0024: The Only Thing She Has
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0024: A willowy, moist pink paper.
On the side, Everly has ripped tiny slits. She slides her nail between the small rips, counting them.
1,2,3,4. FOUR.
Everly jams her finger into the cold, silver square with a well worn “4” imprinted on it, then she dives back into counting the notches.
1,2,3. Three.
When they placed her here, the guard told her to call this number.
Everly had asked the officer to write the phone number down for her, but he refused. So, she had ripped little notches in the edge of her pink triplicate jail registration paper so she could remember it.
This next digit is where Everly gets stuck. She can’t count the notches fast enough. 1,2,3,4,5,6 -
DU DU DU
Everly groans as a woman’s sickly sweet recording catapults up the thick metal cord into her ear. “I’m sorry, if you’d like to make a call…”
Everly smacks the black receiver against the silver tongue.
She doesn’t even know whose number she is dialing. Only that it must be a landline.
She can only call landlines, which is harder than it seems in the age of cell phones.
Everly picks up the receiver again, and leans her shoulder against it, as she gears up to count the jagged notches. She wishes she knew more land line numbers by heart. She only knows one, but she is NOT calling it.
She got herself into this mess, and she can get herself out of it.
If she dials this one number, it will all be okay again.
She’ll go home, shower.
9:42am.
She still has time.
1, 2, 3, 4, FOUR.
Everly’s vision blurs as tears pull at the bottom of her eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, FIVE.
The salty drops splatter onto the pink paper, making splotches of red. Everly struggles to see beyond the barrier of tears.
1,2,3,4,5,6 —
DU DU DU.
Everly moans.
“Hey. YOU. Yo, Yellow dress.”
Everly turns to the row of bunk beds stationed behind her.
An inmate with wild, red, unmanaged hair with black roots points at her.
On the side, Everly has ripped tiny slits. She slides her nail between the small rips, counting them.
1,2,3,4. FOUR.
Everly jams her finger into the cold, silver square with a well worn “4” imprinted on it, then she dives back into counting the notches.
1,2,3. Three.
When they placed her here, the guard told her to call this number.
Everly had asked the officer to write the phone number down for her, but he refused. So, she had ripped little notches in the edge of her pink triplicate jail registration paper so she could remember it.
This next digit is where Everly gets stuck. She can’t count the notches fast enough. 1,2,3,4,5,6 -
DU DU DU
Everly groans as a woman’s sickly sweet recording catapults up the thick metal cord into her ear. “I’m sorry, if you’d like to make a call…”
Everly smacks the black receiver against the silver tongue.
She doesn’t even know whose number she is dialing. Only that it must be a landline.
She can only call landlines, which is harder than it seems in the age of cell phones.
Everly picks up the receiver again, and leans her shoulder against it, as she gears up to count the jagged notches. She wishes she knew more land line numbers by heart. She only knows one, but she is NOT calling it.
She got herself into this mess, and she can get herself out of it.
If she dials this one number, it will all be okay again.
She’ll go home, shower.
9:42am.
She still has time.
1, 2, 3, 4, FOUR.
Everly’s vision blurs as tears pull at the bottom of her eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, FIVE.
The salty drops splatter onto the pink paper, making splotches of red. Everly struggles to see beyond the barrier of tears.
1,2,3,4,5,6 —
DU DU DU.
Everly moans.
“Hey. YOU. Yo, Yellow dress.”
Everly turns to the row of bunk beds stationed behind her.
An inmate with wild, red, unmanaged hair with black roots points at her.