*I wrote this for a competition a while back and it had to be under eight-hundred words, which is why this is so short. Any tips on how to improve what I have would be great.  

The calls had started at 8am. There had been nine by the time I took it off the hook at 10:15. I returned to my breakfast. I’d only taken two bites of toast when the messages started. This was worse. I couldn’t hang up, having heard his greeting. I had to sit there and listen to my answering machine greeting (“Hi, this is Lucy and Michael, we can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave your message after the tone and we'll get back to you as soon as possible.) and hear his response. We were almost in conversation, but I couldn’t say anything, just listen silently to his; “Lucy, I know you’re there, answer the damn phone, will you? Sorry, sorry, I know you don’t like cursing, just pick up, ok? I know Michael’s at work all day.” It made my insides writhe. I threw my breakfast away, too nauseous to stomach any more, and then sat at the table, holding my breath while he spoke so he wouldn’t know that I was home. 

By the fifth message, I’d learned that he left around twenty-seven minutes between messages, more than enough time for me to disconnect the phone and run upstairs, lock myself into the bathroom, turn the radio up, and get into the shower. I’d been under the water for five minutes when the doorbell started ringing. I knew who it was. It rang seven times. I turned off the water and got out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel and sat trembling on the edge of the bath. If I left the bathroom now, he’d hear me. I’d have to wait for him to give up and leave. My eyes prickled with tears. I knew I’d be there for hours, and, even when he’d left my driveway, I wouldn’t be able to leave the house. He’d wait for me at the top of the estate, and then pretend to have just been driving by, even though there was nowhere worth going to in my area. I towelled myself off and got dressed, then brushed my teeth, waiting, waiting for some sign that it was safe to come out. 

Suddenly, I heard a key turn in the lock. I almost cried with relief, and left the bathroom, heading for the landing. “Michael, thank God! Alan’s been calling and ringing the doorbell all morning…I had to plug the phone out, I…” I stopped. Why wasn’t he answering me? Why wasn’t he coming upstairs to see if I was alright? “Michael?” I called, uncertain now. “Michael, please, I thought you’d forgiven me …” The footsteps grew into a crescendo. The footfall was all wrong. I could feel the vomit crawling up from the pit of my stomach, searing my throat. I ran to the bathroom and wretched over the toilet, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

“You’re sick. Poor darling. And on your birthday!” The voice was too deep, the sentences too fragmented. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and turned to face him, catching on to the edge of the toilet seat to help myself up. He was in a suit, his silver hair neatly combed. Ollie told me he’d retired seven months ago, when I ended the affair. 

“How did you get in here?” My voice came out as a whisper. I’d meant for it to be strong. 

“Your neighbour gave me the key. Mrs. Hutchinson, is it? The old woman with the Limerick accent. I told her I’d locked myself out.” He grinned, moving towards me. “She remembered me.” 

I took a step back, regretting it as I met with the wall. I locked my eyes on him. “She’s the only one, then. You hadn’t entered my mind until today.” My voice was stronger now. He never could tell when I was lying. “Next to Michael, you’re forgettable.” 

His face drained of colour. His eyes blazed with a sort of demonic fury, and he suddenly made a grab for my throat. With the wall behind me, and the shower on one side, the toilet on the other, where could I run to? His fingers closed around my neck. Utterly enclosed, with no space to comfort me, I sank down onto the floor.  

He removed his hand, frightened now. “You’re alright. You’re alright. Damn it, Lucy, get up!” He grabbed both my wrists and hauled my upright, digging his nails into my skin, studding it with crescent moons. I tried to wrench them free. 

“Shhh, shhh,” he whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bath and pulling me down onto his lap, then taking hold of my wrists again. His lips crossed my neck. “Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me.”