Crisis Helpline

I answered phones for a living. Usually between the hours of 8pm and 4am and usually spoke to people high on drugs or alcohol who needed to be talked down before they could pass out peacefully. Not to diss my profession, or the work we did-- sometimes we genuinely helped people. I had one conversation late last year that made everything worthwhile. The sound of hope in that young girl's voice by the end of our call was something I will never forget. But it doesn't stop the fact that ninety percent of the calls I receive are women who've had too much to drink or someone who hit the wrong key on the payphone. Just two weeks ago I answered a call from an elderly man who couldn't find the mute button on his remote control. So my job wasn't really anything to write home about.

Until last night. It was ten after 2 and the phones had been silent for a solid hour, as they usually were at this time on a Wednesday morning. I was working my way through my third cup of espresso when my light started flashing. I swallowed the burning liquid and cleared my throat before answering.

Hello, Crisis Helpline, you are talking with Evan- can I ask you the nature of your crisis?

I....I can't say.... I can't.... Think.

Okay, I want you to take a deep breath and tell me slowly what is happening right now.
It's.... Something's happening to me.

I understand. It's going to pass, just tell me what it is you are taking and I can--

NO! You don't understand... it's.... It's.... Stronger.

Okay, deep breaths, tell me; what's stronger? Stronger than before?

NO. Stronger.... than I am.

Deep breaths. it's not stronger than you, you just need to learn to control the--

I CAN'T! You... you don't understand... she's.... She's....

She's what? Can you tell me?

She's going to die. She's going to die tonight. Because I'm going to kill her.

Then the line went dead. I was still shaking when I hung up the receiver almost three minutes later. The voice was haunted, he (i think it was a he but I could have been mistaken) was in physical pain. He was barely breathing and it sounded as though the words he could get out were ripped from his throat with the strength he had left. There was very little we could do once a caller hung up, the calls were all recorded but anonymity was retained and the best we could do was to contact the police to trace the call. This of course was usually a dead end seeing as many of the genuine callers felt unsafe using landlines or did not have access to mobiles, and the calls were made on payphones.

The nature of this call was unsettling for certain, but not unheard of. Despite the fact that we did not know the name, age, location of the caller, it was still encouraged that we did not repeat the story to other coworkers unless there was a professional reason.

So that was that. I had to suppress the gnawing in my gut that told me something about this call was so very wrong. I had to go on answering calls about lost pets and stolen credit cards. I went to work this evening with my overgrown hair, glasses perched on my nose and a cup of steaming joe in hand, expecting nothing more exciting than Steve falling asleep at his cubicle, snoring into his receiver. But when I sat down in my oversized and under cushioned office chair at two minutes to eleven, someone had flipped the TV to the local news, and when I saw the headlines my blood ran colder than the air blowing through the poorly insulated windows behind me.