Episode 2: 1800SUICIDE
Missy wakes and spends a few moments staring at the ceiling, reflecting on her prospects for the day. She has a longer than usual shift, and she needs to check the news for last night’s proclivity. Aside from that, the day is open, just as she likes it. She doesn’t think anyone else will have to die.
Dragging herself from her bed, she makes her way to the bathroom, and to the kitchen. Her still fuzzy eyes see a note hanging on the fridge, secured by a rainbow magnet. A heart drawn in a pink marker. From Princess. Missy plucks the note from the fridge and wads it up, tossing it in the garbage before opening the cupboards to assemble the components for coffee.
As it brews, filling the room with a rich, dark scent, Missy retrieves a flask of whiskey from a smaller cupboard in the corner. She adds two fingers of liquor to her coffee cup, then fills it to the brim with coffee. Replacing the whiskey bottle after taking a quick swig, she glances at the clock. She has one hour to be at her desk.
Sipping at regular intervals from her Irish coffee, Missy checks the various news and police feeds online. The emergency call list, police social media bulletins and regular news outlets are all screaming about the savaged carcass Bitch Slap the pimp has discovered in his quest for cash. Missy’s eyes fly through the words and photos, sipping her coffee with greater frequency as her teeth grind together. That fucking Princess. There is only fractional comfort to be found in the bewildered tone of all statements by law enforcement; it is still early.
Finishing her coffee, Missy tosses the cup into the sink and returns to her room. She dresses, tying her hair back into a ponytail. Brushing her teeth and applying makeup is done without any conscious thought. She is thousands of miles away, traveling at speeds immeasurable by science. That damn Princess, she’s thinking, as she wonders not for the first time how to kill her.
As the thought turns itself over and over, she returns to reality with a snap as she realizes she isn’t looking at Missy anymore. The face in the mirror smiles at her.
“Hello, you bitch,” Missy said, her voice a monotone as she applied eyeliner. “Don’t move.”
“Bitch yourself,” said Princess, keeping her head still. “I told you I took care of it. They don’t know anything.”
“You don’t know anything,” Missy sighed. “You think they would be telling the press that they have this for evidence and that for a suspect? They would be acting just like they are now regardless of if they knew anything.”
“I took care of it,” said Princess, daubing lipstick on Missy’s lips. “So just quit worrying. It’s not like anything can be done right now anyway.” She blew a kiss at her reflection. Missy scowled.
“It’s not like you’ll have to deal with it,” she said, her voice indignant. “It’s always my fucking problem. That’s too much lipstick. I’ll look like a whore.”
“I like it that way.”
“Looking like a whore?”
“Shut up, bitch.”
Princess jerked her hand and the lipstick scrawled a jagged line across Missy’s cheek. Missy gasped in outrage as Princess smiled at her reflection. “You bitch!”
“Whatever,” Princess says, and then it’s only Missy, staring in silent rage at herself in the mirror.
When Missy walks into the office with a freshly made-up face, the others on her shift are all at their cubicles wearing headsets, and eyes flick to the clock to see how late she is: twenty minutes. She’s definitely going to get a scolding.
Going to her spot and sitting down, Missy groans inside as she sees the supervisor’s door open right on cue. She straightens up and looks with artificial crispness and respect at the woman striding in her direction. Missy’s supervisor is a large woman with iron gray hair and a fondness for tweed. She stops before Missy’s desk and speaks in a voice pitched low enough not to intrude upon the telephone conversations, but not pitched so low that those not on the phone cannot eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Missy, do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Missy says, and no more. She has learned through experience and observation that extra words prolong the suffering.
“Twenty minutes past the time you were supposed to be here, am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong, ma’am,” Missy says. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. Just to be sure, I’ll be subtracting twenty minutes from your pay this week.” The woman’s face breaks into her first smile of the day, her teeth large and wide like a horse’s, reminding Missy of tombstones. “Now that’s enough chit-chat! Someone needs you!” She points to Missy’s phone, where a light blinks with the urgency which means incoming call.
“Yes ma’am,” Missy says, attempting not to clench her teeth as she thinks about last night when Princess had peeled the skin from the girl’s body as she screamed to die. Maybe something of it shows in Missy’s eyes, for her supervisor’s malevolent smile falters a little.
Before she can say anything, Missy dons her headset and says in a voice dripping with sympathy and understanding, “Thank you for calling the Suicide Hotline. I’m so glad you did. How can I help you?”
Her smile returning, the supervisor retreats to her office, closing her door softly. Missy’s eyes follow her all the way back. Only when the door clicks shut does her smile slip from her face. Taking a deep breath, Missy reaches for a pen and legal pad and begins to doodle as she listens to the tearful soliloquy pouring forth from the earpiece.
Debra lives in Maine, and is calling while her boyfriend is in the shower. She tells me she has her phone in one hand and her boyfriend’s gun in the other. She just found emails containing naked photos of another girl on her boyfriend’s laptop, going back months. They were talking about getting married. Debra’s voice breaks as she says this, and Missy can barely make out that Debra and Boyfriend were talking about getting married too, before Debra dissolves into hysterical sobs.
“Debra,” Missy says, raising her voice just a little and losing none of the honeyed tones of sympathy and understanding. She lowered the volume on her earpiece. “Debra?”
A snuffling, wailing affirmation. Debra is listening.
“I understand you don’t feel like living right now,” Missy says, her tone as comforting as a mother removing a bee sting. “I don’t blame you. This is the kind of suffering that leaves a scar and changes who you are, deep down, as a person.”
A cry leading into more tears and blubbering. Debra was happy the way things were, she doesn’t want things to change. She wants to be with Boyfriend the way they had planned and doesn’t want it to be any other way. She continues to repeat herself and Missy draws a cat on the legal pad clawing at the margin. She is adding whiskers and a spike on the tail when Debra finally runs out of steam and is nothing but noisy breathing in Missy’s ear.
“I know, honey, but that can’t happen. If you can’t stand to have anything change, you should probably kill yourself.” Missy adds a mouse under the cat’s claw, and elongates the claw so it pierces the mouse through the stomach.
Debra sounds shocked.
“There’s no other solution,” says Missy, and draws a large pair of jaws around the cat. “You don’t want it to change, but it’s going to whether you want it to or not. It’s going to hurt you forever, so why don’t you just do it already?” Debra is crying louder than ever. Missy draws large fangs from the disembodied jaws, stabbing through the cat and mouse alike. “Kill yourself now, while he’s in the shower, and leave the phone nearby so he knows why. You owe him that much at least.”
Debra’s crying stops abruptly as a loud BANG sounds in Missy’s ear, making her wince a little. She can hear, in some house somewhere, some guy shouting “Deb? You okay?” Then he begins to scream.
“Thank you for calling the Suicide Hotline, and I hope you have a wonderful day,” Missy says, and disconnects the call. She smiles, and looks at the clock. Nine more hours to go.