Page 40 of Versions Of Us

There’s a crackling coming through the phone line followed by some staticky clicking. A sense of unease sits in my gut. Even before she speaks, I know something isn’t right.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she whispers softly.

“Why are you whispering?” I ask, my own voice low and quiet.

Her breathing is staggered, her demeanour different.

Frightened.

It’s all the evidence I need to conclude that she’s in some kind of threatening circumstance.

“I can’t let them hear me?” She sniffles, a sure sign that she’s been crying.

Maybe she still is.

“Who, Em?” I ask. “Who’s there with you?”

I want to offer her some form of comfort, but I need to know what kind of situation she’s found herself in. I’m worried she’s in danger. When she doesn’t answer right away it sends my heart into a flutter of nervous palpitations.

“He’s coming,” she croaks.

“Who?” I ask again, leaning forward on the edge of my seat. The pitch of my voice has crept up an octave, my nerves beginning to get the better of me. I fight to keep my breathing steady, to keep my voice calm.

I ask her again. “Em. Is there someone there with you?”

There’s a long pause and I start to think she’s no longer there. Then she finally murmurs her answer into the phone.

“Yes.”

I breathe a sigh of relief hearing her speak again, but the urgency of this situation is still very real. It’s obvious that whoever is there with her is someone she doesn’t feel safe with.

“Are you in trouble? Do you need me to call the police?” I ready myself to go straight into emergency protocol at her instruction. If I knew where she was, I would have already.

She doesn’t answer and then I hear a separate voice.

A male voice.

“What are you doing?” he asks impatiently. I’m assuming he’s talking to Em. “Come on. We need to go,” he adds, louder, angrier.

“Em, who is that? Where are you?” I plead with her. “Please tell me what’s going on!”

There’s interference on the other end of the line and then a clunk, as though she may have dropped the phone. I can’t hear her anymore.

I jolt in my seat when I hear the male voice shout aggressively at her. “Who the fuck are you talking to?!”

“No one,” I hear her reply timidly.

“Get up!” he shouts.

“Please. Don’t!” She screams and then a sob escapes her.

A sickening thud turns the contents of my stomach over.

The dial tone is piercing.

My lungs are suddenly empty of air, my cheeks wet with tears.

And then I’m sitting upright in my bed, wiping beads of sweat from my cold, clammy forehead.

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