1 The Wrong Number

I strained myself to suppress a cough. I didn't feel good, but I couldn't afford to look sick. I had to look normal.

"Hey, Mason. Clock in yet?"

I turned from the corner and pretended to pocket the phone.

"I'm about to," I sheepishly mumbled.

I glanced at the plainly dressed man and his name tag. Kevin… He gave me a suspicious look.

"It was... just a dumb phone call."

"Hah! Block them!"

"They... keep using another number," I helplessly sighed.

"Then get another number!" he laughed.

His dark expression didn't show trust in me. He probably thought I was screwing around on the phone. It didn't help that the phone rang several times when I came in.

Under his scrutinizing gaze, I walked around him and clocked in. As I turned the corner, a hand grabbed my shoulder. I jolted up, and smacked my shoulder against the wall.

"Mason. Remember to take out the trash. You forgot yesterday."

I cleared my throat.

"Ahem. Yes... of cOUrse I will."

I couldn't stand his face. Having a shaky voice didn't help my case, but I couldn't let it affect me. No, I shouldn't let it affect me. My body shivered no matter how much I tried stopping it. I felt strained. My hands. What should I do with my hands?

When I left the backroom, I held my head low. I hated their stares. I couldn't handle it. I should. But I couldn't.

"Welcome to…"

"...and I want…"

"So she said…"

Their words faded in and out of my ears. They jumbled too much. This was why I wanted to stay inside. But I couldn't stay inside. I couldn't.

I adjusted the black mask on my face. Its texture discomforted me greatly. The glasses I wore fogged up. If I wiped them, my breathing fogged them up again. How could I deal with this? I should. I couldn't do nothing. In the end, I did nothing about it. I was helpless like that. Instead, I went to the trash in the lobby.

It stank. It stank, but it wasn't the worst smell. It was a mix of spoiled milk, too many foods, different gums, cigarettes, and a lingering rot. The strongest part had to be coffee.

As I grabbed the lid, a few flies buzzed off. I turned my head aside and stifled my coughs. With some tugging, it came off. I lightly laid it aside and reached for the trash bag. My hands sunk in deep.

It was a grainy yet mushy feeling. No, it was dirty. I quickly let go and look at my hands. The foggy glasses got in the way. Fed up, I raised my forearm and pushed them off. They dropped, causing a muffled clacking on the tile.

Dark and wet. I couldn't stop the memory. My hands were stained. I couldn't help it.

"...Mason. Mason? You there?"

I looked up and saw a young teen in a work uniform, likely still in high school.

"Cait..ey?"

"Mason, are you okay?"

Her eyes showed worry. It made me feel worse, like I had to gag myself or risk coughing up my lungs.

"I… don't feel good," I managed to eke out. "I gotta go."

"Wait, you just got here!"

I staggered away and spread the stain along my pants. My hands were still stained, and I couldn't help it. The phone rang as I rummaged my pocket for the keys.

"Watch it!"

I pushed past a grizzled man who walked with a weary woman. I couldn't bear them looking at me. I ran and felt the chill air stinging my skin. I made it. Anxiously, I tried unlocking the car. I couldn't open it. I couldn't. Why couldn't I? The phone rang and rang, but I still couldn't open it!

I bent down and fumbled with the keys. After jamming in the right key, with a few desperate turns and pulls, the car door opened. I climbed in and shut it behind me. Inside. I was inside.

The phone stopped ringing.

I leaned back on the car seat and let out a coughing fit. It stank. My stained hands stank. I felt sick. I couldn't come, but I should come. It was a mistake to be here, and it was a mistake to leave. In the end, I did nothing about it.

I started up the car and drove out of the parking lot. My eyes strained at the blurry surroundings. I had to go inside, where it was safe.

My leg shook restlessly. I couldn't hear. I couldn't see. I drove to hide inside. It stank, and I felt the grainy mush against the steering wheel. A blaring honk roared from behind me.

"STAY IN YOUR LANE, ASSHOLE!!!" yelled an older man.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and straightened the car. I didn't want to bother the man, so I went right into the residential streets. It was a straight path. I only had a straight path, and I would get inside.

The houses looked dated, still sporting the same look from twenty years ago. Their owners left the lights off, though their sparse decorations showed they cared. The car jolted as it ran over something under the leaves.

"I can't. I can't. I can't!"

I slowly pulled into the driveway. I tore out of the car and wobbled to the front door. It opened. Yet another mistake that haunted me.

I pushed the door shut and locked it. I couldn't wear these clothes anymore. I left them where they fell and went to the sink. In the dark house, I found my way with ease. If only life was that easy.

With half a palm of soap, I lathered my hands. The huge rectangular mirror on the wall reflected my masked face. I wasn't enough. I couldn't be enough. I couldn't.

My wrist knocked the faucet up. Cold water flowed on my coated hands. I scrubbed and scrubbed. I wanted to be clean. I really did. Why was it hard to be clean? The problem was if I could and if I couldn't. Life made me dirty.

The suds swirled down the drains, barely visible to my eyes. Slowly, the water heated up to a burning level. I pulled my hands away and knocked the faucet down. In the dimness, I scrambled for a hand towel. After drying my hands, I stood in front of the basement door.

I still felt chilly in only my underwear. Still, I couldn't bring myself to go. Not yet. I forced myself to gather the clothes and toss them in the washer. Phone in hand, I sat on the couch across from the window. The Sun's rays lit up the black device in my hands.

I didn't know the code. I did know his birthday. That is how I unlocked it.

Fifteen missed calls.

I tapped the green icon and brought up the records. The last five came from work. Eight came from unknown numbers. Two didn't have caller IDs.

Why did he have so many calls? It was only yesterday. I should have spent less than a day with it, yet I could only keep receiving more and more calls.

The huge number of voicemails caught my eyes. What was it like to have so many messages? The amount of red text meant he didn't read most of them. I tapped on a few and read the transcripts.

"...your medical plan…"

"...millions of Americans are suffering _______ and they are unaware… if you were interested in ___________ programs that are available __________ suffering with chronic pain..."

"We have a message from _________ Bureau of ______ from a debt collector…"

"Hi, Mason. This is Ivanka, a recruiter for ______ consulting…"

"...important message from Northbar _____ from a debt collector…"

"Allied International ____ a message from professional debt collections of Maryland ______. This call is from a debt collector. Please call 800…"

"Federal law designates this matter as a confidential notice…"

He must have had it difficult to scrape up the funds to support himself… and I. In these times, how hard was it to have a stable income? How could I fail to help him? How could I…

I spotted a voicemail from this morning.

Grandma.

I played it.

"Mason!" the tired and aged voice crackled in the bad audio quality. "Call me when you are done with work. This girl keeps asking me about you. Something about… consulting? She gave me papers and I forgot about it yesterday. Give me a call when you get this message. I miss you."

I couldn't breathe properly. I had a coughing fit and my eyes felt wet. Why did I think I could do it? I shouldn't have to lie.

I knew I could do it. No, I should and I could do it.

I opened the basement door and flicked on the lights. Seeing the bloody mess, my stomach churned and I couldn't stop coughing. I couldn't make it past the first step, but this was enough.

I sat down and made a call.

"911, what is your emergency?"

I took a deep breath. I never could be a replacement. I should have known I wasn't worthy enough.

"I… I'm Mitch Well. I made a call last night. I'm sorry... I didn't have the wrong number."

Above the two light bulbs illuminating the scene, I stared at his body with its head split open. He stepped down so I could step up.