I can't hear you anymore
Genres: Psychological/Horror, Second person
Warnings: Creepy shit, I'll be very pleased if this is remotely disturbing to my readers, Possible triggers, implied suicide
Notes: So, i was bored. And since creative inspiration isn't exactly hitting me, i thought i'd put this old thing up in an effort to push myself a little. Minor success achieved.
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You’ve heard them for a long while now. They’ve always been there, constant whispers letting you know of things beyond your grasp, telling you things unseen, unnoticed by others.
You know your English teacher in first grade had round burn scars on her fingers, that your lunch was stolen by the girl in pigtails three seats ahead in third grade because she just didn’t like you, that your friends smirk when your back is turned and jeer at you because you are who you are and that will never be good enough. It’s not something you deny. You know it to be true, it is irrefutable fact. They told you so.
You’ve never seen the faces behind the voices, you cannot imagine how they’re lips would move or what their expressions would be, even as they tell you the truth of intention behind each individual action and word.
They have thought you many things, and you are no longer young. Your innocence is something they believed you did not deserve. Innocence was for the loved and for the pure. Your failures have tainted you, they say. You never knew what it was to be truly loved.
There are times when you wonder if the price you have paid for knowledge, for the truth, is much too high. You never knew what it was to be happy either. You suppose it’s tied up with love, and console yourself that you would have never received either in their true form anyway. The voices have told you that you are unworthy and a burden tolerated. Burdens are not loved. Unwanted things are borne with up to the point where they can be eliminated.
Sometimes, you hate them. Just a little.
It is a day like any other when you feel the last of yourself give, when your trembling hold on sanity slips and you fall into the abyss of nothingness. Your friends hug you and wave goodbye as you turn to walk home (you hear the whispers reminding you that there are daggers in men’s smiles, Shakespeare is their new hobby). You hear them repeat what they have told you so often; you hear them say that you go from foe to foe, from one place of grief to another. You hear them; feel them reverberate through your skull, pounding through your heart like the steady drumming of rain on asphalt. You remember running home, running past your mother (who looks like the innocent flower but is the snake und’r it). You remember blood and screaming, you remember slicing through them, ripping skin and tearing muscle in your fury. You remember red everywhere, you remember the steady spray from the shower head and thinking about how it resembled something you can’t remember now, you remember painpainpain, and then… silence. Blessed silence and blessed darkness.
It’s only later, when you open your eyes and see the mangled corpse in front of you with the words ‘I can’t hear you anymore’ written in blood across white bathroom tiles do you realize that you can finally, finally put a face to them, to all the voices.
It’s your own.
Warnings: Creepy shit, I'll be very pleased if this is remotely disturbing to my readers, Possible triggers, implied suicide
Notes: So, i was bored. And since creative inspiration isn't exactly hitting me, i thought i'd put this old thing up in an effort to push myself a little. Minor success achieved.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You’ve heard them for a long while now. They’ve always been there, constant whispers letting you know of things beyond your grasp, telling you things unseen, unnoticed by others.
You know your English teacher in first grade had round burn scars on her fingers, that your lunch was stolen by the girl in pigtails three seats ahead in third grade because she just didn’t like you, that your friends smirk when your back is turned and jeer at you because you are who you are and that will never be good enough. It’s not something you deny. You know it to be true, it is irrefutable fact. They told you so.
You’ve never seen the faces behind the voices, you cannot imagine how they’re lips would move or what their expressions would be, even as they tell you the truth of intention behind each individual action and word.
They have thought you many things, and you are no longer young. Your innocence is something they believed you did not deserve. Innocence was for the loved and for the pure. Your failures have tainted you, they say. You never knew what it was to be truly loved.
There are times when you wonder if the price you have paid for knowledge, for the truth, is much too high. You never knew what it was to be happy either. You suppose it’s tied up with love, and console yourself that you would have never received either in their true form anyway. The voices have told you that you are unworthy and a burden tolerated. Burdens are not loved. Unwanted things are borne with up to the point where they can be eliminated.
Sometimes, you hate them. Just a little.
It is a day like any other when you feel the last of yourself give, when your trembling hold on sanity slips and you fall into the abyss of nothingness. Your friends hug you and wave goodbye as you turn to walk home (you hear the whispers reminding you that there are daggers in men’s smiles, Shakespeare is their new hobby). You hear them repeat what they have told you so often; you hear them say that you go from foe to foe, from one place of grief to another. You hear them; feel them reverberate through your skull, pounding through your heart like the steady drumming of rain on asphalt. You remember running home, running past your mother (who looks like the innocent flower but is the snake und’r it). You remember blood and screaming, you remember slicing through them, ripping skin and tearing muscle in your fury. You remember red everywhere, you remember the steady spray from the shower head and thinking about how it resembled something you can’t remember now, you remember painpainpain, and then… silence. Blessed silence and blessed darkness.
It’s only later, when you open your eyes and see the mangled corpse in front of you with the words ‘I can’t hear you anymore’ written in blood across white bathroom tiles do you realize that you can finally, finally put a face to them, to all the voices.
It’s your own.