Hotline
Here is a story I wrote called "Hotline". It is not very good, but it is the only one I have available right now on this computer. More/better ones to follow.
Hotline
By Owen Wiseman
He could barely dial the phone. He pressed the numbers slowly, sitting in his dimly lit basement apartment with air so thick and musty he could hardly see through it. He had written down the number from a commercial, then set the pad on his bed next to the gun he had bought that day. The gun that had been in his mouth when the commercial had come on, not fifteen minutes before.
He misdialed twice, the booze making his hand heavy and awkward. He wanted to pass out, but knew even in his stupor that this night had to end with a decision, with his life either ending or moving forward. Finally, he was able to focus for enough consecutive seconds to dial the number, and he flopped back onto the bed, listening to it ring.
“Suicide Hotline. What is your name, please?”
“Jack.”
“Are you drunk, Jack?”
“Aren’t most of the people who call you drunk?”
“Yes, they are. You know Jack, its usually best not to make any major decisions while you are drunk. Sometimes we do things drunk that we regret later.”
Jack chuckled quietly to himself. It was barely audible through the phone.
“You don’t have to be drunk to do that. Believe me. Soon, though, I won’t regret anything ever again.”
“You should think twice, Jack, before you say that. Those kinds of decisions are very final, you can never take them back. I think you—“
“This is a waste of my fucking time.”
Jack hung up and threw the phone against the cracked, yellow-stained plaster of his wall. It was a concrete wall, and the phone shattered on impact. Jack sat still, staring at the television. He though he was silly to have thought that a commercial could save him. He was not sure how long he sat there, for he had ceased to mark time’s passage.
“Do you want to live?”
Jack was lying down again, not sure how he had gotten there. He was not sure who was speaking, but it seemed a monumental effort to raise his head and look.
Warm. Wet. Sticky. Something was splashing down on his face, going in his nose. He sputtered and sat up, reaching for the gun he thought was next to him, only to find that it was gone. He looked around. Standing behind him, next to the bed, a figure in all black was zipping up his pants. A hood shrouded the face, but the voice had been a man’s, and the part of Jack’s brain that was still functioning thought that there was something familiar about that voice, but could not place the familiarity.
“I said, do you want to live?” The man raised a gun of his own and pointed it at Jack.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
The man’s head tilted slightly to one side.
“You don’t even know if you want to live? You must the dumbest fuck ever to walk the earth. Everyone knows if they want to live.”
“Well, I don’t. What’s your name?”
“My name is not terribly important. What is important is for you to figure out real quick whether you want to live or die. My time here is not unlimited.”
“Well that’s just too bad, because I don’t know. Let’s say I did want to live, what would I have to do?”
“Is that really how you are going to make a decision? Based on what you would have to do to live?”
“It seems as good a way as any.”
“Ha. I guess you are the expert. But you misunderstood me. I am only here to help you decide to live or die, nothing else. So all you have to do to live is say that you want to, and all you have to do to die is not say that you want to live. So, that decision method is a dead end for you. Back to square one.”
The gun had not wavered once from Jack’s body, and the tone of the man’s voice told Jack that he was serious.
“How did you know I was even here?”
“Because you called me.”
Jack suddenly realized why the man’s voice sounded so familiar. It was the last one that he had heard.
“The hotline! Of course. Wait, how did you get here so fast?”
“I didn’t. You called over an hour ago. I guess you must have passed out.”
“But how did you find me?”
“I have a friend at the phone company. Look, I think you are kind of missing the point here. You need to find an answer to the question I asked you.” He looked at his watch. “You now have two minutes to muster up the guts to face another day, or I will kill you. The choice is yours.”
“Two minutes, huh. Can I use part of my two minutes to ask you a question?”
“You can use your two minutes to do whatever you want.”
“A dream-like lassitude settled over Jack at that moment. The booze was still running strong through him, but this new feeling was something more. Some recognition, at a deep level, that soon the weight of decision would be taken from him.
“Why are you doing this?”
The man sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, the gun still pointed at Jack.
“You know, all you suicides are basically the same. Everyone asks me that. And I always answer the same thing. The reason I do this work is very simple; it needs to be done.”
“Why?”
“Because suicides come in two categories; those who don’t really want to die, and those who really want to die and don’t have the guts to pull the trigger.”
“What about the ones with guts?”
“I never talk to them. They don’t generally call the hotline. Anyway, what both those kinds need is someone like me, someone to force the issue with them, and so I do it because it needs to be done.”
“But you are killing people?”
“Yes. You see, I am a Christian. We believe that people who kill themselves go to Hell, because they are beyond redemption. But if I kill them, then they can go to Heaven. So all I am really doing is helping people get to Heaven instead of Hell.”
“But won’t you go to Hell for killing people?”
“Probably, but what a noble sacrifice to make, isn’t it? Trading my own soul for the souls of all those I can save from Hell? It is a trade that I am happy to make.”
They sat in silence for several moments. Then the man stood, and walked over towards Jack. He grabbed Jack by the hair and pulled him to a sitting position.
“OK Jack, your two minutes are up. It’s time to live, or its time to die. Which will it be?”
Jack waited as long as he dared. He hoped that he would be allowed a second chance, for he could only accept it in the exact way that he wanted it. He turned to look at the man, and for the first time could see within the confines of his hood. The man was hardly that, not more than twenty-five years old. His hair was red, his eyes green, and hooded.
“I want to help you,” said Jack.
Hotline
By Owen Wiseman
He could barely dial the phone. He pressed the numbers slowly, sitting in his dimly lit basement apartment with air so thick and musty he could hardly see through it. He had written down the number from a commercial, then set the pad on his bed next to the gun he had bought that day. The gun that had been in his mouth when the commercial had come on, not fifteen minutes before.
He misdialed twice, the booze making his hand heavy and awkward. He wanted to pass out, but knew even in his stupor that this night had to end with a decision, with his life either ending or moving forward. Finally, he was able to focus for enough consecutive seconds to dial the number, and he flopped back onto the bed, listening to it ring.
“Suicide Hotline. What is your name, please?”
“Jack.”
“Are you drunk, Jack?”
“Aren’t most of the people who call you drunk?”
“Yes, they are. You know Jack, its usually best not to make any major decisions while you are drunk. Sometimes we do things drunk that we regret later.”
Jack chuckled quietly to himself. It was barely audible through the phone.
“You don’t have to be drunk to do that. Believe me. Soon, though, I won’t regret anything ever again.”
“You should think twice, Jack, before you say that. Those kinds of decisions are very final, you can never take them back. I think you—“
“This is a waste of my fucking time.”
Jack hung up and threw the phone against the cracked, yellow-stained plaster of his wall. It was a concrete wall, and the phone shattered on impact. Jack sat still, staring at the television. He though he was silly to have thought that a commercial could save him. He was not sure how long he sat there, for he had ceased to mark time’s passage.
“Do you want to live?”
Jack was lying down again, not sure how he had gotten there. He was not sure who was speaking, but it seemed a monumental effort to raise his head and look.
Warm. Wet. Sticky. Something was splashing down on his face, going in his nose. He sputtered and sat up, reaching for the gun he thought was next to him, only to find that it was gone. He looked around. Standing behind him, next to the bed, a figure in all black was zipping up his pants. A hood shrouded the face, but the voice had been a man’s, and the part of Jack’s brain that was still functioning thought that there was something familiar about that voice, but could not place the familiarity.
“I said, do you want to live?” The man raised a gun of his own and pointed it at Jack.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
The man’s head tilted slightly to one side.
“You don’t even know if you want to live? You must the dumbest fuck ever to walk the earth. Everyone knows if they want to live.”
“Well, I don’t. What’s your name?”
“My name is not terribly important. What is important is for you to figure out real quick whether you want to live or die. My time here is not unlimited.”
“Well that’s just too bad, because I don’t know. Let’s say I did want to live, what would I have to do?”
“Is that really how you are going to make a decision? Based on what you would have to do to live?”
“It seems as good a way as any.”
“Ha. I guess you are the expert. But you misunderstood me. I am only here to help you decide to live or die, nothing else. So all you have to do to live is say that you want to, and all you have to do to die is not say that you want to live. So, that decision method is a dead end for you. Back to square one.”
The gun had not wavered once from Jack’s body, and the tone of the man’s voice told Jack that he was serious.
“How did you know I was even here?”
“Because you called me.”
Jack suddenly realized why the man’s voice sounded so familiar. It was the last one that he had heard.
“The hotline! Of course. Wait, how did you get here so fast?”
“I didn’t. You called over an hour ago. I guess you must have passed out.”
“But how did you find me?”
“I have a friend at the phone company. Look, I think you are kind of missing the point here. You need to find an answer to the question I asked you.” He looked at his watch. “You now have two minutes to muster up the guts to face another day, or I will kill you. The choice is yours.”
“Two minutes, huh. Can I use part of my two minutes to ask you a question?”
“You can use your two minutes to do whatever you want.”
“A dream-like lassitude settled over Jack at that moment. The booze was still running strong through him, but this new feeling was something more. Some recognition, at a deep level, that soon the weight of decision would be taken from him.
“Why are you doing this?”
The man sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, the gun still pointed at Jack.
“You know, all you suicides are basically the same. Everyone asks me that. And I always answer the same thing. The reason I do this work is very simple; it needs to be done.”
“Why?”
“Because suicides come in two categories; those who don’t really want to die, and those who really want to die and don’t have the guts to pull the trigger.”
“What about the ones with guts?”
“I never talk to them. They don’t generally call the hotline. Anyway, what both those kinds need is someone like me, someone to force the issue with them, and so I do it because it needs to be done.”
“But you are killing people?”
“Yes. You see, I am a Christian. We believe that people who kill themselves go to Hell, because they are beyond redemption. But if I kill them, then they can go to Heaven. So all I am really doing is helping people get to Heaven instead of Hell.”
“But won’t you go to Hell for killing people?”
“Probably, but what a noble sacrifice to make, isn’t it? Trading my own soul for the souls of all those I can save from Hell? It is a trade that I am happy to make.”
They sat in silence for several moments. Then the man stood, and walked over towards Jack. He grabbed Jack by the hair and pulled him to a sitting position.
“OK Jack, your two minutes are up. It’s time to live, or its time to die. Which will it be?”
Jack waited as long as he dared. He hoped that he would be allowed a second chance, for he could only accept it in the exact way that he wanted it. He turned to look at the man, and for the first time could see within the confines of his hood. The man was hardly that, not more than twenty-five years old. His hair was red, his eyes green, and hooded.
“I want to help you,” said Jack.
posted by OGWiseman at 9:41 PM
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