2018-09-15 》 1.31am 》 00:00:01
재범
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"Suicide prevention line, how can I help you?"
The street beneath him was almost completely dark and only a few cars were in sight, reflecting their spotlights on the matte concrete highway floor.
Up above on the bridge where he was currently sitting he had a good view of the city and the many overlighted buildings and complexes that shot their way up into the blue night sky.
"Hello?"
Even though he had never called one of these hotlines, he was genuinely surprised to hear a rather young boy speaking to him, his soft and feathery voice chanting through the speakers.
"Is someone on the line?"
Realizing that he hadn't spoken at all the male let out a sigh and continued looking at the horizon, examining every bit of it before he had layed the right words together and finally began to speak.
"Have you ever thought about writing memoirs at the age of twenty-four?"
Silence erupted.
The only surprising thing was, that it was no uncomfortable silence.
No, he could swear that the boy on the other end was actually thinking about it.
Yawning loudly and making himself comfortable again while leaning his back onto the cold metallic green railing braces and letting his feet hang over the edge he waited for the angelic voice to speak again.
"Hmm.. I never thought about writing memoirs at any time of my life. I am not quite interesting, to be honest."
"Me too, but now as time passes i think i should've done it."
Even though everything sounded completely clear the young boy did not seem to understand it all.
"Why?"
Why? It was pretty easy for him to answer.
"Nobody knows me. Who I really am."
An understanding hum was heard and the man couldn't tell if the other really got what he was trying to say to him or if it was just a simple filler to not let another part of silence erupt between them.
"Why?"
This question again...
Was he really that dumb or did the younger want to make fun of him?
Sighing and feeling quite angry the elder laughed bitterly and fiddled with his free hand on the zipper of his jacket.
"Because nobody ever wanted to really know me."
He could almost sense the bad thoughts entering his mind again, already waiting for the reality to sink in and destroy him completely.
He knew rejection well and this would be the last time someone did this to him.
But then...
Something unexpected happened.
"Well, i want to know who you are. So tell me what you would've wanted to write down."
And that was when the world finally decided to completely stop.
Everything around him froze.
The cold autumn breeze that used to flow around him, the car noises in the background and the smell of petrol and gas - everything stopped.
It was almost as if the sun system spontaneously decided to not rotate anymore and the only sound that could be heard was a soft giggle near his ear.
Now he was the one that was in loss of words.
"W-what?"
"I said tell me your story, mysterious caller."
Snorting about the nickname while leaning back and feeling the braces behind him he looked at the city infront of him again.
"I am no good writer, though."
"That's what they said about Scott Fitzgerald, too. What's your name?"
"I won't tell you that. Call me whatever you want."
"That's not how it works, an author has to choose his pen name by himself or else it wouldn't be him."
"Then call me Def."
"Death?"
"No, d-e-f."
"Such a wordgame."
"Have you got a better one?"
"No, but you can call me Ars then."
"This is stupid."
"Go on then."
