Voices

• Alex Crozier, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2009

He was alone, as usual. Standing on a bridge with a gun in his hand wasn’t something that he did everyday, but he needed to quiet the voices. They were getting louder.

The man grew up in an overly lonely household. When he was only a baby his mother passed away and his father never got over it. As if to drown out his sorrows, his daddy spent most of his time in the pub. In fact, the only time he spent time with his Dad was when he was being yelled at or beaten. To maintain his own sanity the young boy would daydream, taking his mind to another world where he had a loving family and his daddy didn’t hurt him every evening.

That was around the time that ‘they’ started to talk to him. They started out as a mentor, to keep him company all the time he spent alone. The voice would talk to him; give advice and even play with him. In fact they were as close to a friend as he ever had. That is, until they turned bad.

Around his eighth birthday he was lying on the ground and watched the world go by. Hung over and passed out, his daddy remained inside the house. It was dangerous to be inside when he was like that. Something may have triggered what happened next, but he believed that it was the last threads of his sanity tearing away.

‘Slice his throat open. Feel his blood run through your fingers. Wouldn’t it be heavenly?’

Shock welled up like a ball in his throat, terrifying him beyond belief. The voices couldn’t be so cruel, they just couldn’t. They repeated the words again louder and with more force, causing him to scream and run into his bedroom.

He heard the door slam open as his father raged in with an angry look in his face, obviously annoyed that he had been rudely awoken. Grabbed by the throat and thrown against the wall, the boy gave a little whimper as his daddy yelled.

“You’re worthless you know that? Nobody wants you. You may as well die!”

When he was thrown to the ground, his daddy stormed off to get wasted. It was pathetic to cry, but he did anyway.

That was the last straw. He stayed up late that night, waiting for his daddy to arrive home and pass out. Once he was unconscious the boy grabbed a kitchen knife and drove it into the heart of his father. It was messy and it made him cry, but the voices seemed pleased.

Now he felt the same helpless feeling of bloodlust that he did twenty-seven years ago. He didn’t want to kill, but the voices said anyone would do. Selecting the victim was easy, but when he lifted the gun to his own head the voices screamed in protest. He didn’t care; he needed to shut them up for good.

Even if it meant ending it all.