box, leaned against the walls of the glass case and took the phone in his trembling hands as the tears began to fall from his eyes. One by one he put the quarters in. Kerchunk, kerchunk, kerchunk. He pressed the buttons in slowly, whispering to himself to make sure he dialed correctly. It rang four times, and Phillip clung to it as he tried to keep himself standing, his eyes closed as he prayed for her to answer.
âHello?â
He chewed his lip, a relieved breath darting past his lips when he heard the comforting tone of his motherâs voice. â⌠Mum?â he whimpered into the receiver. He sniffled quietly, trying to keep from crying. He slid down the wall of the pay phone, holding it close to his face with both hands.
âPhillip!? Honey!? Is that you?â her voice flew over the phone in a nervous chattering. In the background he could hear the other voices, maybe her students, maybe the other professors talking, she shushed them desperately as she snuck out of the room to hear him better.
âYeah, i-⌠itâs me mum.â
âBaby, where are you? Are you hurt?â
âIâm, Iâm okay. Iâm in the city. I donât know where, i-itâs⌠Near the bus station in Old Town. I-Iâm okay, I just⌠I donâtâŚ,â his voice cracked miserably. He let head fall back against the glass as he stared up at the sky, tears rushing down his cheeks now despite his efforts. âI wanna come home.â
âOkay. Okay⌠Okay, your mother and I are going to come get you. Stay there please honey, please donât go anywhere.â He could hear her keys jingling as she fumbled with them to open her car door.
Phillip bit his lip to keep her from hearing his sobs. He tucked his knees to his chest.
âAre you hurt sweetie? What happened?â
He ran his hand over his forehead, hiccups escaping his throat. âIâm sorry, mumma, Iâm sorry,â he whimpered into the phone, his whole body trembling. âI donât know whatâs going on with me, I-⌠I donât know why, I⌠Iâm sorry mummy.â
âItâs okay, baby. Shh⌠ShhâŚâ she whispered into the phone in that calm and loving voice that always eased him. âWeâll figure it out together, just like everything else.â
âI donât wanna be like this anymore⌠I wanna be good, mummaâŚâ he sobbed, tugging on his curls helplessly. âIâll be good, I just wanna come home.â
âWeâre coming, Philly. Weâre gonna get you all the help you need, okay?â he could hear the shaky tears in her voice. âWeâll do whatever you need. Weâre gonna get you help.â
He nodded slowly, hiding his face in his hands. It was time. He needed help.
âI love you, Philly.â
âI love you too, mummy. Iâll be good.â
âI know you will, baby ââ Click.
âPlease insert another quarter to place a call.â
Phillipâs eyes widened. âMum?â he whimpered into the phone. âMum!?â The dial tone echoed through the receiver, and he felt a tidal wave of total and utter loneliness wash over him. Still holding the phone, he allowed himself to break down, loud sobs of pain and anguish and confusion and self-loathing dripping from his throat as he curled up into a painful little ball on the floor of the telephone booth.
Arms encircled him in the backseat of the car. He leaned into his motherâs embrace, hiding his face in her shoulder as she ran her hands lovingly over him. His tears refused to stop falling despite how tired he felt, his green eyes faded and grey, surrounded by the red from his sobs. The water cascaded over his face with ease now, barely even detectable. She brushed them away, shushing him softly as she placed tiny kisses over the crown of his head. She had been crying too, as soon as she saw him sitting on the sidewalk next to the phone booth, she burst into hysterics and hadnât stopped the tears since. He hated to see her cry. He added it to the reasons they were going to have to do this.
He watched the city pass by as his mum drove, her vibrant red hair glowing as the sun shone on it, her hands strong as they held the wheel and drove with all of the bravery and steadiness that she always held in her shoulders. The pain was evident in her reflection, though, giving away her true emotions. She too was fighting not to cry as she focused on the road. It was obvious that she blamed herself. He didnât know how to make that go away yet, but he made it his goal to figure it out. He let his eyes fall shut, drifting off as his mother brushed the hair away from his forehead. He searched for her hand, taking it in his own bruised one. Lacing their fingers together, he could still feel the ghost of the three quarters pressed into his palm. The quarters he used to decide that he was going to change.
âIâll be good,â he whispered. She kissed his forehead long and slow. âIâll be good,â he mumbled over and over. It only seemed to make his mother cry more, but he needed to keep saying it. He needed to convince them all. He needed to convince himself. His eyebrows arched as the pain entered his chest again, the pain and the guilt. His lip trembled as he nuzzled into the loving touches, his limbs eventually began to relax. âIâll be good,â he whispered once more before he faded into slumber. She kissed his forehead again and rested her head lightly on top of his as she let him sleep.
âI know you will, Phillip,â she whispered.
