On the Eve of the End


“Hello, is this Bethany?” he’d asked.

I hadn’t seen him in ten years. I closed my eyes and I could see him clearly in front of me as though all of those long days had been only seconds. I pictured him standing on the other end of the line, dark hair toussled from lack of sleep, thick dark glasses slightly askew. His ears were uneven. Most people didn’t know that about him.

His voice still sounded the same, and this small fact seemed to upset me more than anything else – more than the fact that he had left, hadn’t called, hadn’t sent letters.

“Look, I don’t kno-” I began, but he cut me off impatiently.

“Bethany, I know you’re angry, and I know there’s no making excuses. But, that’s not why I’m calling,” he said cautiously.

“Then why-”

“Look, you’ve got to get out of there,” he said anxiously. “Do you know anyone who has a house up north? Something bad’s about to happen. You’ve just got to get out. I can’t explain, there’s no time. Just -“


Dial tone.

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