INCENDIARY | ✓

i'm sick of waiting | citizen

A year passed by with no change. I enrolled into the local state university and began my studies to become a second grade teacher. 

Bash quickly became a good friend, someone I could trust. His presence in my life was sparse, but the moments he'd take out of his day to meet up with me, made me more than grateful for such a friend. 

The absence of Harvey McDermott, however, made me work even harder; to prove to him that, yes, in fact, I was serious about accomplishing my dreams.

I hoped he'd contact me. Knowing it was a stretch, I still hoped.

There was an odd robotic precision to my day to day life: wake up, shower, go to class, study in the library, go to work, come home, do my homework, pass out, and repeat. I thought if I kept myself busy, I wouldn't have time to remember him. I thought that if I worked myself to the bone, I could go to sleep at night graciously accepting peaceful, dreamless sleep.   

Honestly, I just missed him.

. . .

The second year was a little easier.

Still no word from McDermott, and by this time, I had locked away McDermott into a crevice of my heart and continued my studies. I cut my hair, dyed it lighter, and got my cartilage, nose, and belly button pierced. I felt like a new person. Bash was surprised at the drastic change, but he accepted me as I was, telling me to keep McDermott in my prayers. 

I wasn't religious, but I prayed to all that were Holy that Harvey's dreams were coming true.

. . .

The third year came and was almost over, and still no word from Harvey.

I now realized the promise McDermott and I made was horse-shit, something to lift the tense environment between us, but it still hurt that I (unintentionally) waited for him.

I still wanted to hear from him. I wanted to know if his dreams came true, I wanted to know if he was healthy and safe, I wanted to know if he was okay.

I was almost done with my goals of becoming a teacher; becoming a teaching assistant cemented my passion for teaching and I knew my final year of college was the most important.

Forgetting Harvey McDermott would be my best plan of action.

. . .

It was during the summer of my senior year of college that I got a miscall. The first time, I looked at the number and seeing unknown flash back at me, shrugged off the call. Not like I'd be able to call back.

A few minutes later, I got another call. This time, the caller ID showed a number with an area code of 718.

Getting annoyed with the calls, I rolled my eyes, and called back. The dial tone greeted my ears and I exasperatedly shut the razor and tossed it onto my bed, turning back to the task at hand.

I was given fifteen minutes of peace when my phone began ringing again and I verbally growled in irritation. To an onlooker, I'd look like a deranged beast, but oh well. The luxuries of having one's own apartment was a blessing.

Hurriedly grabbing my phone, I raced against the ringtone I had chosen initially because it sounded cute—now it was just annoying. I wanted to see who kept on bothering me and perhaps give them a piece of my mind. Flipping the front cover up, my heart stopped along with my ringtone.

One Missed Call: Harvey McDermott

Hands shaking so badly I was unable to grip my phone properly, I attempted the breathing exercise I read about in the self-help book. Bringing my phone closer to my face, I blinked, trying to see if the wording on the screen was legitimate or not. His number had gone out of service, but I still clung to that childish hope that it would be in service one day and didn't delete it.