You woke up because of your telephone ringing, and the sound is horrible and bangs on your head like a hammer. Previous evening had been extremely lonely and eventless, and you needed a heavy boost for your imagination. Oh, right, here's the bottle. Empty. And another one. Or maybe you're just seeing double. The phone rings persistently and even sinisterly, like a ghost of life you tried to wash away with whisky yesterday. The sound makes you want to guillotine yourself.
You cripple to the phone and pick up.
- I'll come by, - says the hoarse voice in the receiver. You know that voice very well, and it's like a knife that sinks into your ear, plucking your tympanic membrane and making your brain flow down your neck. You immediately straighten up as much as you can – you can't let your horrible hangover betray your weakness. You haven't heard this voice for so long.
- Where have you been? - you manage to mumble with a pretty steady voice (cheers for you), but immediately regret the words you say, so you do your best to fix it, - I mean, when will you come?
- In the evening. Tidy up your hole.
Then he hangs up. You don't put receiver down and just listen to the beeping noise, indulging yourself in the headache it brings. You roll on your back on the floor and listen to the Morse code of your phone until it's buzzing in your ears and salty on your tongue. He'll be coming, bangs the thought, like a moth trembling on the inside of your skull, he'll be coming.
You've been sitting in your fort for hours and hours for now, back to one of the walls, cold and concrete, and the empty bottle of whisky is cold and concrete against your hand. You're half-drifted into your sweet make-believe realm, where you're not sitting in the fort but sitting on your table, and a certain man is undoing your tie. The taste on your tongue is bitter and your whole body is aching, but his fingers is slipping under your collar, under your shirt, and though it's just an imaginary touch, you experience pleasure.
You've been hooked out of your dreams when the telephone rings again, and the sound is horrible and bangs on your head like a hammer. You notice you've been clenching your telephone apparatus on your knees, and you're not quite sure how it got there. You throw the bottle away and pick up.
- It's been a little troublesome here, - the familiar husky voice say, and your rib cage collapse on itself.
- You won't be coming, would you? - you say, not trying to sound bravado this time.
- No, - comes the answer, and you want to sob at the sudden emptiness of your office.
- Can I call you? You never even tell me your number.
- I'm calling from the pay phone. I need to go.
- I put on my best costume. You know. The tie, other stuff. I'm not good with ties, PI did it for me, - words bubble from your mouth, and you really wish you would want to stop. But all those facts just come out from your throat, and the taste on your tongue is so impossibly bitter.
- Your tie's the most shitty thing I've ever seen. And all of your other clothes too, - spits the man on the other side.
- And me? - you say quietly, - The most shitty thing you've ever seen?
- … Are you drunk or what? - the voice becomes irritated and hissing. There's a dog howling somewhere on the background, in the street where he calls from the pay phone. You realize that's it's night now, but your desperation is overwhelming (he's not coming).
- Can I come to you? - you ask timidly.
- If anyone sees you around me it'll be catastrophic. Are you sitting in your stupid office fort again? - he says, and it's something in his tone that make you flinch. You look at your clothes, with sepia blots of whisky, rusty spatters of blood, that tie you couldn't even tie well, and you hate everything that is on you, near you and that is you.
- I was waiting for you, - you mumble, as if it's some court yard interrogating. This suspect is guilty, Judge, Sir. He deserves life imprisonment, - You said you'll be coming.
- Then just continue sitting there. There's some business I must take care of. I don't want to be explaining anything to you.
You don't know what to say. You sit in your fort, legs pressed tightly to your chest, and clench your chest, dig your nails in it until it hurts.
- Can I call you?
- No. I told you I'm calling from the pay phone, you brainless worm. Gosh, you're such a worthless waste of time...
- … What?
- I need to go. And try to stay sober.
But he already hung up. You're frozen, depersonalized. Waste of time. Your hands fall at your sides like marionette's, and you just listen to that Morse code that beeps idly and oh so very familiarly in receiver on the floor. You feel very lonely and evetless again.
You close your eyes and let your imagination carry you in another time-line.