Phone Call

The phone rings, the tone vibrating down the stairs to where we’re resting and waiting; everyone immediately tenses and stares around warily at those near their space. Any second now, someone’s going to answer that phone, and soon after that one of us will be called out and sent off to another john. Maybe they’ll die—most likely they’ll be dragged back an hour or so later, tired and beaten. Hopefully it won’t be you, or anyone you especially liked, but most likely it will be. That’s the way it is, after all. Things don’t work out the way you want them to.

A child starts crying from across the room. It’s a whipped, whimpering sequence of choked sobs. They try to restrain themselves—after all, it messes with the john’s head and they don’t pay as much if you’re crying—and fail miserably; an older poleepkwa smacks them across the head and hisses at them to shut up.

The ringing abruptly cuts out and a muffled “hello?” can be heard. Collectively we all flinch in unison, thoughts swirling with the same fear—a grotesque parody of the hive mind that almost nobody’s heard of here. More speech, direct and flat. You strain your antennae, catch only a few words, a number—is that the amount being paid or the number in the catalogue? Is it an address? What’s going on, and how is it going to hurt you? You’ve got to know beforehand...that gives you an advantage. It gives you time to brace yourself.

The talking goes on for a few more moments and trails off. You can hear the small click of the receiver being hung up. It’s silent upstairs...you hope for something that’s hopeless.

“Rigel.”

The name’s called out and everyone turns to you. For a brief moment you consider turning to face somebody else, or a wall—anything other than the glances of relief. A wave of tired happiness rises: hey, at least somebody else isn’t getting hurt because of this phone call. Bile comes up next. Well, that’s because you’re the one that got called.

You swallow down the fear, horror and twisted gratitude and follow the runner who traipses down the stairs to escort you to the car. He’s whistling a bit, and smoking a cigarette; nothing seems to be going wrong for him. He isn’t perturbed that he’s bringing somebody to a place where pain awaits, ready to scratch at the plating and claw into the soft inner flesh, growling in pleasure while you choke and whimper quietly. Why should he worry? He’s never encountered it on the “business end” of the call-prawn system. It’s just another night at the office for him.

It is for you, too.