This Dark Salvation

XXXI.

The floor and I became well acquainted. We spent a lot of time together. As I was lying on the floor, after Gwen left me, sweaty and repugnant, I fiddled with my jacket. It was beginning to wear itself thin. There was something in my jacket pocket. It was crumpled paper ball rolling inside the slick silk fabric. My jacket had been washed several times before I had found the paper making it almost unreadable as I unfolded it. It was a phone number, the black pen strokes blended together reminding me of women's makeup after they cried. I puzzled over where it had come from and who this belonged to. It wasn't often that I had a good surprise like this during my time in the Josey's house.

I swallowed my excitement and crawled to the main entrance hall where they had their phone. As I came closer the anticipation to use it was overwhelming. I didn't know any phone numbers by memory, I always kept a book on me. I flung myself against the table the phone handle clanking against the opposite wall. My palm slapped the counter as I lugged myself to my knees. I gripped the speaker before dropping back to the floor and kicking myself into a corner. The new chains clanked together.

"Operator? Hello?" I pressed.

"Yes, who would you like to be connected to?" answered a young lady.

My throat seized and I could almost feel my chest closing up. "I—I need to reach this person... POR4098, you got that?"

"Connecting," she said.

I waited with my heart beating wildly in my chest while gripping the receiver tight in my hands. I could get help, this was a chance I was waiting for, I had a number from someone who must've known me. I felt stupid for not thinking of calling someone earlier. The Josey's were always around, and I wouldn't find a good time to steal the telephone. This was my best chance and hopefully, whoever this was, they would save me.

"Hello?"

My breath swelled bringing another dizzy spell with it. That honest-to-God silk voice dripped through the grated speaker. "Delilah?"

"Who is this?" she snapped. "I've got a modeling shoot within minutes, the car is waiting, so please, hurry."

I could almost picture her on the other side of the phone. The front door would be open allowing the sunlight to glare at the floor and up her back, the stray hairs that didn't get trapped in hairspray flying around her cheeks as she jutted out her hip tapping an impatient foot. My mind wandered towards what she would've been wearing. The thought made me burn inside longing to be in Maine escorting her to that car before it was too late.

"Delilah—it's me, Manson," I said on verge of tears. "I'm hurt, I need help—"

"Manson? Why, it's been ages! What's the matter? Is she too possessive?" she joked. "I thought you'd love that. Hopefully she's not as cool as me, yeah? If her nails are painted red don't get too carried away because, in my opinion, that's a bad sign. You see, I paint mine a sort of dark ruby not that blood red—"

"I think I can tell if there's been a bad sign or not," I snarled, glancing down the hall. "Now, you need to listen to me—"

Delilah groaned, "Boy, you sound ill. You're just sick, go see a doctor or take some medication. I'm not a therapist Manson, besides, I'm late for a shoot. How about you call me later."

"No!" I gasped. "No, no, don't hang up! Please, stay on and listen!" There was movement on the upstairs balcony. I pushed myself harder against the wall. "I'm trapped in a house with people who want to kill me. I'm going to die if you don't get me out of here."