The Wail
Always remember that you're a monster
It was 6:15 PM, October 14 when the wail started. I was staring at my phone, waiting for a text that I knew wouldn’t come when it picked up in a burst, like a siren being flicked on in an ambulance sitting behind you in traffic. I lay in bed, listening, my phone screen glowing in the darkness. My words, a pathetic wail of their own, sat in their text bubble, hanging in that liminal space, delivered, but unanswered. I stared at the lacuna on the screen, and closed the message app. The wail was rather intense anyway. Hard to put out of my mind. I went to the window and pushed it up, leaning out. My apartment was five stories up, below me, specks of other heads poked out of their windows, and below them, figures milled around in the street, staring vaguely upwards, as if they’d be able to see the wail as it drifted by them and track it back to the source. It was all around us. A blanket of thorns.
It wasn’t like a siren, no modulation in tone. More like a fox’s scream, but never ending. A nerve-tearing shriek that gripped you at the base of the skull and held on with sharp teeth. My neighbor yelled over from his window.
“What the hell is that?”
Without looking over at him I shrugged and pulled my head back in, slamming the window shut against the noise.
There was only one person I wanted to talk to. I opened the message app again. No response. It wasn’t even a complicated question. But whatever. The wail was making my fingers tremble and I set the phone down on my bed. Then I picked it back up and Googled.
Who is hearing the wail?
It was only in our city. No one outside of there seemed to be able hear it. But it was already being played and replayed on every social media site, so if viral counted, the wail was everywhere. It had only been fifteen minutes, but I felt like the wail had gotten into my pores and was now moving through my bloodstream. Feeding my organs. Replacing the oxygen.
Only fifteen minutes.
It had taken you longer than that to destroy me. It had taken hours. Hours of waiting for you, only to see you leave the theater with someone else. Your glance in my direction, defiant.
If I was destroyed already, why worry about the wail?
I checked my phone again. No reply from you. You weren’t even asking me if I heard the wail. Or if it hurt. Because it did. Maybe it hurt you, too? I typed in the question. Hit send.
Waited. I listened to the wail until I thought I was seeing things. Thought you were there, lying on my bed, a pillow wrapped around your head to keep the sound out.
A news alert popped up on my phone. Residents recommended to wear hearing protection and ordered to stay indoors. You were always prophetic. The wail’s source had been located. Authorities were moving in. The situation would be neutralized soon.
A relief. My fingers hurt, my eyeballs felt swollen, the wail was zipping between neurons. Drops of the wail fell from my brow and slid down the bridge of my nose. My phone pinged again. A reminder this time. It popped up daily. A thing I tell myself to keep situations like this from happening.
Always remember that you’re a monster. No one can love you.
I don’t always listen to my own advice.
Sometimes I try anyway. Like with you.
My door flew open with the crack of splintering wood.
Guns were aimed in my direction.
I knew I should close my mouth.
But I didn’t.
I really enjoyed this. Bravo!
This is fantastic! 👏🏻