snapshot: fear

She stared at the blinking red light on the answering machine. Twenty-eight messages. Twenty-eight. She didn't press the button, she just stared and found herself beginning to shiver. How long had she been gone? Three hours? Four maybe. How could he leave twenty-eight messages?

She glanced at the door to make sure it was locked, wondering how long she could live like this. She felt pulled thin, like it was possible to see right through her, like she wasn't completely there. She knew what the messages would say, the bizarre progression from charming, cajoling, apologies to accusations and threats. She didn't need to listen to know. She wondered if he would come right out and say it again; say he was going to kill her. "I'll keep it this time" she thought to herself "I'll use it when I tell, when I finally tell someone."

She sighed, seeming to shrink in complete defeat, as she pressed the button to listen.