❝In which a celebrity dials a random number in hope of finding one last thing to make him smile before he commits suicide at the end of the month.❞
"I'm going to commit suicide in one months time."
"I think you have the wrong number."
"It can't be t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Shane had managed to pick the lock.
Apparently, a pocket knife was good for more than one thing.
He was currently stalking the ghostly corridors, as if he was the prey and the predator was right behind him. Who the predator was? He had no clue. Perhaps it was fear itself. The fear of not being able to get to Cleo in time.
In time for what?
Yet another question that he could not answer.
The emptiness of the corridors was eerie. Too silent. Too bland. Too much white paint that was fading as fast as his patience. He was on guard. He was alert. He wasn't taking any chances. Something was telling him that Cleo was way out of her depth here. There was something screaming at him that she was drowning in the chaos that she had attempted to cease.
Guilt ate at him. He hadn't paid enough attention. How could he have been so selfish as to be so entangled in his own spiderweb of emotions as to not notice the angel falling from the sky faster than she could handle? The angel that had given everything so that he could ascend from hell.
He should have picked up the bloody phone call.
He should have been there.
He should have noticed.
He should have paid more attention.
He should have been there for her.
He should have polished her rusty halo.
Instead of relentlessly scrubbing at his trident of destruction.
He should have been there.
He should have been there.
He should have been there.
He should have-
There was a phone laying on the floor, just outside a branch of lockers.
His hand shook as he took out his own, pressing the dial button.
The deserted phone sang out a tune in retaliation.
