Sidetracked

Ardell: Beginnings

- Berlin, Germany -

"Yes, I'm still here." 

The voice that rings out splits the still air of the hotel room like a dull knife. Craggy. Scratchy. Tired. And worst of all, broken. A cold echo bounces off the gray walls and unused cabinets and sounds back to Ardell, sitting on the edge of the bed like a bird on a perch, his phone glued to his ear as his arm sags with weight both real and unspoken. A tinny voice sounds from the speaker, and then the voice comes again.

"You're sure? You've checked all of the flights?"

Ardell uncrosses his legs and leans forward a bit, catching his forehead with his hand as he leans into it and sighs. Not a single flight out of Berlin to London. Why? It isn't bloody Christmas.

"How is that even possible, though? It isn't bloody Christmas."

His voice is dark and full of agony as it spits out the very thought in his mind without filter, and he catches himself, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes slamming shut. It's foreign to him, sounding this way. He's never wanted to allow himself to fall so far, and yet here he finds himself begging for a single plane ticket. Something. Anything. A light of hope. But it isn't there.

His eyes open as the sound of typing comes from the other end of the phone, and he scans around the room, stopping on the television hanging from the wall. It's playing some kind of news story. A man has been murdered in Hamburg and his wife has gone missing. None of it matters to Ardell, and he quickly grabs for the remote, shutting it off, making the television into a reflection of himself instead. His hair is unkempt, his shirt misbuttoned and his tie undone, and he suddenly realizes that he has no idea where he's put his jacket. It was a nice jacket, too. Giorgio Armani.

The voice comes back on the other end of the phone, and Ardell purses his lips in resolve. One last shot. Just one more.

"You haven't a single seat available on any flight to London?"

But he already knows the answer.

"No. No, I can't wait until Thursday. Thank you."

His gratitude has more bite than he intended as he thumbs the button to end the call, and regret instantly stabs his stomach for a moment as he thinks about it. Always quick to be a dick, aren't we? His eyes fall down to the phone cradled in his hand.

And then the other thoughts are back. The darker ones. The ones that hurt. The ones that put him where he finds himself, begging for a flight and still wondering just where his jacket has gone.

27 missed calls to a contact named Emma, scattered between calls to airlines, all over the course of the last 4 hours.

28th time's the charm, right?

He drags his thumb over the contact and dials her again. His wife of what he thinks is 13 years, but according to the huge fight they had on their last anniversary, she believes it's only been 11. Neither one of them are right.

"Hi, it's Emma. Leave me a message and I'll get back with you. Thanks."

Her voice rings out from the speaker, and Ardell hangs up before it can beep, his eyes dancing with distress and unshed tears. Don't cry. Men don't cry, remember?

But that doesn't stop the tears from working their way down his face. The feeling of them trickling across his cheekbone set a fire in his stomach. One he doesn't quite understand. And then the voice of his father rings out in his head, disguised as his own internal monologue. Men don't cry, Ardell. Men get angry.

Before he even realizes he's standing, his phone has hit the wall, thrown with force. A guttural burst of noise escapes his throat and his fists ball up, nails digging into his palms, before he slams back down on the bed. His hands fly up to his face, covering his features as he rocks himself a bit and mutters, a compulsory action he's done since childhood whenever things became too much for him to handle. As if it somehow emptied his mind of the thoughts that pained him, though it never did.

The ceiling fan above spins dully. The air is stifling. The traffic outside carries on as if Ardell's problems don't exist. Because they don't to them.

He tosses himself backward on the bed, his arms falling beside him in defeat. His eyes gently sway and follow the ceiling fan's movement as tears run down the sides of his face, cresting over his ears and soaking the comforter under him.

What are you going to do, Ardell? What can you do? There's nothing you can do. Nothing at all. You can't get home. You can't change things now, anyway. What is that buzzing noise? Ah, what does it matter? You've failed. You're a failure. You did everything right and yet you're still wrong. You--

Ardell suddenly sits up on the bed and notices his phone, lying face down on the floor. The screen is lit, and it's buzzing gently across the floor.

Leaping to his feet, he rushes over to it and grabs it up in his hand, fleeting hopes dashed the moment his reddened eyes see the screen. Spam. Not Emma. And now his screen is cracked, too. He lets out a sigh that's less an exhalation and more a frustrated sound and swipes to unlock the phone, thumbs through options, and finds himself on a page of a one-sided conversation with the contact named Emma.

"Please answer the phone."

"I need to talk to you."

"Why aren't you answering me??"

"Emma, please just answer the phone so we can talk."

And now a new one has appeared. One he's just typed. "Don't make me beg. Please answer the phone." His thumb hovers over the Send button, contemplating, determining. He's having trouble seeing the screen and reaches up with his other hand, instinctively palming at his eyes to get rid of any trace of emotion. He sniffles back, resigned to press the button.

Then he hears something. Distant. Faint. A foghorn? No... it's the sound of a train whistle.

Ardell thinks for a long moment, no longer concerned with the phone in his hand. An idea is being born.

The phone goes dark as he pockets it and starts to gather his belongings from the floor, tossing them into his suitcase and heading for the door. He grabs the handle and lets himself out without a second thought about anything he may have left in the room. Not even his power pack, lying on the nightstand.