To Whoevers Listening

Eight : Unspoken

It appears that killing a man is incredibly bloody.

Blood in the snow, blood on my clothes, blood on the doorstep, blood every-goddamn-where.

The mans head was like a pumpkin; one hit and it cracked open, spilling the gooey insides all over the doormat.

Definitely gag-worthy.

I'm locked inside the station and the rock is still sitting beside the psycho cannibal, who is now most certainly dead.

I just killed someone. Someone just tried to kill me.

I practically launch myself off the door and run to the phone in the radio live room. I dial triple zero for our local police station.

When it begins to ring against my ear, my stomach suddenly flips and I realize that maybe this isn't the best idea. I mean, I literally just murdered someone; smashed their skull in with a rock. The police won't take that lightly. They'll send me to prison or juvie or wherever the hell they send teenage killers.

But even though I wanna hang up, I can't help but wonder why no one has answered the phone yet. It just keeps ringing and ringing, and when it stops, I call again. This time someone answers just before I'm about to give up.

“What?” the answerer snaps.

I expected Goldview Police Station, what is your emergency? Not this.

“If you don't respond, I'm going to hang up.” the man warns.

“I'm here.” I say. I can hear shouting coming from his side of the line, voices and a dozen more phones ringing in the background. “What's going on?”

“Listen, kid, I'm busy as hell right now and if you don't know what's going on then you must be somewhere far away so stay there. Stay indoors. Don't go out unless it is completely necessary.”

“Wait, I don't understand –“

“Just stay where you are. Help will come.”

Then the man hangs up and I'm left with the words “there's a dead man in my front yard” sitting unspoken in my mouth.