I sleep on the floor at the foot of my bed. I can’t sleep in my bed anymore. My bed just vibrates all night long. It shakes and shakes and shakes and never lets me sleep. I just want to sleep. In the morning my body is so stiff I can hardly move but I can’t sleep on the bed. So, here I am sleeping on the floor listening to the faint vibrating of my bed. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.

We were driving home from a small craft show, just my mom and I. It was getting late and the road was winding. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Suddenly my spine turned to ice and I felt sick. The overwhelming feeling of confusion dominated my mind. I opened my eyes and there was a man. Standing alongside the road, blood splattered everywhere. He was looking down at the road and looked so confused. As we drove by he didn’t flinch. He just stared down at the road, so lost and confused.

My mom said, in almost a whisper, “he was dead wasn’t he?”.

I wonder…what do I sound like? What does my voice sound like as I speak to you through writing. Do you even hear a voice at all while you read my thoughts? Do you hear your own voice echoing these words in your mind?

Maybe my voice is taken from someone you know. Hopefully someone that you like or admire even.

Possibly my voice is completely new to you. One that your vast imagination has created to fill the gaps.

Could my voice be a combination of all the voices you’ve enjoyed hearing throughout your life. I suppose it could also be a conglomeration of voices you’ve hated.

Is my voice pleasing? Does it make you smile that little smile that you want no one to see as you stare at your screen? Does it make your blood feel warm and your mind feel safe?

Or do you dislike my voice? Does it make the tiny hairs on the back of your neck curl and crawl? Does it give you an itch deep into your bones that you can’t reach? Does it make your ears ring with a low, constant buzz?

I guess I’ll never know what I sound like to you as I speak silently from the darkest, most twisted depths of my mind. For you, my friend are my confidant. I know I can tell you anything and you will not judge me. No. You wouldn’t judge me because you, my darling, you understand me. Maybe…just maybe you are me. We are one as our voices intertwine. Which voice is you and which voice is me? Oh, my dearest. My voice was always yours and yours was always mine. We are one, you and I, and I am so pleased to not be alone. We, my angel…we are just me.

Sometimes I can still hear it’s voice. As clearly as when I was there, when I lived in that house. I know it’s just a memory now. I’ve never heard anything like it since.

Thinking about the voice makes my spine stiffen. It makes me dizzy. I can’t remember what it would say. I don’t know if that even mattered. The room would spin and it looked like there were sequins floating just beyond my eyes. It was like my mind could only process the voices and had to shut off everything else.

It was so many voices.

So many voices all at once.

The all sound like they are coming from different directions, from different distances. Some are louder and some of them I can hardly hear.

But they are all at once. I don’t think they all are speaking English but I can’t really tell. They all speak as one but with echoes upon echoes upon echoes.

You don’t hear this voice with your ears. Not like you hear other sounds. These voices seem to come from behind your ear. That hard bump right behind your ear…it’s feels like bone. At the very bottom of that, right behind your earlobe. That’s where you hear it. That’s how you know the voice isn’t coming from someone alive. It probably isn’t even coming from something human.

There’s bruises and cuts on my body. Sometimes they are on my wrists, sometimes my throat, sometimes my face. I tell people I don’t know how I got them or I just feel or maybe I bumped into something. No one believes me. I am lying. They all know the truth. They all think they know how I get these bruises and cuts. They are sure I’m protecting someone. That I’m a pathetic woman who lets her boyfriend hurt her. The only problem is…I’m single and I live alone. They think I’m being abused and they are partially right. I am being abused, I just can’t see my abuser. When you’re like me you attract certain things. Certain things that the rest of the world writes off as merely stories told in the dark. Those certain things aren’t stories and they don’t leave some of us alone. And so, everyone is right. I am being abused…but my abuser isn’t human.

How long have I been in this room? How long have I been sitting in the dark? I can’t see anything, not even my own hands. It’s just black. Just black, empty air everywhere. There’s nothing to look at and I’ve almost forgotten what it is to see. I’ve been in this room so long. I try to dig deep into my memory and remember…a flower, any flower. I can’t picture one. What does a flower look like? I can remember how it feels. Petals soft and powdery. So very delicate. I can remember the smell. That beautiful, sweet tiny smell. But I can’t picture one. I can’t see one. I’ll be in this darkness forever.

There is a possum that sits on my husband’s chest at night. I can reach over and touch it. I can feel it’s coarse fur and sharp teeth. It looks at me and smiles, sinking lower into his chest. It isn’t real. It isn’t there. And yet I see it’s eyes shine. It isn’t real. It isn’t there. 

It isn’t real. 

It isn’t there.

Close your eyes. 

It isn’t real. 

Close your eyes. 

It isn’t there. 

Calm down. 

Close your eyes. 

Breathe slower. In. Out. In. Out. In…it’s still there. Staring at me. 

Smiling at me.