Voicemail // Kabby

January 24

"Hello, this is Marcus Kane. Sorry I can't get to the phone right now, but if you leave a message along with your name, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you, may we meet again."

BEEP

Silence.

The phone in her hand was shaking. Her hands were shaking; she was shaking.

Silence.

The sun peeked out from behind her bedroom curtains. The clock on the wall ticked as the time neared six in the morning. The sunlight that leaked through hit the hand holding the phone where a silver band on her ring finger glistened.

Silence.

In her other hand she held a small picture frame. Inside laid a family photo of six smiling faces. It had been taken last July. It also shook in her hand.

Silence.

Her eyes were focused on the picture; more importantly, on one specific person. A tear dropped onto the frame, landing on the man she was staring at. More tears followed, dropping in different areas on the frame.

Silence.

Her grip on the frame and the phone tightened as she closed her eyes. The tears flowed more steadily as a sob started to wreck its way through her body. More tears slid down her cheeks and glistened as they continued to fall on the frame. Her body shook more violently each time the clocked ticked.

Silence.

She sat like that for a while: silently crying, clutching the picture frame and the phone in her shaking hands, and body trembling. She seemed to forget she was on the phone. Bringing the phone away from her ear, she stared at the screen.

Silence.

A single name was written across the screen with a timer counting up the seconds ticking by, recording the silence. Seeing the name made her heart clench and it got harder for her to breathe. Her hands began to shake more.

Silence.

Slowly, she set the picture frame down on the bed. Looking behind her, she saw the other side of the bed which was still neatly made. There were no indents in the mattress or pillow, no crinkles in the sheets; but more importantly, there was no one sleeping in the space.

Silence.

The scene in front of her brought fresh tears to her eyes. Cradling the phone to her chest now, she slowly stood up. On shaky legs, she made her way over to the window. Moving the curtains to the side, sunlight poured into the room.

Silence.

She can almost hear his voice, hoarse and gruff from sleep, tell her, "Abby, dear, it's too early. Some of us don't have the early shift."

He always joked about the sunlight streaming in his eyes from when she would pull the curtains open every morning. She expected the response to come automatically; it was routine.

Silence.

No response came. A small sob escaped her lips as she broke down into more tears. Slowly, pulling the phone from her chest, her eyes registered on the name of the man who should have said his routine line a few seconds ago.

That's what it was. It was a routine, now it's a memory.

CALL ENDED