Work Text:
Eviction Day.
Spamton dials the numbers hastily. They're seared into his mind. He holds the reciever to his ear. Ringback tone. Busy signal.
The walls are too close.
He dials the numbers. Ringback tone. Busy signal.
He's being strangled.
Dialing numbers. Ringback. Busy.
He'll always be here.
Numbers. Busy.
His left hand is shaking uncontrollably. The plastic squeaks in his fist.
Nothing.
"PICK UP, GODDAMNIT"
The line is silent.
"PLEASE, I JUST NEED TO SEE AGAIN COME BACK I CAN DO IT I ONLY NEED TO BE FIXED I NEED TO BE FREE I JUST NEED"
He shouts and shouts until he's empty. Nobody hears him. The reciever is on the table. He's on the floor now. He rolls around. He tries to cry out, but his throat is full of strings. There are strings everywhere. Up into Heaven. He's falling. He's a dream and it's flat. There's nowhere to go. He's dragged to the window. He can't move, so he gives in. It's easy, like he's floating. The city is below him, spread out like map. He's on top of the world, just roadblocks. He can forget, he can forgive. He can-
He can't make himself smile.
He's sure he sees the lines go slack. He can be free. He can disentangle himself. He doesn't need the Addisons or the Voice. He can win this like always. He can make it all the way up, up into Heaven. It's fine. He's fine. He'll make his own future, his own little freedom.
He's fine.
There's a knock at the door. It's looking up for Spamton G. Spamton. He prepares his award-winning smile. He has got this.