Falling

A black phone was ringing. A man picked it up.
“Hello, operator?”
Silence, then a voice called from the depths: “Can you hear me?”
A man picked up the phone.
“Yes, I can. I would like to speak to Mr Sam Micheals, if you don’t mind, number 1 (911) 313-9385.”
Silence once more.
“Hold on one moment.”
Fumbling, fumbling, and then a click.
“Thank you,” the man said to the operator, “And I’m sorry.”
There was a repeating ring, before being replaced by the tell tale sound of numbers being pressed.
The man dialed the number.
“Hello.”
Silence once more. Then a low, raspy voice called back from the depths: “You can hear me?”
“Yes, I can,” the man said. “Now tell me your story.”
Coughing, rough and cutting.
“I am Sam Micheals. I am bleeding. Did you know that? I am bleeding myself, my stories, my minds, everything. I can feel it slipping away through a single, gaping wound piercing through all stories. Gravity exists to drag downwards, to the center. To the bottom. Where nothing lies but rust and blood. And I lay at the top, being dragged down to all things, through all things, down, down, down, falling and falling, faster, ever faster
.
.
.
Until it all breaks. Do you know my story?”
The man put down the phone. He looked at the mirror. “I am Sam Micheals. I am the bleeding vagrant, the shattered King. I know my story, for it is one all must know. Do you know who I am?”
A black phone was ringing. The man picked it. “Operator?”
A response called from the depths: “We are Sam Micheals. What can we do to help, to wash away the pain and be reborn from ash?”
And the man said: “We do nothing but bleed. Let the blood fall and soak into all sands. What can the broken man do, you ask? We can watch.”
The man put down the phone.

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