Sloutched over my desk in the farthest corner of my room, insomnia plagues my current intoxicated state as I restlessly stare at my phone. I hungrily eye the bottle of ambien that rests a few inches from my hand; the colors of the sleep-inducing drug torturing me to snatch up five of its pills. Nonetheless, I give in, chasing them down with the devil’s juice. Fire ignites within my chest as the alcohol and pills travel throughout my system; however, only the crisp cherry wine sends a surge of energy into my lifeless corpse. Still, my mind never wavers from the task at hand, a phone call I’m so-desperately waiting for.

Ever since a week ago, I’ve been getting calls from the one person I’d never thought of hearing from again. A thick lump always forms in the back of my throat when thinking about him, the person I forever had dreams about since I was ten years old. And now that I’m twenty-four, I can’t remember how he talks, how he smells, how he laughs, how he sings…I’m slowly forgetting everything about him and I just can’t lose him again. I can’t.

So for the past week, my phone has been lighting up with calls from him. I used to decline them because I knew it was fake and I was imagining things, but I soon started answering them when they didn’t stop. I would answer the call, say hello, and wait for some type of response. I patiently waited for him to say something, anything to help me remember. However, the phone would cut off after every thirty seconds, leaving me even more desperate than before. Every day the phone rings at 5:29 in the morning, and every day the call lasts for thirty seconds before dropping. I know it might be a prank or, perhaps, a scammer trying to record my voice, but something has me believing that he’s trying to reach out to me. I can just feel it.

A second later, my phone lights up again, which makes me act on impulse. I lurch toward my phone only to have it hang up right as my fingers wrap around the device. Anger and frustration fills my veins as I throw it back onto the desk and hurl something across my room. Immediately, I regret whatever I grab, hearing the deafening shutter of glass upon contact with my closed door.

My hands flew to the sides of my face, massaging my aching temples as the fuzzy feelings from the alcohol start to fade. Shit. I forgot about Melany. However, I seem to have tested my luck when she barges into my room.

“Melany,” my voice warns in fear of the broken glass scattered about on the floor, but she catches it before I do.

“The fuck, Vera! What’s the matter with you!? I nearly jumped when I… Are, are you drunk!?”

“Is it that obvious,” I groan back, my eyes wandering toward the dark screen of my phone. Nothing.

“You’re lucky I don’t have time to argue with you, but if this stuff isn’t cleaned up before I leave-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it, Mother.” Grumbling sarcastically, “now why don’t you get ready for work before you get reprimanded by cute boss?”

“I swear, you can be so aggravating sometimes,” she huffs as she heads back down the hallway.

“Love you,” I call out.

“Yeah, hate you too!”

Now that that’s out of the way, I glance quickly at the time on my phone,my breath hitching in my throat. Seven minutes till 5:29. I contemplate my next move as my eyes travel back and forth from my phone to the mess on the floor. Then, knowing that if I rush, I can be back at my phone before he calls. So I do just that.

Hopping over the mess, I bee-line-it to the kitchen for some napkins, cleaning supplies, a trash bag, and a broom and dustpan. When I return, I get right to work with discarding the big shards of glass, sweeping up the smaller shards, and sanitizing the area. In my confession, I don’t think I ever cleaned up something in less than half an hour, so no doubt the effort’s there. I roll my eyes at the thought as I begin to throw away the trash and put everything back where they belong.

“Oh goody,” Melany cheers unenthusiastically. “You finally cleaned up your mess when I told you so.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.”

“I know,” she beams, “I’m amazing right?” I didn’t say anything as she struts and poses like those skimpy, overpriced supermodels in Vogue’s Magazine. Instead, I push past her and head toward my room, distancing myself from her as she cackles loudly. Just then, I see my phone light up.

I lunge over toward my phone and quickly swipe right to answer the call.

“Hello,” I answer, my voice urgent. Silence greets me again, and my eyes lower with disappointment. Just as I go to hang up, I hear his voice.

“Vera,” his thick and creamy voice traveling down into the phone and into my ear. I close my eyes and take a shaky breath, a drop of moisture rolling down my left cheek.

“Dad,” I ask, trying to confirm that my ears are not deceiving me. My body starts to quiver as silent warm tears soak my face.

“I missed you, Vera Bear.”

“I missed you too, Papa Bear. More than you can ever think.”

“Not true, mija. Not true. I thought about you every second since that day. I remember it like it was just yesterday. The way you looked at me and hugged me so tight…. I can’t ever forget. Your eyes and heart were as big as the moon, full of love and admiration. I remember it all.”

“And then nothing,” I continue, my voice giving out on me as a low whimper left my lips. He goes quiet.

“N-no,” he stutters before regaining the will to talk. “Whatever you are thinking, it is not.”

“it is.”

“is not.”

“it is,” I argue back, my voice rising a bit, but not in anger. Never in anger.

“No it’s not, mija. Stop blaming yourself for my death. Don’t put that pressure on yourself. It happens. Life happens. I’m okay now.”

“And which one of us are you trying to comfort right now? You, me, or yourself? Dad, it’s okay if you’re not… I haven’t been okay since I was ten.”

Silence. He doesn’t answer, knowing that he well-deserves to know the pain that still hasn’t left my body. However, I’m almost about to hang up when he says, “Well, mija, you no longer have to feel like you’re the only one who’s hurting no more.”

Hearing the call drop, frustration fills my veins once more, and I hurl my phone at the wall. Right as it comes into contact, I slip into an oblivion as I crumble to the floor, along with my still unbroken phone that lies a few feet away from my tear-stricken face.

Days later, I haven’t received a call from him since that day we spoke. In turn, my insomnia problems have gotten better. However, my drinking habits are through the roof. My days have been running into each other, apart from the physical abuse of me drinking and eating myself to death. The emotional abuse comes from me not leaving the comforts of my room, not even as to shower or use the bathroom. I just lay in bed with whatever fix of alcohol and food I’m craving, and stare blankly at a spot on the wall. At this point, I blame myself for waiting so long. It wasn’t worth hearing his voice…or maybe my head is just screwing with me. Either way, the devil keeps calling me as I pour myself my twelfth glass today.