there’s gravel in our voices;
Sometimes he found himself smashing his fist into walls just to see if they were real walls, if this was real pain, if all of this, the sky, the buildings, his memories, were in fact, real.
Sometimes he found himself wondering if there was any true meaning to what he had endured, or if it had all been pointless chaos, a smatter of red against a white, white wall, a corrosion of pipes that leaked and screamed with the strain of heat within their contents.
He felt like screaming often. He felt like there was nothing more he could do other than scream.
He had nothing now aside from a deep-sense of dread that sunk into his stomach, a pit in his intestine, and he thrashed about at night, as if to inspire some form of horrific digestion.
In the belly of the beast, all he could do was look up and see the panel of bone that had become the knotted column of a rib-cage, the beat of the heart of a monster, and shine his light around.
There was nothing aside from forward movement.
He didn’t know why he bothered to try to find her. He didn’t know what he’d gain aside from some fragment of clarity, and if it would help him sleep at night, he’d do his best to get into contact with her.
If in fact her real name was actually Juli Kidman.
He ran his tongue under his teeth and as his stomach thrashed about with nerves, he dialed the number, not sure if the number worked at all.
And then, to his surprise, she picked up on the first hum of the connecting tone.
“We have to talk,” he said, and without giving her time to speak – he wasn’t even sure he wanted to hear her voice right now – he continued without so much as pausing to think of his actions.
“Meet me somewhere discreet, meet me at that park, the small one by the museum, at about 2 in the morning tonight. I’ll bring coffee.”
And then, he simply hung up, his hands shaking with the motion.
