As bad as it sounds, you really start to go numb to it.
You must.
If you allow yourself to be too invested, the calls you’ll hear during a shift will make you clutch your chest. I imagine those who work at the suicide prevention hotline could sympathize. The things people tell you, the things they experience on the other side of the line can be so gut wrenching.
The worst part is that you just never know when it’s going to happen. When one of those calls will slip through the lines and transfer to you. You could go your entire shift hearing mundane reports of a small kitchen fire or a missing cat and right at the end of your shift, there it is. A call you pick up mid-domestic dispute, someone crying over the body of a loved one.
It’s rare for most people to hear a truly agonizing cry more than a few times in their lifetime, but as a 911 operator, you’re exposed to it on a weekly basis.
That guttural and messy cry. The complete breakdown of a human being, like their outline, was plucked from the edges and they just melted away. A cry of candle wax, of complete release. Something so primal it takes you back to watching shadows on the cave walls.
And comparatively, those are some of the easier calls. It’s when someone is in active distress. A situation that had you tied to the phone’s receiver. Trying to find a way to help, anything at all. When time is of great importance, and it’s just you and the call and there’s nothing you can physically do.
Those will keep you up if you take them home. Those will hurt you.
I took the job because, funny enough, I wanted to be a therapist. My dad worked the beat though and always had me joining the same precinct in mind. Being a 911 operator was the best middle ground the two of us could find. I thought I could make a difference. If I really, truly cared about the people on the other line, I could save them.
And I could. I’m sure my quick thinking and gentle responses were enough to save more lives than I would’ve if I had done nothing. But that means there are ones I couldn’t save. And with each of those, each person who slipped through my fingers, I felt myself being chipped away.
I was a wall of old paint, and every tragedy would step up to me, with shaking hands and it pluck another chip away from me. Overtime I felt that soothing tone in my voice being pulled out of my throat, my investment in the people I was trying to help dwindled with each news report that I could’ve stopped.
And before I knew it, before it mattered anymore. I was just another operator. Some droning and beaten down voice that everyone else had.
And then he called.
Of all people, he got me. Of course, he got me.
Shifts were unpredictable. You never knew when something was going to go south. But the day was primarily normal. I’d even venture to say I was in a good mood. Happy that I didn’t have to talk anyone down.
I had just finished a phone call with my wife during my break when I noticed the incoming call light up.
As I cleared my throat and placed the headset over my ears, I could feel the cool metal against my skin as my fingers pressed down on the button, and suddenly, the line chimed to life. Immediately, heavy breathing greeted me.
“Hello, you have reached 911. How many I assist you?” I spoke the same robotic line I had uttered a thousand times before. The line fell into a momentary silence, interrupted only by the sound of heavy breathing. Just as I was about to repeat myself, a male voice broke the silence.
“He’s trying to get in.” The man whispered. I could almost hear his lips shaking through the words. I could visualize his back pressed up against the wall with his phone glued to the side of his face. I took a moment and rifled through my catalogue of canned responses. And again, before I could ask, he spoke.
“I don’t know who it is. I didn’t see his face.”
“Okay, well, just stay calm. Are you hidden right now?” I could hear his breath. If I could hear it, then someone else might as well. I needed information, but I needed him to slow down. People act stupid when they panic. Few things are worse than trying to control a call when someone is frantic.
“Yes, I think so. I’m in a closet.” He whispered again. People always make their way to the closet. I was in the middle of thinking how silly it was, if I was an intruder, that would be the first place I’d look.
“Can you-“
“I need to move, though. I think he’ll look here.” When he cut me off, I felt a sense of frustration. Not specifically because he interrupted me. That’s something you’ll have to get used to; it was that. . . my thoughts kept getting plucked from me.
“If he’s not inside yet, that might be a good idea.” I replied to him. I remembered the small crawl space I had in my bedroom. The door was behind the dresser because we rarely use it. “If you have a crawl space or something more hidden?” I was grateful that he didn’t interrupt me again. I could tell he was already on the move. The dresser was standing on four legs. So, if you were inside the crawlspace and reached out with your elbow bent. Theoretically, you’d be able to move the dresser in front of the crawlspace again.
“What’s your address? So we can dispatch a car.” My voice was smooth coming out, but I could hear him moving on the other line. The rustling of fabric and the distant creaking of old wooden floors under his weight. Then, there was a heavy dragging sound, wood scraping up against wood. After the sound rang out again but lower, I heard his breathing return to the phone.
“Okay, I’m safe, i hidden in a crawlspace. My dresser is in front of it. I think I’m okay.” His words hadn’t registered with me yet. I didn’t have time to process them before a hint of pain pulled my attention to the palm of my hand. I noticed a thin red line drawn on me, and small beads of blood were slipping out where the line was thick enough.
“Shit.” The man spat out from the other side of his phone.
“Is he inside?” I replied urgently.
“No, I slice my hand open, moving the dresser.”
It was cold; the headset covering my ears felt like they had been sitting in the refrigerator overnight. I stared for a moment at the injury on my hand. It was an implausible thought, but one I was having. “Sir, what’s your address?” Those words were the most human I had felt as an operator in God knows how long.
He replied. Each number that came out of his mouth made me feel like I was watching the lottery. Making sure that the numbers on my ticket line up with the ones on screen. It was dizzying. Like I was high up looking down, watching the clouds roll by hundreds of feet below.
Then the street name, the final gut punched. There’s no need to build it up more than I already have, no need for the suspense to tighten any further. It was implausible. Hearing my address repeated back to me, whispered from a man in danger, was enough to make my head split open.
I looked around the office, hoping that I’d see someone eyeing me. Maybe some giggling coming from the break room. Then my vision returned to the cut on my hand, the beads becoming flatter, running along the lines in my skin.
Whispering back the address he had given me, the man on the phone confirmed I had it right. But I wasn’t repeating it for his sake. I wanted to hear how it sounded coming out of my mouth when I whispered it. I normally can’t stand the sound of my voice, most people can’t, so it’s not like I’d recognize it if I heard it coming from anywhere other than my mouth. Except for that call, whispering the address, it sounded the same.
It took me way too long, but I finally escaped my stupor and could report the Breaking and entering that was occurring at. . . My house. It felt strange even giving the information out, like my house was some dirty little secret. Even if it was some elaborate prank; I’d still want someone to go to my house and make sure everything was copacetic.
The whole time, the guy’s small whimpers here and there made it feel like my thoughts were made audible. All the slight irks of frustration that normally stayed in my head were manifesting from the other end of the phone. The more I heard his voice, the more I heard myself.
Every time I banged my toe on something.
Every scoff that was created from some off comment I heard in public.
Every time I picked up something just a little too heavy.
My fucking voice, to the tee.
“Oh, my god.” I heard my voice, but it was him talking. “He’s in the room.”
I must have been too far in my head and had missed what the guy had said previously. My initial belief was that the perpetrator was stuck outside the home. “Just stay quiet. You’re safe unless you make too much noise.”
The line went quiet, both of us trying to keep our breathing silent. The previous owners wanted to keep the hardwood that the room had when the house was built, so the floor in my bedroom is old. Something about it being sentimental. So, whenever me or my wife climbed out of bed, it would creak and whine. Luckily, we’re both heavy sleepers.
Sure enough, the intruder was in the room. It was faint, but distinguished against the silence, heavy boots pressing down on the old hardwood. If I was in the crawlspace, I’d be able to tell where in the room the man was. But the creaking only lasted for a moment before stopping before whoever was in the room stopped.
It felt like an eternity, so much so that I was surprised the cops hadn’t arrived yet, though it was an awfully busy day. Then, my heart sank, as I’m sure the doppelganger’s did too. We both recognized the sharp grating of wood against wood. That heavy dresser was being moved.
“No way, no way.” My copy uttered to himself. “How’d he know?”
The sound of the dresser being dragged nearly muffled my copy’s voice. Our hearts were likely beating in rapid succession in unison. “Listen to me.” I sat up, pulling the mic close to my mouth. “As soon as the dresser stops being moved. The very second, you need to make a break for it.” I mentally ran through my home, imagining myself in his shoes. Or my shoes, I guess. I thought about how I could leave the house the fastest.
The dragging stopped.
And he went.
He expected a plume of air that nearly ruptured my ears. I imagined myself shooting out of the crawlspace, using the space as best as I could to gain speed. Three heavy steps, that’s all I heard before an ear shattering *ping* rang out. Then there was screaming.
The screaming plunged into my ears. My hand rested over my mouth, teeth clenching down on the palm, skin starting to taste like iron. My chest was hot. I felt like I was ready to vomit, but some force was keeping the bile in my chest.
My leg was rupturing with agony. The right calf was like the epicenter of an explosion. My body shook and tears rolled from my eyes. In the room, surrounded by co-workers, completely safe. I felt a gunshot wound, and I sensed my pant leg getting wet.
The copy didn’t need to contain his anguish, though. The phone had gotten discarded when he fell, his screams were distant. Desperate and pleading, he said things I’d never thought I would hear myself say. He begged like I never thought I would have to.
I think I could feel the dread in his heart. Deeper than anything I’ve ever known. My heart had dropped off some great cliff in the ocean, the pressure building up with every foot it dropped until I felt like my heart was being squeezed in a vise. My breathing was shallow. I noticed some of the people around me had looked at me.
“What the hell?” My copy screamed, loud enough to sound like the phone was still right next to his mouth. He repeated it over and over, begging for an explanation. The cops should have almost been there. I wanted to know what had him so puzzled and, for the last time, my thoughts manifested through his voice.
“It’s me!” He screamed, a painful, confused cry. “He looks just like me!”
I then heard him say “Goodbye” but I don’t think it was him, it was me, another, another me. My voice.
Then another *ping* and like my leg before, for a very moment, my head went a bright white with agony. It was only a flash, a memory in real time. That was enough. I couldn’t contain it anymore and let out a guttural howl. The howl I imagined would come from the doppelganger’s lips, were he able to use them.
Everyone around me stood. Some started coming over to me to check on me. However, I remained glued to my seat, numb to everything except what was happening on the other end of the phone. Where I expected to hear the death throes of my doppelgänger, maybe the spitting of blood or the shaking of his dying body.
Instead, I heard a static. A fizzing out, like a million bubbles all popping in my ear. It wasn’t the phone having some malfunction. I could hear it happening on the other end of the phone. In my house, my copy was dissolving, I think. I don’t know. It’s my best guess, the only one I got.
It lined up with the artifacts of our shared experience. I could see it, pricks of blue and green light popped in and out of existence on the palm of my hand until the cut I had sustained was gone. Moving my leg, I could tell the same thing had happened to the bullet wound.
I must have looked like a wreck. People were trying to get my attention; someone was grabbing the hand I was using to keep my headset on. I heard someone taking the phone and lifting it up to their face. The speaker was being pulled away, but I still heard him. He, too, sounded like me. Though his words, the only ones he spoke, were deep and angry.
From there, someone pulled me away from the desk. I was sweating; they thought I was having a heart attack or something. Paramedics were called, it all happened fast. I remember being thankful that me and my wife work similar shifts, ultimately just wanting to know what the scene was at my house.
Everything in the house looked like I imagined it. Even though I expected the front door to be smashed in, it wasn’t. Cops told me it was unlocked. But someone had moved the dresser and left the crawlspace door wide open. When the cops were gone and work gave me a leave for mental health, I eventually got around to looking in the crawlspace.
It was there, clear as day. I didn’t tell anyone, though, certainly not my wife. In the crawlspace, I could clearly see where someone had wiped away the dust. The thick layer of dust outlined the shape of someone sitting and the scuffs of someone quickly pushing off.
It’s been a week. Every night I wait, unable to sleep. I don’t get it, I don’t understand any of it. They didn’t find any blood. Nothing. How was another me, living in my house? I’ve spent all week thinking of what would normally be crazy ideas. But all of them leave me with the same question. Why hasn’t he gotten to me yet? He knows where I live.
And I know he’s coming for me. That- I am. Before they pulled the headset from me.
He spoke loud and firm.
“That’s one down.”