I was sitting on the curb when the blood finally started to bloom.
It slid from my hairline, a warm, crawling sensation that felt like an insect on my skin. My phone was a spiderweb of shattered glass, the screen flickering with a dying light.
I forced my trembling fingers to dial 911.
"Emergency services," a woman said. Her voice was flat, professional. "I'd like to report an assault," I rasped. "And I've been kicked out of my own home." "Are you in immediate danger?" "No. I'm outside." "Your name, please?" "Evelyn Hart." "And your identification number?" "EJH-0429-1989."
I heard the rapid click-clack of keys. Then, the typing stopped. The silence on the other end grew heavy—a hollow, expectant vacuum that seemed to swallow the background noise of the dispatch center.
"That's... strange," I heard her mutter. It was a faint whisper, almost a breath, not meant for my ears. "But she just..."
The murmur broke off, swallowed by the static of the line.
"Ms. Hart?" her voice returned, now with a sharp, guarded edge. "Yes, I'm here." "Can you confirm," she asked, each word measured and slow, "that you are currently outside the residence?" "Yes," I said, a flicker of cold dread sparking in my chest. "I told you, I'm on the curb."
The line went quiet again.
"I'm dispatching officers," she said at last. Her tone had shifted. It was no longer the voice of a helper, but the voice of a witness. "Please remain exactly where you are."
The call ended.
I stayed seated on the curb. I looked down at my reflection in the cracked screen, but the jagged lines made my face look like a stranger's.
I thought I was asking for help. I didn't know I was being entered incorrectly.