Page 61 of Hello, Listener
I shift my body in the chair when I feel my phone vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans.What the fuck is this about?
Thalia:
Hey, Alan.
No. Not her. Not now. She can’t do this to me. Not right now. I’m in the middle of something. Just when I was about to forget her.
“Fuck!” I scream. My pretty hostage startles as the loud exclamation bounces off the solid walls.Don’t answer her.
Me:
Hello, Listener.
Shit.I stand up and shove my phone back into my pocket, angrily pacing around the small space between my chair and the terrified girl in front of me.
“She can’t do this to me,” I yell. “She thinks she can have us both. She thinks she can fuck us both and that everything will just be okay!” I pause and take a long sigh.Maybe she does care.“If she cared, she wouldn’t have been riding his dick,” I clap back to my own thoughts aloud.Maybe she feels guilty. Maybe she didn’t know youcared so much.“I told her what she meant to me. She knows how much she means to me,” answering my own thoughts again. “What do you think?” I ask the confused and tormented girl in front of me.
“What…?” Her voice shakes.
“Do you think she loves me?” I impatiently wait for her response.
“Uhhh…” she stammers.
“Only one way to find out.”
I feel her eyes on me again while she watches me walk over to the array of basic tools sitting on my shelf. I gently drag my fingers over the different handles. The cold metal feels so heavy in my hand. My body vibrates with anticipation when I feel the buzzing of the phone in my pocket for a second time.
Thalia:
I miss you
“Fuck!” I scream again, and I throw the phone down on the hard floor.She misses me. She loves me.“She doesn’t miss me. She’s just alone without Lee.”
The adrenaline rushes through me, and I quickly walk over to the chair across from the tripod. She winces in pain as I rip the duct tape from her small wrists. I feel the fear running through her, vibrating the metal chair on the hard floor. “What do you think?” I ask again, looking into her terror-fueled expression. She looks down at my large hands gripping the pliers in my hand. Her much smaller hands are trembling on her lap.
“What are you doing?!” She cries as I grab one of her hands, isolating one of her fingers. She stares with her mouth agape asthe flat surface of the jaw of the pliers slides under the tip of her short fingernail.
“What do you think, pretty girl?” I ask, still looking down at her black fingernail. “She loves me?”
She screams in agony as I pull on the tip and watch the nail detach from the tip of her index finger before moving to the next digit.
“She loves me not?” She screams again. Her body shakes violently in the chair. I move the pliers to her ring finger. “She loves me?”
“Please don’t do this!” She continues to cry loudly. She screams again when I pull hard on the handle. “Just stop! Please!” She begs. I set down the pliers and gently grab her face between both of my hands.
“Shhh. Pretty girl. Only one more.” Grabbing the tool again, I slide it beneath her pinkie nail. I pull, and she lets out another scream. “She loves me.” With much relief, I stand up as she sobs behind me. A loud metallic sound fills the small space between us as the pliers fall from my hands and land on the floor. I grab my phone out of my pocket and type out a quick text message to Thalia.
Me:
I miss you, too.
I slide my phone back into the back pocket of my jeans and turn around and look at the mess I made in front of me. She babies her injured hand with the other. Her face is covered in sweat, tears, and smeared black makeup.
“You look perfect. So ruined and so broken.” I remove her phone from the tripod and walk it closer to her to unlock it. The screenopens again before I set the phone on the tripod and find the camera app to start the recording all over.
“You asked me earlier what my name was. My name is Alan, pretty girl.” I press record and take the switchblade out of my pocket. She panics as she watches me move in closer towards her chair. For just a moment, I stand behind her shaking body. With one hand, I hold her neck so her head faces the camera. With the other, I press the blade up to her porcelain skin. Her blood reflects off the mirrored edge of the knife, the deeper I press into her neck. I watch and listen as she gasps for air. Flowing like my own personal fountain, crimson floods down her pale chest. Her limp body falls forward, and her blood splashes on the concrete as if it were raining on the sidewalk. I move towards the tripod and end the recording. The cotton of my black shirt becomes useful as I wipe off the fingerprints on her phone case and place it neatly inside her small black purse.
“I’ve got the perfect place for you, pretty girl,” I tell the lifeless body in front of me.
