NEGLECT
DREADFUL - EVENT #6
“What’s up, everyone? I’m Declan St. Sturn and welcome back to Cinema Cave, where we explore the vast system of movies. Today, we have another episode of ‘Traversing the Tropes.’ Before jumping in, let me just say that if you haven’t seen last week’s episode of ‘Lights, Camera, More Lights,’ click the link below. Things got heated as our ongoing argument ramped up several notches. While you’re there, be sure to like and subscribe. Okay, I know I say this each week, but this is a special one. You guys have been spamming the comments for months asking me to cover this trope, and I have finally delivered. That’s right, today we are diving into Chekhov’s Gun and why this is such a widely discussed trope. Without further ado, let’s dig in and learn some shit. But first, a word from our sponsor . . .”
Tommy grabs the remote and lowers the volume four notches (always leaving it on an even number). He gets up from the couch and busies himself as Declan discusses the new content coming to JEC PLUS in November. Tommy has seen some variation of the ad a dozen different times. Here are the highlights: another spin-off series within the Workout with a Devil universe, the last episodes of the newest Sidewalk Ramblers season, and a new movie called Scry. Tommy has been a loyal viewer of the Cinema Cave YouTube channel for years now, but the group has fallen into the same trap as many others—moving away from what made them unique in order to grow an audience. Their content is exaggerated and broken into quick cuts to appeal to the ADHD generation. No more video essays. No more critical analyzes of obscure films. They’ve disregarded what made them singular, and the views reflect that. Tommy watches the videos now out of muscle memory, not enjoyment.
Tommy eyes the balcony door and walks over to it. He stands before it as if he is contemplating whether to throw the first punch. It would be a poor idea. Tommy is lanky and stringy. He’d fold like a poor poker hand if he instigated a fight, even with an inanimate object.
For weeks, Tommy has tried locking the door to no avail. The little button in the center of the door handle will click but won’t stay in. The easiest course of action would be to submit a maintenance request, but as soon as he walks away from the door, he immediately forgets about the problem. A broken door anywhere is a problem, but everyone would agree that the problem is more urgent when you live on the first floor. Thankfully, Tommy’s apartment sits on the backside of the complex, facing the tollway and away from heavy foot traffic. Like all the other first-floor apartments at The Amorphophallus, a six-foot-high railing encases the balcony. In Tommy’s mind, someone could hop over the railing and ransack his apartment, but he has nothing of extreme value outside of his phone, which is glued to either his pocket or hand. He never misses a call, text, or email. A sense of pride? Perhaps, although he wouldn’t brag about it to anyone.
Tommy backs down from fighting the door and returns to the video.
“Chekhov’s Gun,” Declan says, “has been a staple within entertainment, notably films, for decades now. Let me ask you something: have you ever watched a movie and wondered why the camera focused on an object for a half-second too long or tried hard to highlight something inconsequential? Yeah, we all have. Most times, that’s a deliberate choice by the director to draw your attention. Characters may even have dialogue to point it out further. Essentially, Chekhov’s Gun is a form of foreshadowing. The description is this: if a gun is shown hanging on a mantle in the first act, someone better use it in the third act. Anton Chekhov, the writer for whom the trope is named, went so far as to say not to include an object, character, or scene unless it is vital to the story. This is why characters always find the best parking spot, or we never see anyone taking a shit. It doesn’t service the story, so chuck it. As a viewer or reader, we want to piece together the puzzle without being given too much excess. It’s the difference between a memorable story and a mediocre one.”
Declan continues on with snippets from movies that are blatant with this trope. The video weaves its way to a conclusion, but Tommy has checked out. He’s now thinking about how bloated life is compared to a movie—an unimpressive conclusion on all accounts. He’s been out of college for four years now and in Dallas for two. What does he have to show for it?
A robust group of friends? No.
A career worth pursuing advancement in? No.
Family nearby to visit when he needs an escape? No.
A partner who he can leverage as a crutch until the other areas of his life even out? Absolutely not.
If anything, life for Tommy is the exact opposite of Chekhov’s Gun. There is no foreshadowing. There are no closeups of important objects that will come into view later in his story. Every day is filled with tedium. It’s the equivalent of Tommy needing to drive through West Texas during the night. The roads are empty and straight paths that go on forever. Sure, he can take a detour via an off-ramp, but all he’d do is just delay the inevitable.
There’s a reason that Tommy doesn’t sleep. The thoughts ensnare him in their vice grip. The idea that his drive will never end, that the night continues in perpetuity. He used to ask himself if others felt the same way he did, although he’s always known the answer.
Every person feels this way. You need not look any further than Occam’s razor.
He witnesses it when he is walking around the apartment complex and sees someone. They are downtrodden and glassy-eyed. They walk like zombies and don’t step outside their predetermined routines. There are some who try to present themselves as mightier than driving down the endless road, but they are merely acting. Eventually, the director will waddle over and whisper to them to read their fucking lines. This isn’t an improv studio, you idiot.
The Cinema Cave video finishes and lapses into another. No downtime within the YouTube algorithm. It’s a collab video with another popular YouTuber. Tommy recognizes the face but doesn’t pay attention long enough to remember their name. He turns his attention to his phone and gets lost in the haze of social media. Tommy has accounts on all the heavy hitters. He’s a lurker, passing through comment sections and threads while making judgements toward individuals with poor insights and poorer grammar. Sometimes, he feels an intense hunger to type out a dissertation to put someone in their place. People should be neutered when their stupidity outpaces their contributions. The desire peaks and crashes in a matter of seconds and Tommy continues scrolling. Internet bullying is beneath him.
Tommy is halfway through reading a Twitter thread about why you should only brush your teeth three times a week when his phone rings. He looks at the name and hesitates. It’s subtle, buried beneath a lifetime of interactions that have driven them apart. But Tommy does what he always has and answers the call.
“Hello?” he says. It’s reflex more than anything else. A stupid reflex he should neuter.
“Hi, it’s Haneul. Your brother.”
“You call me three times a week from the same number. I know when it’s you, Haneul.”
“Yeah, but what happens if you forget?”
“I won’t.”
“But what if you do?”
“I promise you I won’t,” says Tommy. “I pick up every time you call, right? I’m always here for you.”
Haneul’s voice softens. “You do,” he concedes. “And you’re the only one who’s there for me.”
Tommy unglues himself from the couch and grabs his wireless headphones. He stuffs them into his ears and roams around the apartment, blazing new trails and paths.
“How is everything?” Tommy asks before Haneul can sneak in any of his own questions.
“Same as the other day when we talked.”
“What about Mom and Dad?”
“Same as the other day when we talked.”
“Has anything changed since the other day?” Tommy asks.
There’s a long pause. Tommy can envision that Haneul is pressing his pointer finger against the center of his forehead. It’s his preferred method for pulling information out or keeping it contained, depending on the situation. “Uh, no. Everything is fine.”
Tommy tries not to parent his brother, but asking questions is the only vague control he has in their relationship. “And you are doing okay? It’s my last question, I promise.”
The pause on the other end extends long enough to become silence. Eventually, a whisper ekes out from Haneul. “Dong-guen, I don’t know. That’s the best answer I can give you.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“But it’s your name,” Haneul says.
“Haneul . . .” Tommy can’t find the words to finish his thought. He has asked his brother a hundred times not to use the name. Regardless, he still does. Every single time. It’s like the synapses in his brain don’t fire. Haneul doesn’t understand why someone would change their name. You should celebrate who you are and where you come from, Haneul has said. It breaks Mom and Dad’s hearts that you go by Tommy now, Haneul has said with disgust. Haneul doesn’t have the intent to be malicious and condescending, but his words can portray the opposite.
As an immigrant to the United States, Tommy had a choice: keep his name and face a lifetime of ridicule or change it to something more benign, more pedestrian. See, people named Tommy got jobs in America and didn’t have their resume skimmed over. People named Tommy weren’t as likely to get bullied. People named Tommy could have their accent tolerated, even in the backward state of Texas.
The worst part about being an immigrant in the United States is being an immigrant. Half the country wants you, while the other half is one beer away from slipping into a racist tirade. The hate they harbor hides so close to the surface that they may as well tattoo their disgust on every visible slice of skin. It’s astonishing how fast people can throw out a slur and defend its use.
So Tommy changed his name. He lost a piece of his identity when he did, although that time is long ago now. If he dwelled on it, would he get a prize?
Life has been good in the United States. He’d never argue otherwise because if he did, people would just tell him to leave.
“Just try to call me Tommy, okay?” he says to his brother.
“Do you believe in fate . . . Tommy?” It’s Haneul’s way of acknowledging the question without answering it. Tommy takes what he can get.
“I don’t know. I’ve never considered the idea before.”
“Never?” Haneul says.
“Never,” Tommy confirms.
“I used to. But then I thought about how stupid the concept is.”
“Is that so?”
This is it. This is where the conversation unravels. Occasionally, Haneul gets fixated on something. He will spend hours locked away in his room, jabbing a finger against his forehead. He will come back with revolutionary answers (at least to him) and try to spread his epiphanies.
Unfortunately for Tommy, Haneul doesn’t have anyone else to share them with.
“If fate is actually a thing, who or what is controlling it? Certainly not God, if that’s what you were thinking. For that matter, why would any entity care about us individually or as a whole? We are nothing. We are so microscopic and unmemorable in the universe. To think that anything would waste its time manipulating our fates and ensuring we stick to a predetermined path is outrageous. Completely outrageous. I . . . I . . . Just think of what the average person accomplishes in their life. Did you think? Did you? Nothing, Tommy. Most people achieve nothing of substance in their lives. We procreate and shit and take up space. And some of us don’t even get to do all that. And yet . . . And yet, we are somehow the apex predators. We are at the top of the food chain, one that we massaged and castrated to suit our needs. Do you understand? Do you? We are beneath control because we sabotage ourselves. Why bother intervening with a creature that is contained to one planet? It’s . . . Tommy, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you agree?” Haneul asks.
“You bring up valid points.” Tommy is now bending down and looking into the dishwasher. Everything appears clean, but he can’t recall when he last ran it. Doesn’t matter. He closes the door and decides to deal with unloading it later. Next, he moves into the bathroom as Haneul continues with the next part of his thesis. Tommy opens the cabinet and grabs the pill bottle. Twice a day. Morning and night, as shown by the tiny sun and moon. It’s the best defense against whatever curse his brother has. Tommy feels the tug of it sometimes. The overwhelming curiosity to collapse inward and lose himself to whatever hibernates within. His doctor says he is mildly depressed. What does he know? The solution was to prescribe a tiny pill that blocks receptors or creates new neural pathways or tapers the tapeworm eating him. He doesn’t know what they do—just that he is now part of the fastest-growing country club.
Tommy shakes the bottle and no sound returns. “Fuck. Shit. Goddamn fudging shit,” he mouths to the mirror. For a week, he had looked at the refill date and knew it was approaching. He even got a call and then a text message from the pharmacy that the pickup was available. Now it’s too late. Don’t worry, don’t worry. Missing one pill won’t be the downfall. True, true. That’s probably the case. Tommy talks himself away from the edge. He tosses the empty bottle into the sink, and it rattles around until settling on top of the drain.
“What was that?” Haneul asks, breaking from his monologue. “Are you still listening to me?”
“That was nothing. And yes, I’m still listening.”
“Well, what do you think about what I said?”
“I . . . I agree with you,” Tommy says.
“Really? That’s a first,” Haneul laughs.
“I agree with you sometimes. I’m not your enemy when I don’t, though.”
“Yeah. Okay. Anyway, I think that’s enough for now. I know what I have to do next.”
“Oh yeah? That’s good,” Tommy says. He is back in the living room, past the plants with the dried soil. They are begging for nourishment, but Tommy never remembers that they require thirty seconds of his time each day.
“Tommy, I love you. You know that, right? And please call Mom when you get a chance. She will want to hear from you.”
Tommy can’t even remember the last time he talked to his parents. There’s a generational gap between them that will never be repaired. They don’t understand why their son didn’t come back home after college. They don’t understand why he doesn’t send them more money or perform any of the duties he should. For a while, Tommy absorbed the accusations and abuse. Then, he realized that distance is the best reason for a relationship to implode, so he let it happen organically. He stopped the weekly calls. He sent less money each month. Sure, there was a big confrontation with his parents, but all he had to do was hang up the phone and return to browsing through his phone.
“I will give Mom a call sometime next week,” Tommy says.
“Okay,” Haneul says, sighing into the phone. “You will probably hear from her sooner.”
“Whatever you say, Haneul.”
They faltered through closing pleasantries for several more minutes. Sometimes he never knew when to hang up with Haneul. There always seemed to be things left unsaid.
When the call finally ends, Tommy becomes preoccupied with a loose thread from his sock. It dangles down against his ankle. He pulls against it, expecting the thread to tear free, but it resists. The thread gathers strength and holds the line. Tommy pulls at it again. “C’mon, you fudging fuck.” The thread remains steadfast. Maybe this is fate, he considers. Maybe the thread isn’t meant to be removed. An overt metaphor and a bit too on the nose from Tommy’s perspective.
He doesn’t care for such things, so he takes off his sock and brings the thread to his mouth. He bites down and pulls the sock away from his face. The thread lengthens and continues to hold firm against the sock. “I . . .” Tommy says and then trails off. He slams the sock down on the coffee table. A glass of water shifts closer to the edge and wobbles with intent. Tommy stomps over to the knife block on the counter and pulls out the largest one he has. He sifts through the drawers until he finds the knife sharpener. After he is done running it through a dozen times, he returns to the couch. With the sock and thread in one hand, Tommy takes the knife in the other hand and saws away at the thread.
It does not cut through.
“You goddamn motherfucking piece of fudging ass. I will fudging destroy you.” He takes the knife and tosses it onto the kitchen counter. The knife skids and spins across the granite. It stops next to the coffeemaker with the blade protruding off the edge.
Tommy wrestles once more with the sock. He pulls again with no success. He then tries a pair of scissors, but seeing that he is left-handed, the handicap is too large to overcome.
After a string of creative cursing and declarations of harm, Tommy admits defeat. Outmatched and outwitted by a sock. If this is his fate, so be it.
Instead of just living with the thread or throwing it away, Tommy opens the broken balcony door. He steps outside and hears the rush of traffic from the tollway. He spares a thought for all the ones who live in traffic, who are the traffic. Tommy bunches up the sock and heaves it out toward the sidewalk. Let the vermin have it, he thinks. They can use it to build a nest or bundle up as the weather gets colder.
The sock wavers in the air and falls with noiseless grace onto the grass, at least a foot shy of the sidewalk. Close enough. He stares down at the other sock and considers whether it should suffer the same fate as its companion. When an individual begins living a life where socks become mismatched, that’s when you know they’ve spiraled. Maybe they are dealing with more than just mild depression.
“Hey,” a voice calls out. “Why’d you do that?”
Tommy moves to the railing and spots the man walking toward the sock. “I, uh, I am donating it to the local wildlife.” It’s the best answer he could come up with. He’d never admit to being outmuscled by a sock.
“You should come out here and pick it up,” the man says. He steps under a patch of light and Tommy sees the delivery driver’s uniform.
“Nah, I’m good,” Tommy says. He backs away from the railing. His hand finds the door handle and latches onto it.
“It’ll be worthwhile, I promise. You’re one of the lucky ones. I want to show you off. Take my time. I won’t neglect you.”
“I—”
“Tommy, isn’t it? If you come out here now, your life will have a much better ending than what’s coming. Tommy? Dong-guen? Tommy, are you listening to me?” The man steps off the sidewalk. He picks up his pace toward the balcony.
Tommy scoots around the open door and back into the apartment. He pulls the door shut and flexes every muscle in his body to keep it that way.
“Oh, don’t strain yourself, Tommy,” the man says. Tommy can’t see, but the man has his face pressed up to the railing. His eyes bulge as his cheeks squeeze in between two of the metal slats. “I can’t come in. I wish I could. We all have our roles to play. Don’t worry. Someone will be in shortly. They are dying to meet everyone.”
Naturally, Tommy doesn’t trust the man’s words. He continues to hold the door shut. He carries on like this until he gathers the courage to peek through the curtain. The balcony appears empty, along with the areas of the sidewalk he can see. Tommy relaxes a little. Just a lunatic with a twisted sense of humor. Don’t ask too many questions, Tommy tells himself. He’d lose himself to paradoxes about how the man/entity knew his name and why he had such an issue with a discarded sock.
Against his better judgment, Tommy swings the door open. If a man is hiding in the shadows of the balcony, the door will smack him in the skull and daze him for a few seconds. Enough time to kick him in the crotch and run far away. Thankfully, the door swings harmlessly into the wall, making no contact with any invaders. Tommy relaxes and chuckles to himself. Each day is a gift and an adventure. Sometimes it comes to you; other times you need to seek it out.
Tommy surveys the area beyond the balcony one last time. The traffic continues to surge on the tollway. The sidewalk continues to show no signs of life. The other buildings sit behind rows of trees that are likely drowning in carbon emissions.
All is as it should be.
Tommy retreats into the apartment. In response to the broken door, he stares at it and places a finger to the center of his forehead. His options are: (1) ignore the issue, (2) fix the issue, or (3) continue debating which of the two aforementioned options would be best. He removes the finger from his forehead and decides to ignore the issue. Why? He has nothing to fix the door permanently with, and he is still confident that nobody will try to get into the apartment. Questionable logic after what occurred, but Tommy has made his choice.
He pillages through his dresser and examines his other socks to see if any loose threads need to be dealt with. He has far too many socks. They vary in length, material, and color. Never in his life has Tommy been as fascinated with socks. One might think he is on the verge of developing a fetish. Perhaps some other day. After a thorough inspection, he concludes that all the other socks are satisfactory. They contain no flaws. Congratulations, you get to live another day.
Once finished, Tommy returns to the couch and scours YouTube for more unneeded content. As he is neck-deep in his third video detailing the semantics of naming a street in Paris, a profound, highly unusual wave of exhaustion sweeps over him. Tommy doesn’t typically find his bed (or sleep) until the witching hour. Insomnia is a savage beast that tears his village apart. He’s tried numerous medications and methods. They each worked for a negligible stint before dissipating and returning him to his baseline. He has resigned to his fate, as Haneul might say. And it’s fine. It somehow is. Tommy manages to function each day. He tells himself that he’s one of the special people who doesn’t need much sleep to thrive.
Tonight, though. Tonight has transformed into an exception.
Tommy’s head tilts back ever so slightly. His eyes are open, open, open until they aren’t. The sound from the TV softens and then vanishes.
The balcony door opens. A figure stands on the threshold. Possibly waiting for an invitation inside. Or, even more likely, waiting to be acknowledged. Isn’t that what all you grubbers want?
Slow to notice the new arrival, Tommy finally turns his attention to the door. “Haneul, is that you?” He hasn’t seen his brother in person for years, but he would recognize him regardless of any changes to stature, stance, or biometrics. He’s broader in the shoulders from the warehouse job. His face is fuller and matured, a sign of the irrevocable nature of aging, even for someone still in their twenties.
“Follow me, Dong-geun,” Haneul says.
“We have been ov—”
“It’s Dong-geun. Not Tommy.”
“I—”
“Let’s go. The store is closing soon.”
With no further protest, Tommy follows his brother onto the balcony. They stand idle as the scene shifts around them. The tollway falls away, as does the sidewalk and the façade of The Amorphophallus. Dallas is replaced with a generic store, showing how there isn’t much difference between the two. Aisles extend beyond sight. Products, blurred and undefined, line the shelves. The ductwork high above is painted the same off-white color to match the ceiling. It’s all so docile. They are standing near other customers who reach for objects on the shelves, only to remain stuck in their positions.
“Why here?” Tommy asks.
Haneul looks over at him but doesn’t respond. He moves ahead until he reaches the end of the aisle. He contemplates for a moment before making a right, walking past three aisles, and then taking a left. It’s not so much that Haneul and Tommy are moving; the surrounding scenery is shifting.
“What is going on?” Tommy says.
Again, the question goes unanswered. The aisle transforms and more fuzzy objects dot the periphery. Haneul takes stock of what’s before him. He reaches out a hand, decides against it, and retracts the movement. He mutters to himself, the words dying out before reaching Tommy.
It’s in this in-between that Tommy hears the noise. Growing, expanding, and wanting to engulf.
A baby’s cry is unmistakable, even for someone who doesn’t have kids. Tommy tracks the sound and sees the crib standing alone at the end of the aisle. He has no choice but to move toward it.
As he gets closer, he sees how the crib is in dire shape. Splintered wood, crooked legs, and a liquid dripping down the side. Tommy recoils at the stench that wafts from the crib. Later on, when he is sitting on the bathroom floor with tears flooding his eyes, he will remember the smell. So real and potent. He would give anything to smell no trace of it again.
That is what’s to be. A future Tommy can’t neglect.
Right now, Tommy steps forward and looks into the crib. Atop the daffodil-printed blanket is an abomination. Too misshapen to be a dog and too animalistic to be human. And yet, some sort of creature lay in the crib, barely breathing. Its skin is shredded and mangled. Its limbs are shriveled and bent. Pain radiates from every inch. As does shit. The sides of the crib are covered with a brown paste that streaks down, like rust on a neglected building.
The creature’s head is twice the size of its body, with a protruding forehead that slopes outward. Its singular eye darts around, seeking solace in something.
The crying continues. A high-pitched call to action.
“You did this,” Haneul says, coming up behind Tommy. He is carrying a plastic bag. Whatever items he needed are now in his possession. “You broke them. You never came home.”
The creature shifts onto its side. A bloated belly comes into view. Veins crisscross the skin and pulsate. Its eye continues to search for salvation.
It will find none.
Tommy reaches a hand into the crib and touches the matted fur near its neck. This creature used to be someone. It had a life and a family. A multitude of events forced it into its current state. Time, loss, distance, solitude. All these things blended together and rotted the creature from the inside.
Tommy knows the story, but it’s best to let it go. The creature’s choices cannot hold him hostage anymore. The creature believes he has been careless and negligent. No, that’s not the case at all. Tommy did what he was told. He got on a plane and left. He learned a new language. He assimilated into a foreign culture.
He did what he had to do.
The creature must now suffer for its actions.
Tommy squeezes his hand around the creature’s neck. Death comes quickly when such minimal life remains. The body goes limp. The crying stops.
The stench lingers.
“They’ve been dead for a long time,” Haneul says. “We all have been. Neglect has a simple cure, but you refused to give it. Now it’s my turn.”
Tommy turns to his brother and watches as he opens the plastic bag. Haneul takes out the r—
Tommy doesn’t jolt awake like the movies have popularized. Instead, his eyes open gradually as if he is waking up after surgery. It takes a moment to remember that he lives in an apartment in Dallas. For a fraction of time, you could have convinced him he was anywhere.
The television is still cycling through endless YouTube videos, hopping from topic to topic. Now, a forty-five-minute compilation of the “best” Vine videos is playing.
Tommy has been asleep for hours. All things considered, it’s the best sleep he’s gotten in years. The dream is already fading from memory. He could grasp at it if he wanted, but for what? To find Freudian meaning about an Oedipus complex or fascination in phallic-shaped objects?
Hard pass.
Dreams are shrouded in mystery and intrigue for a reason.
Tommy’s phone is within arm’s reach. He allows reflex to take over. The screen lights up with several notifications. Three missed calls and one voicemail, to be exact.
All of them are from Haneul.
This is unlike him. On the rare occasion that Tommy misses a call from his brother, Haneul would leave a text message assuring that nothing was urgent. Three, though. Three means that something happened.
With a nervous hand, Tommy opens the voicemail and listens. He stares at the white wall above the television, continuing to ignore how the balcony door is ajar and the kitchen is short one knife.
“Dong-geun? Dong-geun? Are you there? I wish you had picked up. Did you mean what you said earlier? That you agreed with me? I didn’t think you’d understand or that you’d try to dissuade me.” There’s rustling in the background. Haneul is putting effort into something. He’s multitasking. “My life has been so unmemorable. Much like everyone else, I guess. I’m tired of that. So very tired of it. What’s the point? What’s the point? The point is that there is no point. I’m going. I’m leaving. I’m disrupting my fate. Or fulfilling it. Either way, I’m—” More multitasking. He’s nearly finished now. “Why didn’t you pick up? I’m scared, Dong-geun. That’s your name. I won’t call you Tommy or anything else. Dong-geun. You should be proud of that name. It’s strong. Meaningful. But you refuse to accept it. Are you mad at me? Don’t treat me like you do Mom and Dad. You are ashamed of us, aren’t you? You figured moving away meant you could neglect us. Maybe . . . Maybe. For all the times we talked, you never listened. I was just a chore to you. Something you wished to be free of. You won’t have to worry about me now. One less thing for you to ignore. You were supposed to protect me. Be there for me. You should have picked up, Dong-geun.” Haneul changes to speakerphone. His voice is now distant.
“I might have hung around longer.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds. Then, a crack and something topples over.
Then, a gasp, struggling.
After a horrific length of time, all goes still. Nothing remains. Fate has snapped.
A minute passes before a repetitive thumping noise finally comes through the phone.
This, let it be recorded as such, is when Tommy’s life ceases having any purpose.