Hello, we need you

Hello, we need you

A Story by David J Rogers
"

A writing prompt gave me the start of an idea then it changed a bit. Enjoy.

"

The phone rang. He didn't answer it. It said "private number". He had stopped taking calls for quite some time. If he didn't recognize the number, he let it ring. It kept ringing. He decided  to let it go to voice mail. If it went to voice mail, he might call them back. He just stared at the phone until it stopped. There was no buzz notifying him of voice mail. The phone rang again. It said "private number". Maybe I should answer it this time, he thought. "Hello?"


A female voice on the other end said, "We need you." Then, silence.


Without thinking, he pressed the red button and set the phone down. He sat in her favorite chair. It was red but faded with time. It was plush with high arms. She would curl up in it and read. Occasionally, she would read to him. He listened. Her voice was music to him then. Now, the whiskey could not drown out the torment of her voice echoing in his head. She was the reason he quit. She was the reason he became 'normal'. He looked across the room. There she was, staring back at him from the picture frame, smiling, sitting in her red chair, holding a book. She had gone from the love of his life to his daily nightmare. He was the reason she was no longer here, and he knew it all too well.


There was no vow that stopped him from his previous work. There was only her request to stop it. So, he did. For her. And, now, she is gone. He looked to the cabinet across the room. He knew there were two bottles in there. One not quite finished, and one whose seal had yet to be broken. He turned his head and looked back at the phone. Did he open the cabinet to begin a binge that he would pay for later, or did make a phone call to get the location? He let out a heavy sigh of resolve and pushed against the chair. The bottles would wait until he really hated himself later.


The voice on the other end of the phone simply said: "Safe house number 2, near the wharf." He set the phone down. He opened the door to the basement and walked down the old wooden steps. They creaked a bit as he made his way down. On the far side of the room, around piles of collected debris, he made his way to a coarse 2x4 and plywood workbench. He pushed on a panel and a section of wall moved. It was just large enough for him to slide through it. He worked his way down the short, narrow hallway sideways. He entered a small, dusty room of boxes, crates, and duffel bags. Mechanically he moved boxes and bags off of a particularly large trunk. He pulled the trunk away from the wall. It felt heavy and full. He didn't bother knocking the dust off. He reached for the clasps and released them.


There was a 'pssh' as air came out of the case. He pulled the lid up to its fullest extent. There it was. Staring at him. His nightmare. It was a combination of engineering wonder mixed with something else. It was the something else that always ate at him; especially after she...


He stopped himself. He stared blindly at the ceiling. He could feel the adrenaline kicking in, beginning to flow. He could feel his muscles getting heavy, full. He knew he could not master it, only control it. He could not let it loose again. With a sense of doom and dread, he touched the hardware. It was cold, yet vibrant under his hand.


Like always, he did not remember much of what had happened. The psychologists said it was because he didn't want to remember. Maybe. But maybe it was also because it liked to take over a bit too much. All he was sure of was it was over. The sun was coming up. The whiskey had done its work again. And the news stories would talk of another house fire, or senseless killing, or something along those lines. He remembered something more sinister. Bullets being fired. Shouts of anger replaced by screams of fear and torment. He was judge, jury, and executioner when they called.


He sat in her chair. He looked across the room. She stared back at him from the picture frame, smiling, sitting in her red chair, holding a book. He held the bottle of whiskey in one hand and the cup with melting ice in the other. She was his nightmare and he was her beast.


© 2016 David J Rogers



Author's Note

David J Rogers
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Added on November 26, 2016
Last Updated on November 26, 2016
Tags: creative writing, dave, dave doc rogers, davedocrogers, doc, Doc Rogers Writes, fiction, rogers, sci fi, short stories, short story, writer, writing prompts

Author

David J Rogers
David J Rogers

Montgomery, AL



About
Artist • Author • Poet • Preacher I am a thinker, ponderer, assayer of thoughts. I have had a penchant for writing since childhood. I prefer "Doc" as an hommage to my grandfather Rob.. more..

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