Agonizing plea

"Help me! Help me!"

His voice grew increasingly urgent, anger blending with a hint of supplication. This was his final lifeline, regardless of who was on the other end of the line or whether they could even help. But this was his sole choice. He cried out for help, he pleaded, he screamed.

His voice, hoarse and desperate, carried with it a sense of crumbling agony. It surged forth, mingled with a thin veil of mist in his deep brown eyes. A scalding blur clouded his vision, and the ashen hue of despair started its slow ascent, crawling up his ankles.

"I know you're upset. And, from what I've been told, steps are being taken to get you out of there," the voice on the other end of the line remained unmoved, icy and untouched by any ripples, "So, hopefully it won't be much longer."

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

He couldn't hold back grinding his teeth, one curse after another. Those fragmented words swirled around his lips, almost suffocating him. Eventually, the cacophony in his throat turned into a subdued prayer, "Thank God." This prayer wasn't just words; he genuinely wished they were close by, that he could truly escape from this ordeal. The pitiful sob carried a touch of bitterness, a hint of desolation, and a thread of relief.

"Yes, thank God. I'm going to switch on a recorder right now. Just a second..."

"What?" He felt like he hadn't heard clearly, completely unable to comprehend what was going on and why they needed to start recording.

"Wait a moment." The sound of a recording device spinning could be heard in his ear. "This is Alan Davenport, Personnel Director for Crestin, Roland and Thomas, Incorporated. The date is October 23, 2006. I am speaking with Paul Conroy. Mr. Conroy, are you aware that I'm recording this conversation?"

He lay upon a stretch of sand, barely daring to move. The slightest motion seemed as though it would send grains of sand tumbling down. His flashlight had been abandoned nearby, and his lips were parched, oozing tiny droplets of blood. However, his mind couldn't function, reduced to a quivering mush after teetering on the brink of life and death. Even his breath seemed to elude him.

"What?" What on earth was happening?

"Please answer the question." The voice on the other end displayed an uncommon level of "professionalism". Yet, this professionalism was tinged with an almost robotic coldness, reigniting the inner restlessness.

Suddenly, the flashlight flickered out. He instinctively cursed under his breath, "Damn it!" This earned him a curt "Mr. Conroy?" from the other end. Annoyed, he grabbed the flashlight and began to tap it distractedly. His mind elsewhere, he mumbled, "Yes, yes, yes."

"And do I have your permission to do so? "

But the flashlight remained unresponsive, and in the darkness, only the faint glow of his phone screen illuminated his surroundings. He attempted to rub his throbbing temples, but as his left hand rose, he realized one hand held the flashlight while the other clutched his phone. He had no extra space, frustratingly evident as he pounded the side wall with the flashlight. It flickered briefly, a mere glimmer.

"Why do you need my permission? What is all this?" His education was limited; otherwise, he wouldn't have ended up as a truck driver. He lacked insight into the procedures of such big corporations, and at this moment, he couldn't quiet his mind enough to contemplate; he could only manage with casual responses.

"I need you to answer yes or no, please. " the other voice remained professional.

"Yes! Alright? Yes!" He knocked his thigh with the flashlight, gritting his teeth, "Is this enough?"

"Thank you." The politeness of the other party didn't waver despite his rudeness, "Now, Mr. Conroy, when were you hired by CRT?"

"I don't remember..." His words were a jumble, and the flashlight regained its glow, "About nine months ago. Around January of 2005. Why are you wasting time with this?" He felt a bit starved of oxygen, tugging at his collar. His lungs burned fiercely, sand still cascading down. He warily surveyed the cracks around him, as if they might crumble any moment.

"I have your official date of hire as January 4th, 2005. Is that correct?"

"Who cares?" He snapped irritably, his rapid breaths finding no outlet, "This is f*cking crazy..." The coldness of the other party clashed with his own fervor, their calmness with his urgency. This contrast left him increasingly at a loss, and he subconsciously reached out to touch those cracks.

"January 4th, 2005. Is that correct?" Yet, the other party remained unmoved, steadfast in their position.

"Yes!" He took a deep breath, suppressing his anger and impatience, answering tersely.

"And during your initial training, before being sent to Iraq, were you made aware of the dangers inherent to the position for which you were hired?"

As sand fell, covering his mouth with grit, "Ptuh, ptuh," he spat it out, "You mean when I came down there to Dallas and you guys said that all of the trucks would be armored and have bulletproof glass? You mean when you told us that things were safer than ever over here?" The flashlight dimmed again. Gritting his teeth, he used the flashlight to strike his arm, where the cracks were already fragile. Another blow to the wall might lead to its collapse. The flashlight left two bloody streaks on his arm, yet he remained oblivious, his muscles already stiff and numb. Even his pain receptors seemed to be deteriorating, "Is that when I was made

"aware"?"

"I need you to answer yes or no, please."

His complaints, his sarcasm, his anger all collided with an impenetrable wall, causing his fists to clench involuntarily, teeth grinding together. But soon, he relaxed again, saying, "Yes." The helplessness in his tone carried a tinge of fragility. After being trapped here for hours, he was utterly drained, with little energy left even for arguing.

Breathing, deep breaths. He yearned to escape from this place, to break free from this cursed nightmare. He wished to awaken, or perhaps, had the dream already become reality? Was he truly trapped here, facing an imminent burial? He remembered lying on the hotel bed, slipping into dreams, or was it the hotel itself that was dreamlike? Did he just experience a hallucination? And now, was he truly awake? Breathing, he must breathe. Yet, his breath grew increasingly rapid. What was happening? What on earth was happening? The incessant voice in his ear didn't cease. He needed to think, he needed rescue, he needed... to survive.

"During that time, did you also receive and sign an employment contract with CRT, which thoroughly explained company policy as it pertained to your specific terms of employment?"

Dust continued to descend, and he started to cough. "Yeah, I signed a bunch of things." The searing breath contorted his entire face, and his dry lips were marked with streaks of blood, as if even his sweat glands had ceased to function.

"Yes, or no?" The emotionless, formulaic voice was truly maddening.

"Yes!" He forcefully swallowed a breath, halting the coughing. "I signed the contract! Yes!"

"It's our understanding that you were taken hostage in Iraq two hours ago, is that also correct?"

"Yes! That's completely correct." He felt the air was running thin, pounded his chest, and his bloodshot eyes simmered with restlessness and anger. "Where are they now? The rescue team? What is the point of all this? Are they close?"

The voice on the other end paused for half a second, then continued, "Our legal department requires that we obtain a sworn affidavit from employees," but in its tone, there was an almost imperceptible tremor, as if... reluctance lay hidden within. "Confirming that they understand the reasons for their forced separation from the company. As of this morning, your employment with CRT was officially terminated."

"Wait, wait, wait..." His brain felt inadequate. "What?" The dream stopped, reality ceased. Even struggling and breathing ceased. He widened his eyes, frozen in place like a sculpture.

"It was brought to our attention that you were engaging in relations with a fellow CRT employee - Pamela Lutti." the voice on the other end grew slightly heavier.

"No, no!" He started shaking his head vigorously, a vehement shake. "Wait!" But the other voice continued, unabated. "Wait a moment!" His protests had no effect.

"Stipulated in your contract was a fraternization clause, in which it was stated quite clearly that any relationship, be it romantic or sexual in nature, deemed inappropriate by CRT senior officials is grounds for immediate termination. "

"We... we were just friends." Time seemed to halt for him. Every muscle in his body tensed to its utmost limit. Even the rise and fall of his chest came to a halt. He stared wide-eyed, frozen in place like a statue.

"Our records indicate differently." Calm, restrained, polite, solemn, formal. That was the voice on the other end, coldly and mercilessly pronouncing his sentence.

"This is bullshit!" He yelled.

"We're also legally required to inform you that because you were technically no longer under the employ of CRT at the time of your abduction, we cannot be held accountable for any injury that may befall upon you after your official date and time of termination. Therefore, in your case, that includes this incident or any consequences that may result from it."

Silence. Complete silence. Only his chest heaved ever so slightly, the light from the flashlight and the halo of his phone seeming to grow fainter. A vacant, despairing expression deepened in his eyes, along with a sense of bewilderment, as he gazed around aimlessly. His lips began to tremble lightly, yet he couldn't find any foothold. A helpless panic shivered beneath the dim light.

At the most critical moment of his life, they severed his lifeline, then hurriedly retracted any liability, washed their hands of it, assumed the role of bystanders, refusing to draw any closer.

His eyes glared with a maddened ferocity.