Revision. (The Re-Up)

Chapter Two: iv

iv

The following morning was filled with the same eggy aroma, but the atmosphere of my apartment felt distant and spacious; it felt empty. The back of my head ached, and there was a note beside my bed on the nightstand that was folded into a neat paper frog. I knew who it was from without even reading the note. Ben, the only adult man I knew that could make something so childish such as a paper frog into a sweet gesture or a thing of endearment. I swung my arm over my chest and slapped my hand down on the frog's legs, making it hop so fiercely that it took a massive plunge onto the floor. I felt my body give an uncontrollable, audible sigh.

I plopped my legs over the side of my bed, they hung and swung easily, like an unwrapped yo-yo. Once my feet touched the ground, I moseyed and shuffled my way over to the frog laying on my floor. It had two little black eyes dotted onto its face–most likely from my pen that lives in my nightstand drawer for emergency ideas–and they beamed up at me. My own eyes felt pierced. I finally bent down to pick up the frog, and as I reached I both felt and heard the popping of my back, I remember mumbling: "Shit, I'm getting old."

The frog sat in my hand like...well, like a frog, I guess. I looked at the paper frog for a while, unphased by whatever time it could have been, the smell of eggs in my apartment, and if there was anyone else there with me. I blinked a tired blink that lasted upwards of five or six seconds, and the frog moved in my hand. I did not jump in shock, or freak out. No, my tiredness must have placed me in a trance of disbelief, because though I recall it moving–hopping, rather–in the palm of my hand, I did nothing about the fact.

Instead, I opened my eyes, and took a breath from deep in my diaphragm. Unfolding the frog felt heartless and cruel, but I knew it had something to say to me even so, and when the frog was unfolded, I saw a handwriting I would recognize even if I was eighty-five and on my deathbed. Ben's handwriting is like spaghetti was taken out of a boiling pot and laid out on a piece of paper to try and emulate someone else's handwriting.

The note read:

Hey man, you totally blacked out last night. I brought you home before realizing you may have needed to go to the hospital. I checked the back of your head and thank GOD you had nothing but the usual dent in your smooth brain. Anyways, you should probably check your phone.

–Ben

When I tried to check my phone moments after reading this and developing a groggy headache, it was nowhere to be found. Unsurprised was the only emotion that inhabited my body at that very moment. My phone was not on the charger, not on my nightstand or hiding in my bed, but I decided to go deep into the investigation per Ben's suggestion and dived under my bed in search of my phone. Luckily that was exactly where it was, though I don't know if luck is a good word for that sentence.

The messages on my phone flooded the screen and if they could, they would start falling out onto the floor. I had a single message from Ben, five from Audrey unsurprisingly, and most surprisingly, ten from Zander Chife. The constant barrage of blue-light illuminated words were stretching my headache from a three to a ten on the pain scale and before comprehending any of the words, I slammed my phone down on the floor. I then struggled to hoist myself from the ground, with trillions of dust particles imprinting on the palm of my hand, making a desert of my skin. Once on my feet again, I flexed my wrists by twirling them around in circles; they made their usual creaks and cracks, but my left forearm gave a sharp bullet of pain directly into what seemed like my ulna bone.

To this day I am still uncertain of where that sharp pain originated, though with a little bit of an educated guess, I believe I must have tried to catch my drunk self from falling. I craned my neck towards my open kitchen, and looked around for possibly made eggs and my neighbor, but then knew it must have been autosuggestion when the kitchen was revealed to be empty. Nothing but a few specs of dust and dirt on the floor and counter-tops that glistened like gems in sunlight that came from the window above my kitchen sink.

I let out a deep sigh. One that came from the depths of my gut. The sunlight let me know I was officially late for work, and just a moment before I ignored an enormous amount of texts from my boss. I peered at my phone laying on the floor. Then, reluctantly, I bent over and snatched it off of the floor, feeling the rough and jagged surface of my beaten screen protector in the palm of my hand. I turned it on, and looked away, taking a handful of glances at the screen, trying to avoid agitating my headache any further.

When I felt up to the task, I read through my messages from Zander, still avoiding both Ben and Audrey. As I set my eyes on the messages, my phone violently vibrated and buzzed around in my hand; Zander was calling me. I felt no surprise, but instead, a hint of paranoia scampered across my mind.

"Nothing but coincidence," I said aloud.

I was expecting an angry voice, someone to yell at me. I expected a flaming that would put Hell out of business. But when I answered the phone, I got a quiet breath, waiting. He was waiting for me to speak first.

"Hello," I said, "sir?"

"Hey," Zander replied, sounding sullen, "we are gonna need you at the office today, so if you could show up in the next twenty minutes or so, that would be great."

At this moment, I could not comprehend if he was being sarcastic or not.

"Also," Zander continued, "I have a story I want you to report on–some waitress from Dina's went berserk last night and I know you have talked about that place–"

Hesitant, I managed: "Yeah, I was there just last night with a friend of mine...could I ask you...?"

"What?" He asked flatly.

"Was she perchance African-American?"

"Yeah," he cleared his throat, which sounded very phlegmy, "why?"

"Just curious, I'll be there in ten!"

"Thank you, cya."
The phone call ended and I felt immediate tension in my throat. A dryness more potent than the arctic. My hand that held the phone was quivering; I placed my free hand down on my nightstand, and leaned, taking deep, slow inhales. I stood up and clenched my stomach, trying to ease the oncoming queasy feeling, but it was rushing to my gut like an acidic flood ready to erupt from my lips.

I held my mouth shut, and my phone in my hand. What I heard I could not believe. Two times, two in a row. Was it me? I couldn't tell, not when my heart was beating as fast as a rabbit's legs thump. But the voice that lay in the back of my head, that voice told me that I was causing this odd outburst with the waitress, then, on the other hand, realization of reality took hold of the wheel, and I knew I had another story in my pocket. I had to go to work with my poker face on.

I swiveled my phone in my hand, my wrist bending to and fro, reflecting the sunlight from my kitchen window off the blackness of my phone screen. At certain angles, it would look as if my phone had a crack on the screen and I would scratch at them with my other hand, and when one appeared in my sight this time around, and I scratched at it, the crack did not go away. It was as thin as a strand of silver-gray hair, looking nonexistent. I brought my phone up to my face to examine the hairline fracture, and saw only my reflection.

Staring into my own eyes, they looked hollow with puffy, dark and distorted bags embedded underneath. That's when a talon-like hand appeared on my shoulder. I jumped back and dropped my phone, my heart rate rising again. The same old woman from the first night I saw her. She was there, with her talons wrapped around my shoulder, piercing my skin, drawing scarlet-colored blood from my shoulder. When I forced myself to jerk my head over to look behind me, I simultaneously raised up my fists fight-ready, but the space behind me was vacant, filled with nothingness. Insanity brushed her fingers over my shoulder that day.