Helpline

Wrong Number

  Lights glimmer in Peter's hazy vision. His eyes focus on the seemingly endless New York City skyline as he searches for a distraction from the growing panic inside him.
His cheek presses against the raised concrete lining of the roof, pushing the small loose chunks into his skin. Each haggard breath slightly moves his face. Nonsensical memories flood his senses; bits and pieces of nothingness pop into his mind and vanish before any rationale. The tips of his fingers tingle with a nervous sensation, but nothing is wrong.

       Peter jolts into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the ten-story walkup. A strange sense of inexplicable fear courses through him as he directs his attention to the empty street below. Four am is his least favorite time of day. The world is quiet. All he has to talk to is himself, and constant monologue is too much for him.

     He slides his phone out of the pocket of his makeshift spider suit and unlocks it. A single screen of apps pops up over the picture of the city skyline he took. The chess app is the only game for entertainment, but he can't bring himself to think right now. He can't do anything. Maybe this is a sign he needs help.

      212-321-5309 plays in Peter's head like an infomercial as he opens his messages app at the bottom of the screen. The actual helpline flyer is still in his backpack but he tried to commit the number to memory before he left for patrol for this exact reason. 

      "I keep panicking and I don't know how to stop. The root of the problem is obvious but why I get stressed and tense out of nowhere is a mystery to me. I figured if anyone would know how to help, it would be you. Could we talk about it?" Peter types out, deciding it would be more personal to say the word you instead of this helpline. Acknowledging that it's a helpline makes it too real. But he can't live in a frenzy for much longer.

        Three dots appear on the screen. Peter's heart pounds in his chest. Dread fills him as he anticipates their response, assuming it's something along the lines of Do you have anxiety? Or you should see a psychiatrist-which is out of his budget.

       "Is this Steve? How did you get this number?"

      Peters brows furrow. That's a strange response for a helpline. It didn't ask him to put his name or any alias. Steve is a very general name; it could be the default. But he doesn't want to be called Steve all night. Steve sounds like a boomer.

      "My name is Peter. My English teacher gave me this number. He implied that you would know about how to calm down from randomly freaking out." A flyer about a helpline for teens with anxiety was slipped into Peter's backpack during English today. None of his classmates know him well enough to notice a change in his behavior.

      "Are you pulling my leg kid?" Peter brings his knees to his chest, still unsure about his choice to be vulnerable to a stranger.

Peter turns his phone off and abruptly shoves it against the concrete. He doesn't understand what he said wrong. He's obviously not an internet troll.

    He reluctantly opens his messages app again and responds. "No. I just wanted to talk. Is this not the right helpline for that?" He reached out for a reason. He's not going to let whatever asshole on the other side who happens to be working derail him completely.

"Who do you think you're texting?" The message pops up on the screen. Peter swallows his spit. Maybe he got the number wrong.

"Help A Life Helpline."  He sends with defeat. A helpline wouldn't ask that. Though this is his first time texting one, the vibe was not right on the other end.