Nine one five, eighty eighteen.
Nine one five, eighty eighteen.
Jessica was singing it to herself in her head. A jingle, like humming the theme to The Price Is Right (Drew Carey will never compare). She couldn’t forget this number, after all. It was the ultimate solution to her pain, to her rejection.
It wasn’t a self-help number. No counselors waited on the other end of the line to talk you out of suicide. She wasn’t that kind of desperate person. No, when you got right down to it, simply put, Jessica had a boyfriend problem.
Keith was an a*****e. No, he was the a*****e of all assholes. On the scale of douchebaggery from one to ten, Keith was an eighty nine point five. There was no telling how many times he’d broken promises to come over, only to be caught drinking at the strip downtown with some hussy in a short pink mini-skirt. All he did was go to work, come home and look at p**n all day, or go out and cheat on her. He was an ungrateful, conniving b*****d, and she’d had enough of it.
She took the steps up to her apartment and sank in to the loveseat, covering her face in her hands for a few moments. It was go time. She pressed the talk button, and the dial tone was a welcoming sound.
She’d first found the ad posted on a brick wall in an alley between the Earthbound Trading Company store and a White Castle, walking home from her rounds as an orderly at Metro General Hospital. She took the alley every day to cut over from Fifth Avenue to Union Street. She’d seen the occasional tagging here and there, maybe a few faded flyers, but this ad caught her vision almost immediately. The posting was made from some sort of silky, threaded material that stuck to the masonry with a persistent diligence. She’d tried to rip it from the wall to take with her, but it wouldn’t budge. It was like a steel block, welded to the wall, and yet it felt so soft, so smooth, to her fingertips.
“Is your significant other acting less than significant? Are you married to a fat slob who doesn’t deserve you? Boyfriend can’t keep his schwance in his pants? Does he have you tangled in a constant web of lies? Call The Widow now! We are open twenty four hours, seven days a week. We guarantee a complete one-eighty in his attitude after one session. We will UNRAVEL him and make him see things YOUR WAY. CALL NOW!”
Nine one five, eighty eighteen. She’d dialed it before she was ready, her fingers seeming to follow the motions before she was fully aware of them. Maybe her sub-conscious was trying to tell her something. The receiver picked up almost immediately, but there was no sing-songy customer service representative to greet her on the other line. Maybe it was a small business. All she could hear was shallow, heavy breathing, and a rapid clicking noise. No — hundreds of smaller, individual clicks, all in the same moment.
“Hello?”
Jessica was starting to feel a little disconcerted with her decision to call and she was about to hang up, but she finally heard a voice. It was feminine, but held a very low and monotone rasp to it. It sounded like a demonically possessed Jennifer Tilly.
“Good evening. I’ve been expecting your call.” The voice said.
“What do you mean? I haven’t called this number before.” Jessica asked.
“I know all about you, especially about your boyfriend Keith. Except I wouldn’t exactly call him that. He certainly doesn’t treat you like you’re his girl, does he?”
Although it was certainly true, it pissed her off to hear this from a complete stranger. Was it really that obvious? How did this lady know so much about her personal life?
“You’re so beautiful, darling. You don’t deserve the treatment you’ve received. In fact, your situation is so dire that I’d be willing to extend my services to you for free.”
