⌛: the voicemail my muse leaves on your phone when your muse hasn’t been heard from for the fifth night this week
Knick-knacks were sprawled out all over the floor of Kit’s bedroom. Five days of laundry littered the ground like a new set of carpet, with peeks of mahogany being observed in rarity. Several plates with caked up food found themselves marinating alongside the rest of the less than sanitary environment. Everything seemed to be growing into its own depression induced habitat.
Kit sat with his toes cuddled up in the inside of a twenty-piece McNugget box. The breaded meat-byproduct mushed beneath his foot, but it seemed like he didn’t notice or care how gross the overall scene must’ve been. His eyes stared blankly at a singular object, the only thing that tethered him to this plane of existence: his phone. The rosegold cell rested atop his dresser, alighting every few moments with some notification or another but each of its vibrations and sounds were mute to him. He only waited for one.
Isla had a distinct ringtone in his phone for her texts and calls. It was the audio of the piano piece he’d composed while they were drunk and messing around on his phone’s apps. It was crude and not even in the realm of good, but it reminded him of how alight with happiness the girl was when he began banging his fingers along the fake keyboard.
It had been five days since he’d last heard that noise. They spent everyday talking to one another in one shape or form. It was usually by goodnight text message or a good morning call. But it was radio silence for five whole days. One hundred and twenty hours of no Isla.
Suddenly getting the urge to do something about it, he pushed forward off of his bed, unceremoniously falling flat on his face due to a lack of actual foundation beneath his feet. He crawled up slowly and used the dresser for support, then grasped his phone and sat down with his back to the wooden structure. He dialed her number, letting each tap of his finger reverberate through his entire being.
The incessant ringing wouldn’t stop. She wasn’t going to answer. He knew that by the third. After the final ring sounded, the voicemail message was played and he heard a voice he hadn’t in days. It forced him to bite down into his lower lip to stop his tears from swelling up in his eyes. After the tone, a garbled, choked noise left him. It was chased by seconds of silence. Then…
