[ TT ] You 're stopped at a rundown gas station in the middle of nowhere . You go into the bathroom , and look along the wall , seeing phone numbers . One catches your eye , your own ...

My little red car sputtered to a stop in front of the single pump at the gas station, which looked like a 1950s relic. 
 
 “ I ’ m sorry little guy, ” I said, patting the hood as I got out. 
 
 My hand left an imprint in the amber dust that coated my car, and I could have sworn that my car glared at me in response to my apology. It ’ s a lonely road across Nevada, and I had to make the journey abruptly. Despite my lack of planning and packing next to nothing, I was proud that my car hadn ’ t let me down thus far. But I knew that, even though I desired to get as far away as possible, my car needed a break. 
 
 As my tank greedily drank the gasoline from the pump, I went inside the station ’ s convenience store. I expected to see dangling bird bodies from the ceiling or jars with pig fetuses preserved inside. No dead animals, but there were dream catchers and rock crystals. 
 
 “ Sorry to bother you ma ’ am, ” I said as I approached the checkout counter, “ But do you have a bathroom? ” The woman, her mouth occupied by a toothpick dangling against her wrinkled lips, let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan and motioned her head to the back of the store. 
 
 “ Thank you, ” I said, avoiding eye contact. 
 
 After a long time in the stall, for I had been in my car for many hours, I zipped my pants and went to wash my hands. The bathroom wall, a dark grey, was decorated with black squiggly designs. I wondered why the station had bothered putting up wallpaper in the bathroom at all. 
 
 The water in the faucet spurted out brown before running clear, and I grimaced thinking of all the germs I was scrubbing into my hand. 
 
 I couldn ’ t help but look up into the mirror, although I ’ d been hoping to avoid it. I felt ashamed at what I saw. Frizzy hair, eyes coated with pink and red blotches, chapped lips, and a single cut across my forehead. My eyes darted away, unable to stand my reflection. Then, as my eyes focused, I realized that all along the wall were numbers. Hundred of numbers. I wiped my eyes. I realized that these were all phone numbers. 
 
 I surprised myself, letting out a giggle. I thought about all these phones numbers and all the initiated dirty talk. I wondered why there were so many numbers. It must have been hundreds. Was it a tradition in this town to write your number along the wall, or did people passing through put their numbers up as a right-of-passage? I wished I had a Sharpie so I could scribble 867-5309 in one of the blank spaces. 
 
 I shut off the faucet and placed my hands below the hand dryer, hoping that my moment of humor indicated that my life was moving in a better direction. 
 
 Then, a motion caught my eye. In a little area right above the hand dryer, an invisible hand slowly wrote in thin black ink “ 6...6...1... ” I jumped away as if I ’ d been sucked backwards by a vacuum. *I ’ m going crazy*, I thought, *Those numbers must have already been there. This is just an optical illusion, fueled by sleep deprivation. * Cautiously, I approached the dryer again. 
 
 Panic engulfed my heart as I watched the writing continue. I recognized my area code, and then, terrified, watched the supernatural calligraphy etch my own phone number into the bathroom wall. Fear crept up my body like a thousand ants. I reached out my hand and attempt to rub away the ink. Fruitless. A I pulled my hand away, the inch of my palm where I had been rubbing was covered in hives. 
 
 I ran toward the bathroom door. My hand made contact with the handle, stinging as my raw bumps pushed into the metal. Then, I heard my cell phone ring in my pocket. I looked at the screen. “ Unknown. ” 
 
 “ Nope, nope, ” I said aloud, ripping the bathroom door open and barreling through the convenience store. I had almost made it to the door when I heard a phone ring, but it wasn ’ t mine. 
 
 “ Phone call for you, ” the attendant said, extending the handset of the gas station ’ s antique phone toward me. I paused, shock ripping through my veins and an unbearably painful itch spreading across my hand. A jolt of adrenaline sprung me back to life, and I sprinted out of the store. 
 
 “ Time to go little guy. Pronto, ” I told my car. I ripped the gasoline nozzle away from my car, not taking the time to put it back in its handle, and drove away. 
 
 My phone rang again. With one hand on the wheel, the burning spreading up my arm, I used my other hand to turn my phone off. 
 
 It rang again. Still, “ Unknown. ” I chucked my phone out the window. 
 
 But then my phone rang again, still sitting on the seat next to me. The itching had now spread to my neck. As I hyperventilated, I felt my foot press down harder on the acceleration, beige and burnt orange landscapes racing by me. 
 
 The phone rang, a cacophony shattering my eardrums, and I couldn ’ t hold back any longer. I answered it. As I heard his voice, I felt the impact, the pressure undulating through my body, then nothing. 
 
 
 A man entered the convenience store. 
 
 “ Excuse me, have you seen this woman? ” He held up a photo on his phone. `` I ’ ve been calling her all day. ” 
 
 The woman behind the counter looked at him, chewed on her toothpick a couple times, then spit it out. 
 
 “ Yeah, ” she drawled. “ Just in here. Seemed upset. Used the bathroom. ” 
 
 The man gave his thanks and then walked into the female bathroom. Unconcerned, the woman behind the counter shoved another toothpick into her mouth. 
 
 The man entered the bathroom and peered around. Nothing unusual. 
 
 He looked down at his hands and noticed they were covered with dust. He hated that dry feeling. He walked to the sink and bent down, letting the cool water run over his rough hands, the water exposing dozens of little cuts on his skin. He turned off the faucet. As he moved toward the hand dryer, something stopped him. He stood motionless. Then, without a reason why, he raised his fingers to a blank area above the hand dryer and touched the wall. He sprang back. 
 
 “ Son of a bitch. ”
