Fiction
I keep hearing the voices.
They whisper, they scream, they cry and they are never silent.
They've stopped keeping me awake, though. I suppose it is true that you can get used to anything. Perhaps that is our cursed-gift, our adaptability.
They've stopped making sense, too. They used to. They used to tell me things. Important things, secret things.
It's how I know that you're cheating on your wife. And your son snorts coke because he thinks it's cool. And he wants to forget that summer Uncle Charlie visited.
Mostly because he wants to forget. He can't though, 'cause the voices can't.
The voices remember everything. It's why they whisper. Scream. Cry.
It is why they are never silent.
I keep hearing them.
But I've forgotten how to understand.
They whisper, they scream, they cry and they are never silent.
They've stopped keeping me awake, though. I suppose it is true that you can get used to anything. Perhaps that is our cursed-gift, our adaptability.
They've stopped making sense, too. They used to. They used to tell me things. Important things, secret things.
It's how I know that you're cheating on your wife. And your son snorts coke because he thinks it's cool. And he wants to forget that summer Uncle Charlie visited.
Mostly because he wants to forget. He can't though, 'cause the voices can't.
The voices remember everything. It's why they whisper. Scream. Cry.
It is why they are never silent.
I keep hearing them.
But I've forgotten how to understand.