Voices…

He paced the antechamber; tormented by the echoes of all who had come before him. Echoes of voices that warned him to get out, and get out now. His brow furrowed as he paced, rubbing his hands together, knowing that he should listen to the voices, but knowing full well, if it weren’t him that stopped this evil, then who would. No, resolution was not his strong point, but her had to make the stand. For them.

The sad part is, a lot of people would have thought of his gift as something special. After all, it’s not everyone that can hear the dead, what mysteries they held, what secrets they could reveal. Yes, many would think that he was lucky. Many would be wrong.

Because that’s the thing about the dead, the ones who cross over peacefully never had an echo. And why should they? Contentment was a wonderful thing, creating a peacefulness that quiets the soul.

No, it was the one’s whose lives had ended unfinished that screamed out to him. And the ones whose lives were ripped from them in the most heinous way were the ones who he heard the loudest. They were like an explosion of noise that constantly berated him, and the only way to quiet them was to bring their deaths to a meaning. Otherwise, the noise never ceased, and everyday, it drove him further over the edge of madness, leaving him unsure sometimes whether the voices were real or not.

Which brings us to the antechamber of one Doctor Winston, PsyD. The voices started mumbling louder as he paced, yelling and screaming, causing him to scratch his head and plug his ears to no avail. “I’m not listening.” He said under his breath as the voices got louder.

Leave. Get out.”, 

The voices pushed in on the edges of his tattered sanity as he stood staring at the corner. “Quiet. I just want quiet.” He almost cried out as the door to the office opened.

“Danger.”

“Mr. Morgan, why don’t you come in.” Said an older gentlemen, wearing a white lab coat with the name Harold Winston, PsyD embroidered on it, and a blue tie. Morgan turned and smiled a frayed smile as he smoothed back his hair.

“Run!”

“I, um…”

“help… “

“Mr. Morgan. Right this way.” Dr. Winston used his arm to show the way through the door. Behind him was a dark office that had a warm feeling of burgundy to it. Morgan looked in, wondering what horrors the doctor had committed inside, and he wondered if somehow the doctor could silence the voices, and he wondered if anything really mattered anymore as he tried desperately to hold onto the last bit of strength he had.

“Don’t go!”

“I… um.. I can’t. Not now. No…”

“Don’t leave us!”

Morgan turned to walked toward the exit when he felt an icy cold hand grab his shoulder.

“Hurry…”

“I think it best if you come in and we talk.” Dr. Winston said.

“Help…”

Morgan turned his head and stared into the dead looking eyes of the doctor. “Please, don’t.”

“RUN…”

“Mr. Morgan…”

“Help us…”

“Let go of me.”

“Get out…”

“If you would just come into my off…”

“Don’t…”

Morgan turned fully around, pulling his hand from his coat jacket, his hand wrapped around the grip of a .38 special. Dr. Winston immediately let go, raising his hands up.

“Do it…”

“Let me go.”

“Mr. Morgan, just put down the gun.”

“Free us…”

“I just want the voices to stop.” Morgan rubbed his head with his free hand.

“Mr. Morgan. Just. Put. Down. The. Gun.” Dr. Winston lowered his hands to his coat. “I have something here that might help. Will you let me help?” He put his right hand into his lab coat.

“Don’t listen to him…”

“You can help?”

“Yes, Mr. Morgan.” Dr. Winston started to remove his hand from his jacket.

“Kill HIM!”

“You… you can’t help.” Morgan’s eyes teared up as the last of his sanity shredded.

“Do it…”

“Mr. Morgan, let me help you.” Dr. Winston pulled out a syringe, as he did, his eyes glinted as the side of his lip curled up in an almost imperceptible way.

“Free… me.”

With the faintest of sounds, Morgan whispered, “I’m sorry…” as the roar of the pistol silenced the room for one brief moment.

“NO!”

“YES!”

“FREE AT LAST!”

MMWM #13

mels-midweek-writing-menagerie

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Published by

R. Todd

I'm older than I think I am and younger than I feel. I'm stuck in the 80's but relevant to today (oh I hope that last part is true). I think I am more of an enigma than I really am, but somehow still confound those who try to figure me out (or they just look at me weird, so I infer that). And I really hate my first name. Husband, father, Navy Vet, cat owner (translate.. slave), wannabe writer, and all around big kid who is stuck in an adult world. Overall, I just... um.. something to something, blah blah blah. And that's all I got to say about that.

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