Imagine the chatter of a mall.
Now imagine that, layered thrice
That is my gift.
The art of listening in on what the world has to say.
They seldom speak to me, most don't even know I CAN hear them.
No, they talk amongst themselves and I am an observer.
That's why, you'll have to forgive me for not hearing it sooner.
The cries mingled in with all the voices and I can't say how long it was until I understood something was amiss.
My usual travels took me past a construction site.
The plentiful ruckus allowed a brief reprieve from discerning the voices.
Curiously, that was when I heard it the first time.
At least clearly.
It called and I listened.
A reply sounded but no concern for it's plea
My shirt conversed with my jacket and my shoes asked a lot from my pants.
I listened closer.
And it called again
More responses, annoyed and unhelpful
And I; of high moral standard, I like to believe, had to see the thing in its plight for myself.
I answered it's call. It's disbelief hung heavy in the air a moment before I heard it again over the cacophony of shocked voices
Yes, it is I. The listener of the world has spoken to you.
Now let me listen.
It requested my presence.
I determined with haste that it may require some assistance.
Perhaps it was trapped in the mud?
So I began
Through an alley
Past a grate
Down a road
Down another, unpaved
Into a driveway
I stalled
It was indeed inside this house with a barren driveway and none illuminating the dark glow of dusk.
It explained no one was home.
My morals told me breaking into someone's house was wrong,
They said even more strongly that the thing was in need.
Please
Please
Through the red door
Down the hall
A room on the left
The top drawer
Under the magazines
Next to the syringe
Here it lay
A gleaming
Cold
Silver
Handgun
Murder, it explained..
Take me from here
Take me away I can't bear this
Murder
Murder
The front door swung closed
Not alone, it hooted
All the things
Not alone
Not alone
I am not alone
