The Voice

| Friday, January 10, 2014 | |
A thousand times a day I yell at him to shut up, but he ignores my every word.

My cries for quiet tend to make him all the more vocal, and I wonder why it is that I have put up with him for so long. It's when I reach that breaking point that I remember....sometimes he is right, sometimes his words ring ever so true

He was the first to tell me that my medication was a mistake. "It'll dull you senses, " he roared, whilst everyone else patted me on the back and praised me for my courage.

I thought him a fool back then, telling him so every chance I got, but as time passed, his prophecy came to pass. The lights went off and the fog, ever so calming, rolled across me.

"Can you see, now?" I remember him asking.

"I see nothing," my feeble reply.

It was then that he started to become more vocal, telling me that he could show me the way to true happiness and a fuller appreciation of the senses. He convinced me to come off the meds, but to keep it a little secret between me and him. I duly complied.

His talks, crazy as they may have seemed to others, started to really make sense. He stopped yelling at me and took on a paternal tone, massaging my ego and poking my id. He spoke of the beauty of nature, and how scents played a major role in the pretty painting of the world around us. It was when he turned to smells less common that I started to doubt what he was saying, for a while at least.

Sure, I hung the hooks in every room as he had suggested, but the next step was where I took to drawing the line. I tuned him out as best I could, blasting music through my headphones when his talk turned vile, but he remained patient and waited until he had my full attention again.

"Start small," he said. "The scents are not as rewarding, but they will serve as an awakening."

I remember thinking how small the kitten looked on that large hook, but I also started to see how right he was. He has told me to put honey in the kitten's milk for a week, which I did.

I have smelled roadkill, plastered into the tarmac on a hot summer's day, and it isn't good. The kitten was different. The base scent of putrefaction stimulated the gag reflex, but that hint of honey kept the bile down.

"I told you," he said, simply.

He could see that he was getting through to me now. He turned his attention to women and the lengths that they go to in order to look good for their men. He spoke of the lotions and creams that oozed into the skin and stayed there, long after that initial scent blast had wafted off into the air.

I was sold on the smell, but needed a little further prodding. He started with the hooks and how beautiful they looked when the sun found a way through a gap in the heavy curtains. He told me how the curves of the hooks were the perfect match for the natural curves of the female form. There vision he painted was one of pure eroticism, and I must confess it aroused me.

Sounds were next. He made everything sound like a symphony of Mother Nature's composing: the muffled screams as the hook penetrated flesh; the dripping of blood on the plastic tarp below the hook; the buzzing of flies as they bathed and fed on flesh long dead. All small sounds patched together into a cacophony of grisly orchestral harmony, with my happy tears as the final piece in the music of nightmares.

I knew it to be wrong, though, so I told him to shut up, which he didn't.

It was the result that I had expected. After all, how can you silence the sound of your own voice in your head. You can really only hope to mute it for as long as possible, before cruel intent becomes willing work.


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