The phone in the pocket, of Senses worn out pants, rang unharmoniously, and Sense normally would ignore it. But this wasn’t the normal tone that would ring. It sounded desperate, and unusual. Sense answered the phone.
“This is an automated phone call from…..”HELP!! HELP!! SOMEONE SAVE ME!!
That was all it was. A call untraceable, with a scream of someone in trouble. The voice was a woman’s, Yet, what he didn’t know was this was someone very close to him. Though he had never met her before.
Sense hung up the phone. Shaken, he walked down towards the school, that once was his sanctuary. The school housed more then 750 students, yet the only place he liked to go was the library. The library where it was silent, and cold in the winter. It was an old school, yet it was to be remodeled the day it was burnt down. Sense died that day, but maybe he didn’t, he couldn’t figure that part yet. Sense wasn’t a ghost; maybe a ghost of his former self but not an apparition, just a sad man trying to get back what was taken from him. But nothing was taken from him. He had a vendetta with no one.
Sense remembered the school days spent in the library, reading books. He first started with the classics of Greek and Roman literature, then he moved on to poetry, soon he was reading books on how to make textile designs, or how to cope from loss. That bored him, coping with loss. He tried his hand at books of old scientific theories, new scientific theories, Journals of medicine. He read up on the history of war. He read up on the history of hate. He read up on the history of love. And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make. Sense, was brought back from his thinking, back to the place where the phone rang. The place where this story starts.
What was this mysterious phone call? And why did it come to him? Sense tried to retrace the phone call, but there was nothing. He would have to wait for another call. Sense began walking past the street past the school, that he had loved so much, and yet hated at the same time.
Sense was 15 when the school burnt down. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Sense didn’t even exist within the walls of that school. Maybe, but the etchings of Beatles lyrics and his name carved in the wood of every desk that he ever fell asleep at, may be a tell tale sign that Sense did exist. And Sense was just a word. Just another marking next to the football teams, swastikas, and hateful messages about who was a fag, and what slut girl would blow you if you just called the number etched next to it. Sense hated seeing these signs, he only etched his name in, as a statement that he existed. But that all went away when the school burnt down.
Sense walked back to his house on the hill, like the fool that Paul McCartney sang of. But Sense was no Eleanor Rigby, or not even a lovely Rita Miter Maid, no sense was not a song. Sense sang to himself, thinking about the phone, he began writing it off as a wrong number,. He walked back to his house. A one bedroom apartment, in the town that once loved him, but he felt despised him, as did everything in his world. Sense put the key in the lock, yet the door was unlocked, He walked in and turned the light on, and there he saw, what appeared to be a robbery. All his books were tossed onto the ground, his shelves thrown about, love letters he meant to send ripped open, and crumpled on the ground. His TV was cracked in half, there was smoke coming from the Kitchen. And a cold feeling seemed to take over his whole body. This was why she called.