Daddy

Just sitting by the window. Staring out. I know you can only come from one direction but like in any movie, where logic doesn't count, I look both ways. A car comes past every minute or so, with enough space in between so you can actually hear their engines coming down the road. Each time that noise resounds through the paper-house walls I leap off the sofa and press my nose to the grime. My face looks like it's been pressed into the dead ground outside, by now. I haven't looked at the clock. I don't want to see how late you are. This way, the time is only passing in my head.

Another rumble, another leap, another milimetre of dirt added to the collection on the tip of my nose. Your nose, or so I'm told. At least recently. There's a break in the traffic. I wait for another rumble, the engine grinding within the case, the tyres crunching on the asphalt. The only noise is the void ringing in my ears. Silent white noise. And the slow ticking of the clock that I can't bring myself to look at. The scrap of paper in my hand is the only clue to you. I unfold it, minding the tears that run through it, this mangled scrap that has seen the palm of my hand, the space under my pillow, the hollow of my jewellery box. It feels so smooth under my fingers, worn to its fibres. These few numbers, fainter now than ever, I punch into the keypad and wait, my finger poised over the screen so I cannot see the hour. I wait, the ringing droning into my head. Ring. Ring. R- a click and a sob. One I hear. One, I can only assume that you do, as what I can only assume is your voice rings out.