(A muffled cough, followed by the distinct sound of a cheap plastic phone casing rattling against a damp surface.) "Hello? Um. Is this... is this recording? Look, I don't know what you want, but you shouldn't be listening to this. Please. Just... delete it. (A sudden, sharp pop sound, like a vacuum seal breaking. The voice is pitched too high, too fast.) I just needed someone to know. I'm fine, okay? I'm perfectly fine, I just... I can't handle the transition. The sheer weight of the impending thing. You know what comes next, right? It's always the same. It always feels like a gravitational pull toward something sharper, something colder. (The background noise shifts, becoming a high, thin whine. The voice hitches.) It's Wednesday. Oh god, it's Wednesday. (A low, wet thrumming sound begins, overlaid with the frantic voice. The recording equipment itself seems to warp; the visible microphone grille momentarily stretches and contracts, like rubber being pulled too far. The plastic housing reflects the harsh fluorescent light in impossible, non-Euclidean angles.) It’s always the same feeling. Like being pressed through a sieve of bad decisions. I just wish I could stay here, in the reliable mediocrity of me. Please, don't let it see me. Don't let it know I'm afraid of the pivot. Just... forget this number. Please." (The whine peaks, and the sound of the phone receiver abruptly falling, followed by a deep, sustained hum that vibrates the listener's teeth, before the line goes dead.)
static · uneasy