The son’s cell phone rang nonstop blitzed no pausing. On vibrate, the phone would shake so hard it shook the bed, the air. The vibration continued even when the son turned the phone off.
The son did not want to look at the phone’s face to see who was calling in this way.
The son did not want to look. His eyes above, below, and beside him.
The son took the phone into the bathroom and hid the phone inside the drawer.
From the bedroom he could hear the porcelain of the sink above the drawer cracking under strain. He could hear the mirror patter. He could hear the soap dish dance. Something warped the bevel of the walls.
The son sat as long as he could manage on the corner of his bed, trying not to think. The bed was pushing up beneath him.
The son did not want not to touch the phone but the house would not be quiet. He went and got the phone where the bathroom was now raining dust. There were hundreds of him even in that mirror.
He went and lay down on the mattress with the phone against his chest.
The son felt sick again.
The son tried to call the mother’s name but he heard his voice stay hung inside him, gushing in his gush.