When she wakes up, there are seventeen voicemails from a stranger.


Lucille groans miserably as she pushes herself out of bed, head pounding against the intensity of the sunlight invading the small, boxy room. Why did the day have to be quite so bright? And the warmth floating in between the curtains feels almost obscene; its clawed fingers grabbing at her arms and pressing into her space, suffocating her beneath its unrelenting presence.

Uncomfortable, she stands and moves too quickly, her left foot catching on the wastepaper basket carefully positioned near her nightstand. Lucille steadies her stumble just in time, although the sudden jerky movement causes her stomach to clench in a frightening manner. 


“Oh God,” she moans. Her hand reaches out for the glass of water placed neatly beside an aspirin tablet and a folded note. She hesitates briefly before changing course.


Lucy,

Picked you up from the corner of Seventh and Twelfth last night this morning. I took the liberty of calling you in sick to work. I don’t want to start another argument but we need to talk when I get back.

-Georgia


Great. Another ‘talk’. Lucille knows what that means- her roommate misunderstanding and lecturing her again, looking down at Lucille with those calculating dark eyes and disapproving pursed lips. Lucille is fine! Thriving, actually! She’s a favourite at work. Customers love their regular, easy chats with her. And so what if they’ve been asking her, tentatively, if she was alright? Why the circles under her eyes keep getting darker? Everyone gets a little run down sometimes; it’s hardly unusual. And her uni grades are enviable! How is it even relevant that her studio art projects keep getting darker; light pinks and honey golds giving way to deep blues and speckled purples? Soft edges traded in for jagged peaks of paint, cutting in their intensity? It’s art!


Frustration building and world spinning, Lucille follows the familiar route to the kitchen. She slumps at the counter and lets her head drop into her hands, tugging restlessly at the golden blonde hair of her scalp. 


In through the nose. Out through the mouth.


She glances slowly over at the landline beside her. The one Georgia insisted on, no matter how Lucille teased her. Now…has anyone called for Lucille here? It’s been a long time since her cell phone last rung. Maybe her brother hasn’t been too busy to talk. Maybe he just has the wrong number. A pang of something she can’t quite decipher strikes her chest. He knows where she lives but still hasn’t come around. Not since that last argument…


“You have seventeen messages.” Oh. She must have pressed the button. “Message number one.” It says. “Heeeey G, comin’ an’ get me? I…we shou’ get a drink. You an’...you an’ me…” Lucille frowns at the sound of her own slurring voice. 


“Message number two,” the machine moves on. “Don’ be a buzzkill, Gigi, c’mon! We can…mmm.” She must’ve paused to take a swig of something. The message cuts out a second later. Sighing, Lucille decides to raid the fridge and let the voicemails play. Unfortunately, there’s not much in the way of quick food. Ugh, Lucille is going to have to actually put in the effort of cooking something. She pulls out the eggs and starts washing a pan, hot water nipping at her skin. She wrinkles her nose.


“Message number three. G, come an’ get meeee. You’re not- you’re not busy. Y’never are.” It’s true- Georgia is certainly a bit of a homebody. If she’s not at work or class, she’s curled up on the couch with a cup of herbal tea, entranced by some period drama flickering across the tv. Lucille tries her best to get her out and about, really she does. Introducing her to fellow students on campus- ones Lucille can easily navigate animated conversation with but who Georgia hesitantly shies away from. Taking her out to lunch and laughing with her over overpriced lattes. Even offering to share the portion of her own wardrobe which is far more suited for a night on the town.


“Message number four.” The stilted mechanical voice jolts Lucille from her thoughts. “Don’ ignore me Georgie,” she hears her own voice sing-song. It breaks slightly on her friend’s name. “Pick me uppp!”


Ugh, are all of these messages just going to be her begging for a ride? Lucille sets the pan on the stove and lets it begin to heat up. The cupboard handle digs into her side as she leans against it, letting the coolness of the wood soothe the tenderness of her head. Maybe she should cook dinner for Georgia tonight as an apology for all the annoying voicemails. Pasta and wine? 


“Message number five. I know you’r ignorin’ me. Stop being a coward an’ pick up the stupid phone.” Lucille freezes. Did she really say that to Georgia? 


“Message number six. GEORGIA. I need a ride! Ya really gonna let you’r own friend drive like this? You’r only friend. Only only only…” The wobbling voice rambles, somehow simultaneously bitter and floating. Sirens and horns blare and whine in the background. It’s a cacophony of sound so loud she can almost see it; almost dig it up and to the front of the hazy memories of last night.


“Message number seven. Shoulda known you weren’t gonna come f’r me. S’always me helpin’ you. You. Don’. Care.” The voice is biting over the line. Lucille thinks back to the sweet note and the wastepaper basket. The aspirin and the water, although still untouched. Georgia always leaves it just in case.


Messages number eight through fifteen are similar. Slurred voice tripping over easy letters, begging and blame, city sounds. Lucille tugs at the collar of the dress she slept in last night. It’s too small around the throat but she can’t seem to stop wearing it. Despite not particularly liking it, it’s familiar, and shopping for another seems a waste.


“Message number sixteen. S’good you’r not here, really…rememb’r when, when…all the times we go out. You ruin it all the time…wet blanket…”


No. She wouldn’t say something so cruel; not to sweet, kind Georgia.

The room feels too hot. The summer air tightens around Lucille once more- the pan is sizzling; the cupboard is slick with humidity against her skin; she’s flushing with heat. Lucille drags in a thick breath and staggers for the window. Her hands are shaking more than usual. 


“Message number seventeen. I hate you.”


The window wrenches inwards. Hot air gusts through and sweeps across her face, blowing her hair out behind her. The temperature is overwhelming. The sound of birds chirping and insects trilling their shrill songs pierces her ears. The sun bears down, unbeatable.

That voice…the sheer vitriol. That wasn’t her. Not anymore.


Those were seventeen voicemails from a stranger.