Losing Your Voice

In the next five seconds I will have established two things. First, that I have your attention, and second that I'm in your head. Not literally of course. But it's my voice you're hearing, isn't it?

Not that you really care. I know I certainly never cared if someone else's voice was in my head whilst I was reading. In fact I took it as a sign of a good author. How quickly they established the voice, I'd think, it's so easy to emphasize with this character now! But anyway, I hope you can hear me properly. I'd ask if you were still reading, after my random chatter which probably bored you immensely, but given that I'm currently still in your head, I think it's safe to say that you are. I'll get to the story now. It's rather important.

I had a nightmare. That's how it all started. It was a beautiful nightmare, really, as far as these things go. I was sitting on my bed, legs folded beneath me. My hair was swaying and tickling my cheeks on the breath of a non-existent breeze. I didn't question the impossibility of this; it was, after all, a dream. I'd dreamt of much more impossible things. My curtains were open, and the moonlight was peering in brightly, ruining the darkness. I was watching myself, as one always must in dreams. I was watching myself watching the man in the doorway.

He was young, but not nearly as young as me. He was probably in his late teens, and had black curly hair. He was staring at me with a look so intense my intestines were wiggling under his scrutiny, knowing, I'm sure, that he could probably see them with his soul-searching look. His eyes were blue and he had long lashes. He was also completely transparent. He wasn't there when I woke up, either.

I was just a side character, in this story. I feel like I should tell you that. I was absent from the plot points of the story. Mainly the actual event, and I never even met the characters, so I guess you could classify me as a plot prop. Like a cashier who sells a diamond ring to the main couple so that they can get engaged. So unimportant you don't even know you're in a story. Kind of like you, right now.

I had another nightmare, the following night. It was the same as the one before, me on the bed, him in the doorway. The difference was that this time he spoke to me.

"I want to show you something."

He reached out his hand, intent of taking me somewhere, although where, I didn't know. I stared at his out-stretched hand and, like all dream-people, took the least logical course of action. I reached towards this strange mans hand. I was telling myself he'd take me somewhere fun. But he didn't. I just woke up.

Another family used to live in my house. The family who owned this house before my family went on holidays for two weeks. It doesn't really matter where.

That night, on the wings of a dream, the strange man showed me the missing two weeks in the houses life. Which makes me wonder: if no one is there to see it, does it really happen?

Now, a tragedy in an empty house. I can tell what you're thinking. I'm inside your head after all. When you think of an unoccupied house, combined with the knowledge that something happened there, you're thinking robbery, or even a fire. Now is a good time for me to tell you to keep in mind that this is a nightmare. You're not thinking nearly horrible enough. Stop being drawn in by my childlike appearance. Innocence has nothing to do with age. Let me paint you a picture.

We're in my room, although that's not what it was then. On the floor is a circle of salt. Crazy symbols are painted across the floor, and candles are burnt out around the room. Bright white light shines harshly through the windows – now my windows, illuminating the scene. But I told you to think worse than you were thinking, right? Idle vandalism isn't so terrible, right? Stop thinking so loud, and just listen to me.

Nailed to the walls are four ropes. Two, on either side of the room. They are about a metre apart, with one above the other, mirroring each other. They stretch across the room, where they meet in the middle. At least, they would meet.

A fifth rope hangs down from the ceiling, joining them. At least, it should join them.

You see, there was something in between all the ropes. Between all these ropes, was a person.

Now, this person wasn't your regular sort of person, like someone you'd meet on the street, or in the shopping centre. No, this person wasn't regular at all. You see, he was dead. Let me describe him for you.

He had black curly hair. I'm not talking about wavy curly, but really tight curls. He looked like a vile monster with corkscrew hair.

Interestingly, his face was blue. I've never seen someone with blue skin before. I know that we all have blue blood in us, and it doesn't show up till were dead and the red blood stops hiding it, but I'd never seen a dead body before. It looked very pretty with his hair. I don't know how it went with his eyes, as his lids covered them. But I'd like to think the whole image looked good. Although his face was very fat with swelling, so maybe it wouldn't have looked pretty at all.

The rope from the ceiling was tied rather tightly around his neck. I can't imagine that I'd find that comfortable at all. I assumed by the angle of his neck, he took my view on things.

His arms were stretched right out, held by the ropes, and his legs mimicked the position. He looked like a star. Is this as horrible as you were imagining? I only ask because I think I used the water pastilles when painting the picture for you. Everyone knows that water pastilles are faded and passive. Well, I find them rather dull.

The next night I didn't have a nightmare. At least, not one that I can remember. Yet, when I awoke, a circle of salt was busy staining my floor, positioned exactly where the one from my nightmare had been. The smell of Turpentine pervaded throughout my room.

"What have you done to your floor?" My mother asked, furious. "That stain probably won't come out. Consider yourself grounded, young lady."

Being grounded didn't bother me. I lived mostly in the world of dreams now, and you can't ground someone whom you can't touch. The dreams made me untouchable, and that made me free. Being grounded didn't bother me at all.

That night, I watched as the man, quite rudely in my opinion, spilled his innards all over my floor, through a slit in his gut. My own intestines squirmed, reminding me of how I'd felt like he'd been looking at them, safe and coiled up inside my body. I could almost feel the blade slicing through my own skin. Watching this, it wasn't hard to imagine what he was feeling. I stared for a long time at his guts on my floor. On my floor. What a mess. Although I suppose that's hardly his fault, seeing as he'd had little to no say in his death. Another man, one I'd never seen before, was standing before him, doing the deed.

When I awoke, there was a man standing in my doorway.

Might I remind you, hopefully for the last time, that I wasn't a part of the story. I just sleep in the room where the story took place. All that remains of that story is the new stain that had surfaced where the salt once lay on the floor. The markings, painted on, are faded, but still there. No trace remains of the body either. Well, there hadn't been. Now it was standing in my doorway.

Didn't he get the memo that I was only a side character? Not even a side character, but a side side character. So unimportant that I don't even get given a name?

In hindsight, screaming this at him was probably a bad idea. I already knew, obviously, that this guy was angry. And he meant business. So provoking him probably wasn't the wisest move. But there'd be no story if I hadn't. You see, he killed me.

I should have been subtler about that, shouldn't I have? I can tell by your raised eyebrows that I've surprised you. But I had to make it that sudden; otherwise you wouldn't have understood how unexpected and sudden the actual event was for me.

But now you get it, and I don't have to come up with any confusing metaphors or similes that really don't do the event any justice.

Perhaps now would be a good time to explain that this was his original intent. The Man, as I like to call him, was killed by another spirit. That was his own fault, though. He was the idiot who summoned it. But still. Some spirits are rather jealous of those who still live. That jealousy was passed on from the spirit to The Man.

I like to imagine that my death was something spectacular. For me, I only remember that it was incredibly painful. If you've never seen a ghost angry, count yourself lucky. His rage eclipsed the darkest of storms. Objects flew about the room, smashing against walls, and against each other. The windows shattered. The glass cascaded down the wall and spread across the room like a bursting dam.

I imagine the scene was very bloody and traumatic for those still alive, but seconds later I was dead, so I can't convey the living part of the story. He possessed me, briefly, and I tore myself apart with my bare hands. Our bodies are so delicate that we can do that, but our minds are too weak to achieve this. I don't even remember the actual event. I can only tell you that I felt incredible anger at being killed, some strange tingling then…nothing. Nothing at all.

I can see I've lost you. Your confusion is understandable. What sort of story involves the death of the protagonist, when the protagonist is the narrator?But I don't really care what you're feeling right now. The Man and I have made peace with one another. You're still confused, I'm sure, as that's hardly an explanation. Perhaps if you were paying proper attention, you wouldn't be so confused now. Instead I'll just have to explain further.

Remember at the start of the story, how I told you I was in your head? You're going to rationalise that you're reading my story, so technically it's not my voice, it's your voice inside your head. How naive.

You're saying words that I'm saying. In a voice you've never owned before. It's not your voice. It's mine. I'm inside your head. I know where you are, right this second. I've seen my own story through others eyes before. I only told you this story so I could get inside your head.

And now I'm coming to find you. Cause The Man and me? We don't think it's very fair that we had to die and everyone else can keep living.

You're still reading aren't you? Of course you are. I'm still in your head, after all. It's okay. You can stop now.

I've found you.