Hotline

A short story

NOTE: This story contains themes of suicide and self-harm. If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out for support. You can seek out local mental health resources or support networks for guidance and aid. You don't have to go through it alone.

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The call comes early in the morning. It wakes me up from my fugue state. I’m sitting zombie-like in my armchair watching dead static.  My feet rest on the coffee table in front as an old phone clatters and screams next to my big toe.

Sammy, she insisted we had it - this land line machine.

Stupid me: stupid Daniel, suggesting we just use our iphones like everybody else. No. Sammy and her folks, they were old timey. They liked the feel of chunky plastic in their hands, against their ears.

Every Wednesday night without fail, her Mom calls. And that ringtone, straight out of the mid-nineties, echoes about our apartment like some crazed parrot flown in from the tropics. Then Sammy, and her Mom, they start swapping stories about their week. Sammy on the left side of the bed - her side of the bed - sharing her problems and fears, excitements and interests.

Me: lying down next to her.

Me: in my boxer shorts looking up at her, looking at her smooth legs sticking out of those skimpy pyjama shorts.

Me: with my hand reaching out and running my fingers along the curve of her calf muscle, while she’s saying:

“No Mom, I didn’t go see them, no, it’s just an ingrown hair… No! I’m not going to contract Folliculitis.”

Me: with my fingers, slipping their way up her shorts towards her pussy, but it’s dry and I’m soft anyhow, and she’s saying on the phone:

“How about you? Did you get that mole looked at?”

She’s cupping one hand over the receiver to mute herself, while swiping at me with the other and hissing:

“Not now! I’m busy.”

Sammy’s swapping recipes with her Mom next to me, as I’m beating off on the bed. I’m imagining somebody else and jerking it to the sound of that woman’s muffled voice through the landline:

“It’s two cups of flour dear, not one.”

Them: in their bubble.

Me: in mine.

*

Right now it’s two AM and this damn phone keeps on ringing. Sammy’s gone to stay with her sister for a while. Until we get our shit sorted. Until; she says, until you can stop acting like a child. As she’s marching out the door, she’s telling me if her Mom calls - don’t let on, just say that she’s working late. Mom doesn’t need to know we’re having problems.

And now the phone is ringing.

Again.

“Hello?” the receiver in my hand up to my ear, there’s a sniffling sound from across the crackle-void. Then, a boy’s voice breaking like he’s still on the backend of puberty, he’s crying and he’s saying:

“I don’t think I can go on like this.” He’s sniffing his nose and whispering, “Nobody knows anyone anymore, we all just pretend.”

Me: in my armchair, listening to this boy, to his confession.

He isn’t the first and he won’t be the last.

Deep breath.

Remember how easy it was last time, how painless it was to take a life. My voice says, “Welcome to the suicide hotline, you’re speaking with a waste of space.”

This boy, he’s telling me his life is over. His dad found out he’s gay. They’re sending him to some bible camp, some Jesus resort. They’re gonna make him drink poison – Syrup of Ipecac or activated Charcoal - get him to hurl while he’s looking at dick pics. Make him barf while watching grown men butt fuck.

This camp, he tells me, nobody comes out the same. He says, if the vomit therapy doesn’t work, they’ll hire prostitutes to straighten him out, get him living that hetero lifestyle. He’s heard the stories; he’s telling me electro-shock therapy is in, acceptance is out. Conversion is gospel. Inclusion equals blasphemy.

He isn’t the first. He won’t be the last.

And me: I’m asking can he run away? Has he got anywhere to go?

He’s saying he’s got no money, no job, nowhere to stay, and he’s telling me he doesn’t want to give handjobs outside of bars for a couch to crash on. This boy, I ask him, how old is he? He’s seventeen, but people always mistake him for being younger. A mistake regular enough to prompt the uncomfortable question of why so many men are interested in him.

His Dad’s always telling him he’s a pip squeak, a pansy, a sookie-la-la, a failed abortion. I’m looking at that blank TV again, swearing something was on it. Looking at the spluttering static, listening to this spluttering gay kid and remembering I was watching something at some point. In the other room is my bed, with the imprint of Sammy, still dented heavy, into the mattress, left side only. And I’m wondering what she’s doing right now as the kid, he asks me my name.

Next thing I know, I’m asking him if he has a pen and can he write this down? I’m giving him the address to my apartment and he’s sneaking out the window, on his way over. He’s crying thanks, and asking me not to tell. I’m saying, sorry kid, I work for a government agency, and I swore an oath. You’re underage. You’re folks will have to know where you are eventually.

This boy: Pleading no, and I’m telling him I could lose my job, that I wish I could let it slide. There’s nothing but dial tone and TV static.

*

I’ve been getting a lot of calls lately, and not just from the nosey mother-in-law. Ever since Sammy left, I’ve been picking up the phone whenever it rings, whenever it says no caller ID just to see what shakes loose.

Sammy never mentioned it before, but our phone number - it’s basically the same as the local suicide prevention line, and now I know why we were always getting weird calls in the middle of the night.

Time after time, I’d wake up, lurch forward in bed and Sammy, she’d say: “Just ignore it. Wrong number.” Before rolling over again. On the phone to her Mom, she’d reply: “Yeah, they’re still calling. No, I’m not picking up.”

I guess when you’ve got a noose around your neck, spotting the difference between an eight or nine on a touchpad isn’t exactly a high priority.

 Welcome to the suicide hotline. You’re speaking with a waste of space.

*

The buzzer rings an hour or so before sunrise and that gay kid, I let him in. This short little fucker with droopy eyes. I call him Chuckles because he’s my one good act. My one redeeming moment. When I was small, they’d tell you if you wanted saving you needed church. You needed God. You needed to sponsor a child: go to Africa, teach English, combat starvation and feed them bibles. What they don’t tell you is you are perfectly capable of being a missionary in your own home. The third world is right on your doorstep if you open your eyes.

Chuckles, with a backpack over his shoulders, takes one confused look at me, and the apartment, and how much it doesn’t look like the headquarters of a suicide prevention centre. He shuffles in, drops his bag, tears forming in his eyes and sighs. Accepting his perceived fate he asks:

“What do I need to do?”

I tell him to relax, tell him I don’t want anything. He asks why I’m helping him and I say: “Would you believe me if I told you it was out of the goodness of my heart?”

Chuckles, he smiles politely and does a wide berth around me, making his way to the armchair in the lounge. The kid sits down and stares at the flickering TV screen.

“Got anything to eat?”

*

Flashback: to the night Sammy first left, I’m lying on the bed, picking at my toenails, when that land line rings for the first time. I think about ignoring it, but then figure it might be her. Maybe she’s calling to say she’s sorry, to say she’s coming home. I jump up and head to the living room.

The phone, it says: No caller ID.

On the other end is this sad, sad woman, telling me she’s cold. I’m asking her, has she got the thermostat turned right up? Poor thing: she’s worried about the power bill, so I teach her how to cheat. I tell her: turn the thermostat on full. I say: switch on the oven, the elements, everything. I ask her if she has any alcohol. I tell her she needs to get really drunk. I explain for her to keep switching power companies, to rack up a debt keeping herself warm, then heat up the inside of her skull with a shotgun barrel.

Sure she’s leaving a debt for her kids, and sure some people might call that selfish, but others might call it legacy.

I say: You have my permission to die.

She is the first, but she won’t be the last.

*

Daytime: I’m out at the office. Answering phones. Managing accounts. Counting the clock. A call comes in and I’m saying: Welcome to the suicide hotline. You’re speaking with a waste of space.

The caller, he whimpers: “Excuse me?”

Back at the apartment, Chuckles, he’s cooking dinner for me. Getting it ready by the time I arrive home. After we eat, him and I, we both perch on that lonely armchair, we both watch the static on TV, we both swear that there were pictures a second ago, a second before the other arrived.

When it’s past midnight, we share the same bed, only now I’ve swapped sides. I keep imagining what Sammy would say if she came home and saw some teenage boy in her indent, on the left side, so he sleeps on the right.

 And every Wednesday night, I’m on the left of the mattress, answering phone calls, saying: “It gets better.” Playing the good guy, I’m telling them: “You never know what’s around the corner.” I’m racking off these generic one liners, trying to save a life. Chuckles next to me, reading a book, reading Kafka or Dostoevsky, while this self-destructive stranger’s shouting at me:

 “I can’t go on!”

And then, hand over my face to hide my voice. And then a whisper into the receiver to stop my roomie from hearing, I tell them: Your microwave won’t start until the door is shut. I explain: It’s a safety thing, the door has to clip in, before the heat can flow. Take a plastic fork and snap off the outer prongs, I say. I’m explaining, jam the fork in the place where the door normally clips in and you can trick the device into thinking its shut. I whisper: set it for half an hour, forty minutes, a day, I don’t know, but set it, stick your head inside and hit start.

This stranger, on the other end of the phone, they’re silent for a moment, before asking:

“Would that work?”

And I say:

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a shot.”

*

I come home from work about a month and half into Sammy and mine’s separation, open the front door and step inside. Chuckles, watching the TV, sees me and quickly changes the channel.

“I washed your suit for you today.”

I grunt and say: “It stinks in here.”

He doesn’t reply. I ask:

“Any calls?”

This kid, he nods his head at the coffee table.

“There’s a message.” He says.

On the phone, a blinking red number one.

“Hello,” the voice crackles. A man, he asks for me by name, then states: “This is Detective Willis.”

He says:

“I was just calling to see if I can come speak with you, regarding an ongoing investigation.”

He pauses, and sighs, like he’s tired:

“Obviously you’re not in. I’ll try again later.”

This isn’t the first. It won’t be the last.

*

At two am, a priest calls, rambling in tears about being unable to carry all his guilt. In a half-asleep state, I tell him, he should end it like Franco Brun and swallow his bible. You’ll die of asphyxiation, but you’re also feeding your soul.

A day later, I’m telling someone else about how Japanese Samurai used to disembowel themselves with a knife, how the Romans would fall on their sword. I say: If you’re gonna kill yourself, you may as well make a statement. You may as well go out with a bang.

I say:

Welcome to the suicide hotline. You’re speaking with a waste of space…

*

Next morning, before we can wake up, someone’s knocking on the front door. It’s that policeman, that Detective Willis. He’s asking:

“Can I come in?” and “Is this a good time?”

Chuckles jumps under the bed, we figure last thing a cop needs to see is a full grown man sharing a bed with a teenaged boy.

Detective Willis stands in the living room and I find myself asking if he wants a cup of coffee, he looks at the TV screen, at the static, and says:

“Cute kid. That you?”

He drinks his coffee and tells me: “A certain Father Maloney, killed himself last night, swallowed his own bible.”

He asks me: “Did you know him?”

He tells me: “Rachel Suthers. Sixteen years old. Exchange student from down south. Tried to cook her head in a microwave. Intensive care. She’s lucky to be alive.”

He asks me: “Did you know her?”

He rattles off a couple of other names, a couple of other gruesome deaths before finishing his drink and asking again: “Are you sure you don’t know any of these people?”

I ask him: “What is this about?”

“There’s been an increase of bizarre deaths.” He tells me, “All in the same area. All of them folks suffering from some form of mental illness. All of them made a phone call within hours of their deaths. All of them called you.”

Welcome to the suicide hotline. You’re speaking with a waste of space.

I ask him: “And the boy?” I say, “The gay kid who’s gone missing, are you looking for him?”

Detective Willis asks: “What gay kid?”

“What did you say to them?”

“Where’s Mrs ????”

“Sir, where is your wife?”

“The gay kid.” I tell him, “He’s been living with me, I’ve been looking after him. You know? Chuckles. The one who went missing.”

The Detective, he looks at me, and then looks at the TV screen playing old home videos on repeat.

“Is someone else is living here with you?”

“Chuckles!” I shout, “Come out! The gig is up!”

I want to boast. I need to show this detective that I AM capable of saving a life. That he may have been the first, but he won’t be the last.

The apartment is silent.

Detective Willis looks uneasy, then he pinches his nose shut and asks me again:

“Where is your wife?”

“Chuckles?” I shout, looking around the room, “Where is that kid?”

Detective Willis, stands up, he pushes his chest out and fingers his gun.

“Sir, calm down.” He says, “Sir, the only kid in this apartment is the one on your TV.”

And I look, and on that Television, the one which always plays static and blurred lines, it’s suddenly playing old home movies. On the screen - a young boy, he could be seventeen, but he looks a lot younger. His Dad - this real bastard of a man - is filming the kid dancing around his bedroom, unaware anyone is watching. The Dad, he scares the son, he shouts: “I knew it!” he spits, “You fucking pansy.” this boy, this Chuckles, this me, he blushes and screams at the camera.

“Sir?” Detective Willis says, snapping me back to attention, “Please answer the question. Where is your wife?”

I try think back. I try to remember, to recall, something about her going to stay with her sister, but that no longer rings true. I think about the dent in our bed, the left side of the bed, weighted down with the outline of her body, the mattress pressed down with the ghost of her presence. I think about me and Chuckles, but really just me, sleeping on the right side of the bed, so as not to disturb her. I look back at the bedroom door, her in her bubble and me in mine.

“Sir,” Detective Willis repeats, following my gaze, tightening his grip on his nostrils, “Sir, is your wife in that bedroom?” He pulls out his gun with his free hand and points it at my face.

Welcome to the Suicide hotline. You’re speaking with a waste of space.

“Stay right where you fucking are.” He tells me.

I tell him: “The numbers. They’re basically the same. It’s hard to spot the difference with a noose around your neck.”

Detective Willis, he steps to the bedroom door, never taking his eyes off me. He kicks it open and immediately vomits on the carpet.

*

Flashback to when I was small: They’d tell you if you wanted saving you needed church or God. My Dad, he’d tell me: Fags don’t enter the kingdom of heaven. He’d say things like: You’re not worth it, and you’re no son of mine.

Like I said: The third world is always on your doorstep if you open your eyes.

The night I found out my folks were sending me to a conversion therapy camp, to some Jesus resort, I packed my bags and ran away from home. I didn’t get far. Six months later, I emerged with more self-loathing and a stronger gag reflex than any number of nights at the clubs could ever afford me. Until the age of twenty one, I’d jerk men off in back alleys for places to sleep, for food. Until I killed my parents. Until I disguised myself by marrying her.

*

Detective Willis, he tells me a day or two later from behind a plexi-glass window, that I’m responsible for the deaths of twenty five people. He doesn’t know yet about Mom or Dad. He tells me the press are calling me the Hotline killer and that there are families out there who want to see me fry.

Detective Willis: he looks at me and I can see sadness in his eyes. I can see that he cares. He tells me I killed my wife. He tells me I stabbed her five times in the chest and slept next to her body for weeks. He tells me her mother was the one to report her missing.

He explains to me I’m sick.

He says: “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through with your father.” he says, “What an asshole.”

I look at him and he looks at me, and besides the glass window between us, there is no bubble. We are both here, together, in this moment.

My lawyer says I should plead insanity. She tells me they’ll give me a nice life where doctors can look after me. But I doubt my mother-in-law would find that to be a satisfactory conclusion.

The night before my trial, I’m sitting in my cell, on my mattress and I’m missing Chuckles. I look down at the pillow beside me and pick up the small King James Bible placed upon it. For some reason Franco Brun comes to mind.

A phone rings suddenly next to me. A voice on the other end it says:

“Welcome to the suicide hotline. You’re speaking with a waste of space.”

My mouth salivates.

My stomach grumbles.

I lick my lips.

I tell him: “I think I need to speak to someone.”