Ad Hoc Fiction

On The Wire

There’s a whisper.

That’s what he says. Every day. Drenched in sweat, refusing to stay in from the burning rain. I touched him once, just for a moment. He flinched, but not before I felt his skin and flinched back.

Old Ma says he’s got demons in him now. He wandered too far out into the void. No one ever spent a night out and came back. Not till he did. Now they all think he’s gone mad. They tell him to shut up.

Still.

He’s got me thinking. I run my hands along the receiver, feel the smoothness in its metal shell. It’s unlike anything else in this place. All cut up and jagged, ripped and ruined.

I catch him staring at me, chilling me to the bone. There is a crackle as the receiver speaks again. No one pays heed.

There’s a whisper.

This time I hear it.