I don't hear it at first. Well, I do. I heard the words crisp and clear, a pleasant toned computerized woman. "We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service." I hear it, but I pretend I don't.
I throw my keys on the kitchen counter and they slide right off the edge and land with an clatter on the floor. I don't pick them up. I press the lock button on my phone, end the call, and dial again.
"We're sorry, you have reached - "
I hang up. It still hasn't quite hit me. I shrug off my coat, let it fall to a heap on the floor. I'll hang it up later, I think, though I know I really won't. What's happening is not happening. It's simply not.
"We're sorry, you-"
I slam my phone down on the counter so suddenly that I startle even myself. No. No, no, no, no, no. I refuse to believe this. I dial again.
"We're so-"
All at once I am cold. I have to consciously keep myself from freezing where I stand when I pick up the phone again and go to my e-mail. Well, her e-mail. It takes a minute or two of scrolling before I spot it, in bold and large letters, amidst a sea of junkmail.
AUTOPAY PERIOD TERMINATED. THREE MONTHS TO RENEW.
No. I do not check the date of the e-mail because I do not want to see it. I scroll further. More junkmail. E-mails from pinterest, tumblr, facebook, asking where she's been and when she's going to log on again.
AUTOPAY RENEWAL REMINDER.
Surely it has not been three months, I try to convince myself. I really, really try. "There's time to renew." I mumble under my breath, ignoring the fact that I am lying.
AUTOPAY RENEWAL: LAST WARNING.
I grip the phone so tightly my fingers begin to shake, my knuckles turn white. I hope I'll break it. I hope I'll break it and all of this will go away, and I won't have to deal with what I know is coming. I close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. My breath is shaky.
ACCOUNT TERMINATED.
All the air is sucked from my lungs. It hangs in a cloud around my head, blurs my vision. I try, and fail, to breathe.
The phone clatters to the floor. I follow.
I should have recorded it. My hands are in my hair and pulling at my scalp. I shut my eyes so tightly as if that will somehow stop the stinging behind them. I should have recorded it. Why did I never think to record it. Shallow, panicked breaths. Her voice rings in my ears.
"Hi, this is Nat, leave a message!"
I do the first and only thing I can think of. I cling to those words. I cling to them with every ounce of my remaining sanity. Repeat them over and over and over in my head, mouth the words silently as I sit in a heap on the floor, a shaking, pathetic mess.
"Hi, this is Nat, leave a message!"
I cannot forget them. I will not. I will go to my grave with those seven words resonating throughout my soul. I made that decision long ago - I will never forget her.
And yet. Hours later, I slide into bed, recovered, but drained, from the afternoon's fit. I am just beginning to drift off when I try to replay the words in my head, the voicemail message that I have been listening to every day since the wake, the ethereal cadence of her voice. I try. And I can't.