It was 11pm When she Called

One night from one story.

It was 11pm when she called.

“Hey, it’s me. Would you be able to come pick me up?” Her voice is faint and shaking.

 “Of course.” I reply, grabbing my things as quick as I can.

I run to the car, relieved for her to have called. While driving that horrible feeling returns. What do I do? No one teaches you how to handle tough situations.

She lifts her fragile bony frame into the car. So far from the curves that she used to possess.

“What time is it? What day is it?” she asks in a daze.

Her body trembles as I answer in shock.

It is impossible not to think how many men there’s been this week. What have they done to her?

My beautiful friend has become so broken.

I think back to a couple of nights prior to when she called crying, “I can’t do it anymore.”

I waited around the street that possess’ those flashing lights and that red neon sign that seems to forever say OPEN. But she was nowhere to be seen.

But tonight she is here.

She doesn’t look like her anymore. A body that’s so unbelievably thin caked with make-up that cannot cover the pain. Eyes practically falling out of her face, like they are constantly in shock.

I hate myself for the thought that she reminds me of an old lady who’s had too much plastic surgery. Possessing a face that is not her own. Like a scary mask, not knowing who or what is behind it.

But she is still mine and she here with me now. All I can do is reach across and hold her hand, tight.

The way we did when we were children, scared of the darkness that night brings.

 

I cut up a plum into tiny, bite sized cubes and pour a cool glass of water.

She’s burning up and I don’t know what to do.

I will never know exactly what combination of drugs she has overloaded on tonight. Or the effects that the concoctions she has consumed over the last week, month, year, are having on her body right now.

“Do you want some food?”

Nothing.

She sits and she cries. Endlessly clawing at her skin, unable to express or deal with all the emotions that are flowing through her at this very moment. I scramble to get a cloth to run under cold water.

Place it on her forehead, the back of her neck.

Trying to make her feel better.

It takes less than a minute for the cloth to take on her body heat, virtually becoming useless.

I raise the glass from the table to her mouth and she sips.

I pick up the miniature cube and she eats.

She will eat when fed, but refuses to feed herself. I continue on slowly, careful not too rush, careful not to force her.

The crying never stops though.

 

She goes outside to light a cigarette. As I follow her out I am unsure of what is to come or whether I will be able to say the right thing.

She sits, she puffs, she cries.

Mumbling over and over, “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”

“You don’t have to go back.” I reassure, knowing what the answer will be. No words, just a slowly shaking head.

“You can stay here with me. Everything will be ok.”

“Can you call me a taxi?”

  “No!” I argue, trying to fight back the tears. Be strong I tell myself, crying isn’t going to fix this. Think quickly, find something to say that will make it all better.

“Don’t cry. Just call the taxi.”

It goes on like this. Round and round.

Stay. No. Stay. No.

She can walk back there in ten minutes but she doesn’t.

I know she doesn’t really want to go back but she is getting angry and if I make her to angry she will refuse to trust me. I will become an outsider to the one person who has been by my side my whole life. I don’t know what to do. What to say anymore? What is the right choice to make in this situation?

It isn’t until six months later that the thought pops into my head. Why is there no one here helping me though this? Helping us? Where the f**k is the rest of this so-called family of ours who we were taught would be the only ones we could truly count on?

The anger of the answer overwhelms me. I knew exactly where they were. Comfortably at home asleep or drinking their wine. Living under the illusion that everything always has been and always will be fine. Pushing their problems under an ever-growing rug. Ignorantly ignoring the scary truths that they know exist but are not directly in their day-today lives.

 

In the end I drove her back. What was he point in her walking? She would burn more energy than she had to spare. The same went for a taxi fare.

As she got out of the car I begged one last time for her to stay with me.

“Please don’t go back” tears unstoppably gushing down my face now.

 

I drove home alone in a haze of uncertainty surrounding what to do and what will come next.

 

When I get back into the house I see the half empty glass of water and half eaten plum. Half a measly plum. That was it. That was all I could manage to get her to eat. Half a glass of water was practically useless to her dehydrated, fighting body.

It wasn’t enough, I think to myself as cry on the lounge.

What I do will never be enough.    

  

Author's Note

It is important to me that this piece of writing is perfect, so please critique.
Is it compelling to read on? Does it flow through the whole piece? Is there too much reflection? Any other tips.

Reviews

[just Penny]

This certainly hooked me in right from the opening line as I wondered what would unfold as the story progressed. The storyline is a scene that could be in any town anywhere and I could relate to it. It's written with a credibility and realness that evokes an empathy with the characters. The harsh truth that many would deny is to pretend everything is okay when it's clearly not, but I also admired the value of true friendship that came through. I always have the dilemma of past or present tense, but in this instance I think either would work well. Yes, I want more !!! Penny :)

[NoelHC]

Rachel, this confirmed for me that you have some great writing skills, I was moved by this story, and could relate so much to it. Family friends had a similar situation with their daughter, and went through what you described here, so eloquently.
Very few minor punctuation changes here and there would be all I change.
The story flowed well, with one exception, for me "It isn’t until six months later that the thought pops into my head." The story seems to be all the one evening, and all of a sudden six months pops up. I understand you are explaining how long this vicious circle has been repeating, but that needs to be established differently, somehow. Possibly - Six months ago, on another night much like this, a thought pops into my head. ....
I don"t feel there is too much reflection, we can only understand the situation by the friend's reactions and observations, as the poor girl is nearly comatose.
Well done!