So, I just checked my voicemails for the first time in forever.
I remember in the past frantically checking to see who had called and for what reason, but given the state of technology with texting, Facebook, etc., I hadn’t given my inbox a second thought for the longest time.
My father complained this afternoon when I did not answer his call that my inbox was now clogged. Boredom overtook me. Having to check a word document last modified in 2011 for the password, I finally decided to listen to my voicemails.
After ten or so messages, I almost dropped the phone.
An all encompassing shudder ran up and down my spine when I heard the voice of my ex-girlfriend. The last I had talked to her, we were going to attempt a drunken reconciliation. This would have required me driving two hours back to my hometown in an intoxicated stupor. I came to my better senses and never met up with her that night. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple years at the time and figured I should just let the past remain there. As a matter of fact, I remember being so repulsed by the notion of meeting up with her crazy ass that when I woke up the next day I turned off my phone for at least a week to avoid any contact with her.
This girl was POSSESSIVE (but hot as fuck!). Even after dating for only a few months, she would tell anybody within earshot how much she loved me. She made me extremely uncomfortable with her professions of love and clingy nature. She even began to talk about children in our short time together. I wasn’t ready for that type of intense relationship and began the arduous task of breaking it off with her.
With my phone to my ear, my disbelief built to utter incredulity. The voicemails continued, calling for me to meet up at our special place (the bar that we met at). As the indifferent, robotic voice on the phone kept informing the timestamp of these messages, my blood began to run cold.
The message remained the same. I received at least ten stating the exact same thing, muddled and barely understandable with the incessant noise (a piercing sound resembling static) in the background.
“Meet me at our special place. Don’t be late.”
You see, Miriam died on the way to meet me that night.
She drove to our bar and killed herself as well as a small child in the sedan she plowed into.
It took me a long time to process the guilt I felt for my role in her demise, and these voicemails were salt on old wounds. As they continued, the feelings of remorse were replaced with horror as the timestamps belied her date of death.
Messages from October, November, fucking February… long after the funeral I neglected to attend.
The last voicemail in my inbox is concise and crystal. The mechanical and eerily impersonal voice informs me that I had received it this morning. It does not sound like the other ones mired in noise. It just simply states its message.
“I can’t wait to be with you tonight.”