The Only Voice Left
By Dr. Pepper 14
Summary: Implied Slash, One-shot A boy struggles with the insistent voice in his head.
This one-shot is dedicated to a very awesome person who particularly liked this piece. This has been revised (albeit, not much) for you, darling. Thank you, Air Garden. Keep doing what you do and being awesome!
Voices inside my head scream my name.
They sound just like me.
They scream their own name.
I find myself screaming along with them.
And pretty soon I'm the only one left screaming.
Or maybe it was just me all along.
Tired orbs watch through blurred vision as tree by tree passes outside the car window. Way past boredom, my eyes follow one tree only to be jerked back to the next oncoming tree. This pattern I repeat and repeat until I fear that with the next jerk, my eyes might be yanked right out of their sockets.
I close my eyes, trying to dilute the burning feeling with the cool undersides of my eyelids. Everything always looks better when I close my eyes.
Why do you do this when you know it causes you pain? You really are a fool. How you have survived in this world so far is beyond me.
I don't justify this with a response.
I hate the way he always makes observations about me. I hate his sneering remarks. His constant berating and belittlement of every little thing I do. Or maybe… or maybe I hate that he speaks the truth.
And right now, I'm almost positive that he is sitting there and looking at me with that derisive smirk I've become so accustomed to seeing. Even now, at this very moment, I can picture it in my mind clear as a summer's day. The slight upward tug of lips that makes me want to smash something against a wall. Preferably his head.
I release my eyes from their dark haven and look into a cold grey gaze. Yes, there sits that smirk. On that face. If I had a wash cloth, I would wipe it right off.
I shoot him a nasty glare and turn away. Deciding it better to stare out the window than at his wicked, yet beautiful, face.
"We're almost there," my mother assures me with her ever-cheery outlook as she tosses her soft hair over her shoulders, the smooth chime of her voice ringing clearly through the silence of the car.
Almost there, we're almost there.
After all this time, after all that I've done, it all comes down to this: I am so stupid.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time. The creation of this complex being from within my own mind. I've always had the appearance of a loner. A solitary disposition. My mere presence seems to repel others- like a foul smell. Pretty soon I became sick of it. Just plain tired of it. Humans weren't made to be alone, and I was no exception.
So, one day, I was lonely and thought, 'Who better to keep me company than myself?'
I don't think I ever realized how dangerous this thought could be. If only I had.
Despite better judgment and without a second thought, I went on with this idea and spurred from my mind a man. A 'perfect' man, or so I thought. I planned him out to be everything one could hope for in a friend. Witty, funny, reasonably attractive, and most importantly- mine. No one else could have him, but me.
"I love you," I told him once.
You only love yourself.
That was his answer. He was always so cold. Still is. Too cold.
On occasion -occasion becoming more frequent with every passing moment, it seems- I wish I could just leave him with some other unlucky person to be his victim- let him subject his torture on someone else. But, he is trapped within the walls of my mind. Bullet-proof, sword-proof, hurling of chairs 100 miles per hour-proof walls. Though, if I could let him out, he would be evicted before you can say 'Get out, you fucker'.
He sits there. Chuckling at my thoughts in vicious rumbles. You see, he hears them too. After all, they are his thoughts also, in a way. For he is me, as I am him. Even I realize this sad truth. There's no escaping him.
At this, his laughter escalates, seemingly echoing throughout the small car.
"Shut up!" I hiss under my breath.
"What was that darling?" my mother wants to know, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
Nothing… nothing at all…
Finally, after minutes of near torture, we arrive at our humble destination: a small drycleaners on the corner of 14th Avenue and Baker's Street. It is run by an old and fairly squat Japanese couple. I find them rather pleasant people, so I overlook the disheveled state of the facility and continue to come back to it, like a drug addict to his favorite obsession.
Besides, because of its poor condition, not many people come here, meaning less waiting. And I'll tell you- I have absolutely no patience at times.
I grab my bag of dirty clothes from the trunk and walk away without a backwards glance. I don't need to see if he's following me. He always does.
A little 'ding' as I walk through the door signals my arrival.
I stuff my clothes into a washer and slip some quarters into the slot. Sitting back into a chair, I enjoy the smooth, steady sound of my clothes being cleaned, soothed by watching them go around and around in their vicious cycle.
Unfortunately, my peace of mind is short-lived and, as he sits next to me, disintegrates into oblivion. He looks around himself in obvious disapproval, probably thinking himself better than this place. 'Which he is not,' I think to myself, knowing he will hear me.
Yes, this dump suits you perfectly.
I try to ignore him, though I know my cheeks are burning in anger. I restrain myself from ripping my clothes to shreds as I put them into the dryer when his image appears in their stead.
Why not? They deserve to be destroyed. Hell, someone needs to dispose of them.
My breath escapes through my teeth as I fight for control. I should be able to control him… I did create him. But, my mind has a mind of its own. How ironic.
I sit down with a magazine and don't look back up from it until I don't hear that hum, telling me the dryer is done. With a sigh, I hoist myself up and empty the dryer of my clothes. Someone immediately takes my place and shoves their own heap of clothing into it.
Wow, this place is really booming today! I've never seen it so packed.
I take my clothes to a counter and begin to fold them next to another, slightly overweight, woman. She looks at me in a hard gaze, gives me a nod of acknowledgement, and turns back to her own pile of shirts, pants, and undergarments.
Even this middle-aged woman dresses better than you. That's pretty sad. You have absolutely no fashion sense.
"Yes I do!" I whisper rather loudly.
My last branch of patience has just snapped in two. I refuse to take anymore of his shit! If he doesn't quit, he might just find himself smacked upside the head with half of the branch. And patience is not the softest substance to be hit with.
He doesn't seem to take the hint my malicious glare provides and continues.
Hmm… her underwear is prettier than yours also. Why do you think that is? Is it, perhaps, that no one would ever want to see you in your underwear? Yes, that must be it.
I'm so mad, my mind doesn't even register the fact that it doesn't matter if her underwear is prettier than mine because I'm a boy and boys don't need pretty boxers. I'm just so fucking angry! I hate him I hate him I hate him.
Why? It's true. When's the last time you got laid? Don't bother lying to me. You know it's useless. When's the last time you went on a date even?
He crosses his arms over his chest and regards me with a smug look that seems to demand- 'Well?' He shakes a piece of golden hair out of his face. I just want to rip it from his scalp and make him eat it. The cocky bastard.
"None of your goddamn business!"
I don't seem to realize that everyone in the store is now looking at me with a weird and somewhat frightened expression. The lady that was beside me is long gone.
His laughter resonates in my mind, echoing off the walls of his imprisonment.
"Shut the fuck up!" I scream at the top of my lungs.
My chest heaves with my anger, my hands clenched tightly beside me. My knuckles are turning white from the tight balling of my fists that I want to hurt him with so badly. But it's no use. Every time I slap him, I'm the one who ends up with a hand print on his cheek.
I finally notice the many pairs of eyes that are looking at me like I am some loony nuthouse escapee. What? Do they expect me to run around screaming 'The end is near!'? Not any time soon folks, so fuck off.
I'm not crazy! They just don't understand. They just don't. I'm not crazy.
But even now I begin to doubt myself.
I wish they would stop looking at me. I swear I can feel each gaze burning into my skin. Those little eavesdroppers! How dare they!?! Have they no manners?
Can't they see I'm holding a private conversation here?
"Stop staring at me!"
No… I don't suppose they do.
Only I can see him.
Quickly gathering my things into a bag, I race outside, away from their judging looks and whispers. But their words follow me out the door, drifting with the breeze.
"Who was he talking to?"
"He sure was a weird one."
"Why was he screaming like that…? I thought he was gonna pull out a gun and blow a hole through the wall…"
I try to shake those tidbits of conversation from my mind, but they just won't fall out. I turn my head to the side and clean my ear in the fashion you do when there's water in it. But they remain, reiterating over and over again in a never-ending cycle.
I'm not crazy. They don't understand me. No one could.
I understand you… More than I'd like to…
Yes. Only he understands me. And that's why I need him. That's why I love him. He's the only one who knows.
I call my mom to tell her to pick me up 'on the double'. I practically growl into the phone. I think she can tell by my voice that I'm not joking. Quite the contrary. I sound more likely to bite the next person to approach me than to be funny.
The car ride home is a hushed one. The silence only broken by the noisy motor of our Chevy. The sound cuts through the quiet and thankfully, through my thoughts. I relax in my emptiness. Knowing full well it will only last for a short while. My mood is warning enough to advise my mother against conversation.
He sits beside me, adding his vulgar thoughts to the stillness every once in a while. But, for the time being, I am able to block him out. I won't deceive myself that it could last forever. This serenity is but a short vacation away from my other half.
I trudge right up to my room the minute we get home. I'm not in the mood to talk. I just want to be alone. Well, as alone as I'll ever be. He's always there.
I throw myself upon my bed and bury my face into a pillow, drawing small satisfaction from its yielding conformity. Though, as all good things seem to be doing lately, the satisfaction doesn't last long and is overpowered by a new emotion entirely. I try to hide my tears in the soft fabric of my bed, staining my pillows with a dark wet spot, but I know I can't hide anything from him.
A weight is placed upon the bed and a hand on my head. The hand mockingly strokes my short hair in a seemingly sweet gesture. Lips kiss the back of my neck as if we are lovers.
Poor baby. Is the world too hard on you? Poor little thing. Maybe you should just kill yourself. It would do us all a favor.
And with that, the hand in my hair pulls mercilessly and a pain shoots through my temple. A knife is placed in my hand, suggesting to me what I might do. Yes… it looks very inviting.
But doesn't he understand? If I die… then he's going with me. He cannot exist without my existence.
He hears this thought and reacts with an angry roar of shouts in my mind. He has an answer for everything.
I hate this place! This life! I don't want to be here. No one wants you here either. Just kill yourself!
No! It's not true. It's not… is it?
"Leave me alone," I say.
But my voice isn't commanding. I'm too… drained… to put any force into my words.
"Just leave me alone," comes my weak plead.
I just want to lie here, lost within myself.
I drag myself off my bed and over to the vanity to do something about my now tangled hair. I brush out the snarls and set the brush back down in its place next to my razor and deodorant. Bracing my hands on each side of the vanity, I take a deep breath as if breathing the life back into me.
Half-lidded eyes look up into the huge oval mirror… And I don't like what I see…
Instead of meeting the cool blue eyes I usually see every time I look into the mirror, I find myself looking into dull, lifeless grey ones that seem to pierce my soul. My hands clutch where my heart should be when I feel the stab.
That boy isn't me! True, he looks like me… but those aren't my eyes. Those are his eyes! The boy in the mirror smirks at me. An evil smirk that I know all too well.
And I become enraged at this boy who dares take my place in the mirror. I want my reflection back!
Is everything taken from me?
Who is this boy in the mirror? Certainly this fraud is not me, this imposter that has dared take my place. It's him! He's taking over me. He's fighting for control… and winning…
"No! You will not control me..."
I scowl at him in the mirror…
…And punch my hand right through it…
The glass shatters and falls around me. Pieces lodge themselves in my hair, my clothes, my skin. Blood drips in random places like little mini waterfalls that follow the contours of my body. Down my nose, into my eye, between my fingers. I look at my hands in horror- now more like dead flesh. For the skin is torn and looks to be easily ripped off. It takes all of my control not to add to the mess by puking.
Damn him! I blink, trying to see through the blood that enters my eye. Racing into the bathroom, I shove my trembling hands under the faucet, choking down the sob that threatens to escape. After splashing some water on my face, I notice that the sink and everything around it is now stained a sickening red.
As compensation, I turn on the shower when I realize my body is still covered in blood. And I stand under the cold water, not worried at all at my body's lack of reaction to the freezing temperature. Red tinted water flows down the drain.
I dry myself with a big fluffy towel. Now the towel is red. I walk out of the bathroom and into my room. Bloody footprints mark my passage. I put on some clothes. And they stick to my body as blood seeps through. A once baggy white t-shirt is now like red clingy skin.
The blood is everywhere. Just everywhere. A flash of red, every place I glance.
Pathetic child. You. Are. Useless.
Useless? Is that all he thinks of me? I love him, I love him so much, too much. He never loved me.
And how could I?
How could he ever love me? We're both male. I'm a disgusting fag, just like they all say. It's wrong and I'm sick sick sick.
I turn on him. Not even curious about how the knife suddenly appeared in my hand. I bring it to my chest, resting it just above my nonexistent heart.
He walks closer to me. Stands before me. A devious glint in his eyes.
Do it. I don't need you anymore. I can go on without you. Do it. You no longer have control of your own body. Submit to me.
"Yes…" I whisper quietly in a hollowed tone.
I take the knife in my hand. It reflects the sunlight pouring from my windows. The light dances on the wall, on our faces. A simple dance that has no conformity. It just is. It moves along in a fluid motion… like the blood… pouring from my open wounds…
I look at him. Absolute perfection. I created this.
And I can end this.
I plunge the knife into the gaping hole where his heart would be if he had one. His eyes widen in disbelief and he holds his hand over the wound that is now freely pouring blood. He is too shocked to try to dislodge the knife.
Funny, I didn't expect him to bleed.
He looks at me with frightened eyes. Betrayed. Had I betrayed him?
Have I sunk so low?...
No, I was the one betrayed. By him, my only friend. My love. And now I am alone in the world.
I laugh. The sound carries throughout my room. Out the window. Into the streets. I laugh hysterically at this man dying before me. Kneeling in a pool of his own blood.
His once golden hair that could compete with the most radiant of suns now seems to hang loosely in a dull sheen. His eyes more lifeless than ever. Red-stained clothes now match mine.
I killed him. I killed him. He will no longer plague me. And all is quiet without his snide remarks to fill the void.
… Too quiet. Eerily so. I… I miss his sharp tongue- in a sick perverse way, I do. I feel so alone. More so than ever before. And I am alone. I guess I just never realized it…
I reach out to him. To do what, I can't say. It's too late now, anyway. He shakes his head and smiles wickedly as a small trickle of blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. Does he have fangs? He growls, looking quite evil once more.
You think you've won…
Tears prick my eyes. Drops fall as silent tears. Shed for a lost friend, lover, enemy- whatever he was to me. He is no longer anything.
I am everything you stupid fool! I am you…
And all of a sudden, he disappears before my very eyes.
My cries turn into coughs as blood spews from my mouth. I fall to my knees. And now I'm the one lying in blood. A knife protrudes from the place where my heart should be.
I watch my reflection as the mirror fades. Cold grey orbs staring back at me.
Thank you to everyone who already reviewed this! I'm home, no school, watching Golden Girls, happy as a clam. Life is good right about now.