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The husk of a gloomy night looms through tall windows over the landline on the counter. It’s matte black, but not in a sleek modern way: in more of a worn way. This landline has seen many years of use, been a witness to many tear-stained memories and felt many vibrations of chuckles rumbling deep within the owner’s chest. The phone has heard countless conversations, ranging from poignant debates to futile small talk.

Tonight, it hears a whisper of its desperate owner. Keypad glowing a soft neon in the darkened apartment, familiar keys of 5’s and 9’s pressed. 8’s and 1’s. 4’s and 6’s. It doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a ring; it can smell the drinks on its owner’s breath and can feel the tension in the late-night air, the rain beating tirelessly against the windows in the background as if it were fists pounding on the owner’s door, begging him not to call this number.

The landline hears the tired mumble of a greeting, a feminine voice on the other end obviously woken from the sleep she was enjoying. It feels bad for her and wants to tell her that if it had any control over its inebriated and sickening owner, then it would have helped her.

The landline hears every word spoken. Every hitched breath and repressed sob of a girl hearing her painful ex again. Every wan and pseudo smile stretching across its owner’s face. Every pathetic excuse as to why its owner is calling.

“I’ve recently discovered a song that makes me think of you every time I hear it,” The landline hears him say. “Every night I play it until I fall asleep so that I can dream of you.”

The landline hears the girl on the other line ask why the owner called. “Well, you know what they say: The nights are made for saying things you wouldn’t say during the day.” Its owner shifts, grinning a wicked smile like a cat that’s about to catch a mouse, “Don’t you ever think of me? Of calling me when you’ve had a few?” The owner is still smiling, and the landline has chills shivering through its twisted cord, “Because I always do.”

The landline wants to cry as soon as it hears the girl giggle breathily and say that she thought the owner would’ve moved on by now. Cheese in the trap.

“Maybe I’m too caught up in being yours to fall for somebody new.” The owners throaty laugh makes the landline want to vomit. “I was sort of hoping you’d want to meet up tonight. If your heart’s still open, that is, and if so… What time does it shut?”

It hears the girl say 3. Then a confirmation, and a click, and the girl is gone. The mouse is caught.

The landline feels sick to its circuits. Its handle is stained with the excited sweat of a predator about to catch its prey. It can hear the shuffling of a bag, one that this poor landline is all too familiar with the contents of. Rope. Tape. Gloves. Bleach.

If it could, then it would unplug itself. Put itself out of its guilty misery. It never asked for this. It would much rather be home to a teenage girl’s bedroom to hear pointless gossip, or in an office to hear stock trades and businessmen’s derogatory comments said in secret. No matter how many times it hears these conversations, it never softens the blow or changes the gut-churning feeling of it all.

When the owner gets home, the landline tells him that it’s 4:33 in the morning. This phone has felt this feeling often, the one of warm and sticky liquid tainting its handle, the smell of fresh bleach filtering in and making it want to pull its own circuits out. Tonight, it hears a hoarse whisper of its repulsive owner. Keypad glowing a soft neon in the darkened apartment, familiar keys of 9’s and 1’s. “Hello? I’d like to report a murder.”