Plea for Help

"Help me! Help me!"

His voice grew more desperate with each word, tinged with anger and a hint of pleading. This was his last straw, his final plea for help. He didn't care who was on the other end of the line, or whether they could actually help him. This was his only choice. He cried out, he begged, he screamed for help.

As his voice weakened, pain and despair crept in, overwhelming him. A thin layer of mist clouded his deep brown eyes, blurring his vision with hot tears. Gray despair began to climb up his ankles, inch by inch.

"I know you're upset, but as far as I know, they'll be able to rescue you soon," the voice on the other end of the line remained calm, devoid of emotion, "Hopefully, it won't be too long."

Damn it! Damn it!

He couldn't help but grind his teeth, cursing incessantly. The disjointed words tumbled from his lips, almost suffocating him. Eventually, all sound dissolved into a low whisper as he prayed silently, "Thank God." It wasn't just lip service; he prayed fervently that they were nearby, that he could truly escape this ordeal. His choked sobs carried a bitter taste, mingled with a hint of relief.

"Yes, thank God. Now, I'm going to turn on the recorder."

"What?" He felt like he hadn't heard correctly, utterly confused about what was happening and why they needed to turn on a recorder.

"Just a moment." The sound of a recorder whirring filled his ears. "This is Alan Dawennport, HR Manager at CRT Company, the date is October 23, 2006, and I am speaking with Paul Conroy. Mr. Conroy, are you aware that I am recording this conversation?"

Lying on the sandy ground, he dared not move. Any slight motion seemed to trigger a cascade of sand falling around him. His flashlight lay discarded nearby, and his lips were so dry that blood began to seep out. But his mind couldn't function. After teetering on the brink of life and death, it had turned into mush. He couldn't even breathe properly.

"What?" What was going on?

"Please answer my question." The voice on the other end remained unfazed, almost robotic, devoid of any fluctuation. "Yes or no."

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

"Thank you." The politeness of the voice didn't waver despite his rudeness. "Mr. Conroy, when were you employed by CRT Company?"

"I don't remember..." His words were scattered, the flashlight flickered back to life. "Nine months ago, that was January. What is going on?" He felt a lack of oxygen, tugging at his collar, his lungs burning. Sand continued to fall, and he eyed the cracks around him warily, as if they might collapse at any moment.

"I see your official hiring date was January 4th. Is that correct?"

"Who cares?" He said impatiently, struggling to breathe normally. "This is nonsense." The stark contrast between the coldness of the voice on the other end and his own agitation left him at a loss, and he unconsciously reached out to touch the cracks around him.

"January 4th, correct?"

"Yes!" He took a deep breath, suppressing his anger and impatience, and answered shortly.

"During your internal training before being deployed to Iraq, were you aware of the level of danger associated with your position?"

Sand fell, causing him to cough. "Yes, you said all trucks were armored and had bulletproof glass when I was sent to Dallas. You said it was safer than ever." The flashlight dimmed again, and he pounded it against his arm. The cracks were fragile; he wasn't sure if the wall would collapse if he hit it again. The flashlight left two bloody marks on his arm, but he didn't feel it. His muscles had stiffened, numb, and his nerves seemed to be fading. "Is this what you call 'aware'?"

"I need a yes or no answer."

His complaints, his sarcasm, his anger, all hit a wall. He clenched his fists, then relaxed them. "Yes." There was a hint of helplessness in his tone, exhausted after being trapped here for hours. Even the strength to argue had dwindled.

Breathe. He needed to breathe. He wanted to leave, to wake up from this nightmare, or was the dream now reality? Was he truly trapped here, about to be buried alive? He remembered lying on a hotel bed, slipping into dreams, or was it only part of a dream? Was he awake now? He had to breathe, but his breaths grew faster. What was happening? Why?

"According to your contract with CRT, you agreed to company policies and employment terms, including the prohibition of any romantic or sexual relationships between internal employees. If deemed inappropriate by CRT senior management, employment could be terminated immediately."

"Stop, stop, please stop!" His thoughts seemed to halt, his muscles tense, frozen like a statue.

"Our records show otherwise." The voice on the other end grew slightly heavier.

"No, no!" He began shaking his head vigorously. "Wait!" But the voice continued, unaffected. "Wait!" His pleas fell on deaf ears.

"There's a clause in the contract that clearly states internal employees are prohibited from engaging in any romantic or sexual relationships. Whether it's a romantic relationship or a sexual one, if CRT's senior management deems the relationship inappropriate, employment can be terminated immediately."

"Stop, stop, please stop!" Time seemed to stop for him, every muscle tense, even his chest remained still. "We're just friends, wait, listen to me, listen to me, we're just friends, just friends, okay?" He kept repeating, but it didn't stop the other person.

"Our records show differently." Calm, cold, polite, solemn. That was the voice on the other end, sentencing him to his demise.

"Are you following me?" The voice asked again after a brief pause.

He still didn't react, like a corpse, his brain silent. "What about my life insurance? My family needs that money." Calm, terrifying calm, yet there was a glimmer of hope in his desperate plea.

"Considering you were alive when terminated..."

"Don't do this!" He interrupted.

...There was a pause, then, "Have you understood everything I've said, Mr. Conroy?"

"No, don't do this." His voice trembled, choked with fear and pleading. "Don't do this." Besides these words, he had no more strength to resist.

"Have you understood my words, Mr. Conroy?"

Silence. His eyes flickered violently, filled with despair and confusion, staring blankly around him. His lips began to quiver uncontrollably, but he couldn't find any foothold. Helpless panic trembled under the dim light, his eyes staring vacantly, searching for a way out.

In the most critical moment of his life, they cut off his lifeline, then hurriedly took back their interests, washed their hands of it, assuming the role of bystanders, refusing to come any closer.

Abject despair.