Voices (Novella - Psychological Thriller/Horror)

1.

When do you think she’ll break?

I think she’s close now!

Maniacal laughter fills my head and I shift onto my back, pulling a pillow over my face. I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed a full-night’s sleep. The voices have always been there, for as long as I can remember.

I’ve gotten so accustomed to them, that by the age of five, I was having conversations with them; one-sided of course, since no one heard the other side.

My parents shuffled me through eight different therapists by the time I turned sixteen, and none of them offered anything other than schizophrenia.

I’m not crazy. Although I believed I was until six months ago – when I turned eighteen.

Crispy, brown leaves crawling with maggots blow in the breeze.

Teardrops of crimson saturate my skin, I love to lick the warm blood.

“Alright,” I mutter and toss both covers and pillows. “I’m up.”

Like that’s stopped us before?

“Ah, gonna be one of those days, huh?” I ask, and chuckle. Apparently the dark side has dibs on the microphone today. It's taken some time, and lots of soul-searching for me to accept the never-ending dialogue that only I can hear.

Keep that infernal Seraphim in his box!

“You guys torturing the good side again?” I mumble, and rise from the bed, stretching my arms high above my head.

He tried to talk to you.

“Of course he did,” I agree. “Why wouldn’t he? I’m the only one who can hear all of you.”

A low moan reminds me that I'm not bunking alone any more. I turn to peer at the mound of covers in the other twin bed on the far side of the room.

“Sorry Liz,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The dingy white blanket flies back and two black eyes glare at me from amongst a strangled nest of blonde hair.

“Don’t your angels ever let you sleep in?” she demands.

“It’s not the angels this morning,” I defend, a tad miffed that she insulted the nice ones. “You can blame the demons.” And with that I walk over to the plain dresser, and rifle through the drawers until I found the small locket I’d stowed away.

Laying the chain across my hand, I let the heavy gold slip across my skin until the locket itself rest in my palm. I press my thumb to stop the chain and keep the locket in place, tilting my head to study it. Shiny gold, covered with beautifully strange symbols winks back at me. I’ve been told the pendant belonged to my great-grandmother who died shortly before I was born.

She’d been diagnosed as crazy too, and spent the majority of her life in an asylum.

I’ve only been a patient at Saint Landry’s for the past three years, since my parents died in a freak accident. Our house caught on fire, and burned to the ground with the three of us still inside. I’d been the only survivor, and I’d walked out without a burn or singed hair.

The court deemed me incompetent, and even charged me with the murder of my parents as well as arson. I hadn’t started the fire, the demons had. But nobody believed me.
“How long you been here?” Liz asks as she pads up behind me. I whirl around, momentarily panicked to have someone at my back, and shove the hand cradling the locket behind me. Patients aren't allowed any personal effects, especially something they can use to harm themselves or others.

The angels smuggled the necklace in one night while I slept, and left it across my pillow for me to find the next morning. I’ve kept it hidden ever since.

“Three years,” I answer breathlessly. “Could you please back up a bit?” I ask. “You’re in my bubble.”

She’s in your bubble! She’s in your bubble! She’s in your bubble!

Stab her with your brush.

You idiot! You can’t stab someone with a hairbrush.

Closing my eyes, I slowly count to ten. Today is going to be a long one.

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