Friday the 57th — a postcard story
The voices whispered in my head, hammering away with quiet, deadly words. They were the only ones in there now. They’d tied up Hope, shoved memory of better times and better dreams in her mouth, gagging her. Forcing her silent. They injected me with nightmares and fear––I saw their evil faces, tasted their foulness until I lost myself. But today––I woke up.
Hope, with bloodied and mangled wrists, untied my mind, let loose the thoughts of you, how you held me when I was in the dark and couldn’t find a way out. How you stayed, stroking my hair, talking love talk. Hope tells me to run. From the abandoned building. From the sleeping dead that haunted me.
Two blocks down I find a payphone. Didn’t know they had those anymore but I take it as a sign. I’m not sure I can speak––how long was I silent? The operator asks for charges to be accepted––you say yes when I croak your name. I cry. You ask where I am. I’m coming, you say.
I know you will––Hope said you’d be the one to save me.