"Collect your things."
She whispered gently in my ear as I was beginning to wake.
"There is something amiss. I can't name it, I can't place it." We had been out roaming all these dirt highways for some time now. The kind that you hear about in old books. The kind men on the run would take to. It's been quite some time since we've had a steady place to sleep. So long that I can't remember a time when the trees didn't pass and the scenery stayed the same. We would stay off the beaten path, avoiding all others. Though she had been by my side for years we had our problems. It was never perfect but we made do with what we had, which wasn't much. The packs on our back were chalk full of the last remnants of what life we had before all this. The fading scraps of legal documents, photos and letters from loved ones told a gut wrenching tale. Our packs would swell and wither with the changing weather. At the depths the papers started to mold together, but we just couldn't yet let go of the attached memories.

We're on the cusp of Winter now. The trees had been the most beautiful amber color, but were slowing looking as dead as we feel. The day we couldn't feel our feet is the day we couldn't feel anything. The frigid charcoal beasts that loomed over head seemed to concentrate their tears on us. Dragging through mud, leaves and grass our legs began to feel the full pressure of the weight we carried. All the baggage in tow. This night we took shelter underneath a tree, with a tarp we drapped over a branch to dry out for bit. After hours huddling we finally sleep.

I awoke with such intensity, looking around I see no one. A sigh of relief and I roll over only to
find a stone cold and pale face, she lay there not breathing, not moving. As soon as the tears began I put my arm around her, my face hit hers. I tried my best to warm her up, but in the back of my mind I knew there was nothing I could do. With a small prayer to her face I leave.

"I hope you're in a better place, my dear. Where your legs can rest and the weather is warm. Without you I cannot for the life of me see a point to doing this any longer. I am slowly, but surely on my way to join you."

This is the death of me.

Stretch out the coiled phone cord, pressing the receiver to my ear only to find the dial tone has abandoned. Dead set in front of me on the dinning table lays the holster, so I return it to its rightful place. Phone calls never quite go through anymore. The hours I would spend dialing and hanging up always soured me. Only a few ever graced the other end. And what started out to be run-of-the-mill discourse, surely as the sun does set over every godless land, would come to a close with a quick statement laced with disgust. I'd sit for another moment waiting to make sure they were actually gone, sure enough. Why was it that I could never predicate the right words?
I shouldn't bother any longer. I persist. Some say, "don't call someone who's always waiting by the phone.." I can't agree.

You can't know whats tearing through someones head until you ask.

I want you to bother me. The missing voices from my life are causing a day by day decay. When no one is talking and no one is listening, what's the point in living? My words go unheard. Not even on deaf ears, no ears at all. I wish you'd call. A day, a week, a month passes, then a few months. With all the lights off I stand on the edge of the chair, the cord wrapped
tightly around my neck. With a swift push on the back of the chair I dangle. As my windpipe collapses and my eyes blur, the only thing I can mutter is "any one of you could have saved me."