My faces blanches, a horribly sickly ashen colour.
It's the same caller as before: the one I passed off as some prankster. And yet, here they are again, with the same cold, metallic voice which runs shivers down my spine. Maybe once I can pass it off uneasily in my mind as a mere joke, but twice?
Twice is too much.
Twice isn't funny.
Twice means that they aren't prank calls.
Twice means they're something more.
It's coming from my mobile again, my name twisted to sound something more, something which terrifies me. I almost drop the phone, my hands are quivering so frenziedly, as the world around me seems to spin - slowly, and then getting faster.
I think I'm going to faint.
That's funny - I've never fainted before. There's a foggy sort of purple mist clouding my entire peripheral vision and the room and everything in it keeps spinning - my mother spinning, Greg spinning, everything spinning spinning spinning.
There it goes again, that peculiar voice from my phone repeating the only word it seems to know. I think it's my name - I definitely recognise it, at least - but I can't focus anymore, on anything but the spinning, and the mist, and my body which I think is falling... Falling.
My mind struggles to stay awake, to keep calm. In the back of my mind, I know that this is not the time to faint, despite the years I've spent wondering what it must be like. I'd come to the conclusion that it only happened to the pathetically ill, or the fragile, delicate, fairytale princesses who can't stand the sight of blood or gore - never someone real, in the immediate world surrounding me, that I could reach out and touch if I wanted to.
Still, my brain pesters that I should stay conscious, to latch on to the few strands of the here and now I can still reach. I'm straining, my head throbbing as I urge myself to stay awake for some random, unknown reason that I can't quite understand. It's almost as if there's something I need to stay for, the answer to a hidden question, that just for a short precious time is quite literally presenting itself to me.
A sharp, sudden vibration jolts through my body, and my eyes shiver, before rolling backwards into my head so my vision is distorted - it's only through the lower section of my eyes that I am still able to see. My body is beginning to ache, a raging, burning fire running rampant through my veins as I carry on falling... Falling...closer and closer to the cold, hard ground.
My lips curl back to reveal my bared, clenched teeth, grinding against each other in my struggle to stay awake; to uncover the answer to the secret question that's lurking in my subconscious mind. What's left of my sight is wildly flitting from place to place - from my mother, to the door, and the table nearby, to my mobile on the floor, which has fallen from my flopping hands.
They flick to Greg then, Greg, standing tall and straight, mouth hanging agape, aghast at the scene I am making as I carry on falling... Falling. His tawny, long lashed eyes are wide with shock, his nose scrunched in what seems like worry.
Back to the phone, with the voice saying my name over and over, again and again. It might be female, but to me it sounds deeper, more resounding than a high female's, despite its harsh, constant, metallic quality. Maybe a man's voice. Maybe a boy's.
Greg's face looms above me, alongside my mother's, both creased with concern as I emit a screeching, ethereal shriek. The phone lies abandoned on the carpet beneath me, the carpet I've been falling towards for what seems like centuries.
Except, it's not the phone which says my name this time, but a boy. A boy named Greg. My 'date'. In those last few seconds before I lose consciousness, my brain makes a faint, tenuous connection. For some reason, in my strained, delirious state, the voice from the phone and Greg's own, harmonious voice, seem startlingly similar.
Almost as if they're one and the same.
I find my voice - nothing but a hoarse, croaking whisper - and say something almost inaudibly. I'd almost think no one hears me, except in that moment, Greg sucks in his breath, and his eyes bug, a rabbit illuminated (stuck still) by headlights.
When I flailed one shaking hand towards the phone on the floor, and then to him, he reacted. As I muttered the lone word, "You," in what little voice I still possessed, he shook, as if what I said was true.
Like he knew that I knew something.
Like what I thought I knew was true.
Like this wasn't the first time Greg had heard that echoing, metallic voice.
He was the owner of it, albeit several major changes with the help of technology.
I hear my body hit the ground, and yet it doesn't hurt me. It's almost as if I'm someone else, onlooking, as a girl with wet hair and smudged mascara falls to the floor, her dyed blonde locks fanning out from her head like a halo, as she lies still, motionless.
The world goes black.