Fragment of a Thing I Wrote

Lest anyone think I don’t write from time to time, here’s a piece I am working on about anxiety (something I suffer from) given form. I think I might get back to it, eventually:


It wasn’t a malicious voice that whispered in his ear each day, but it was a compelling one. He did its bidding as sure as if it were the voice of God, though God seldom seemed interested in the mundanity of his life, such as it were.

He put on a strong façade for the world, to be sure. They couldn’t know the voice was there, commanding him, directing him. For them, he was the person they needed. A loving husband. A doting father. A hard worker. All of these faces, and more, he was adept at putting on and wearing as if they were his own, but they were not. They were the faces of others that he had observed over time and managed to mimic. If anyone had taken the time to scrutinize his faces, they would have seen the lines where the latex masks delineated between fiction and reality. No one ever looked that hard, however, and if they happened to see that something was amiss, they quickly forgot it. It was, after all, easier to ignore the possibility that their friend/father/husband/employee was smiling falsely, listening to the whispers in his ear than to the voices of the rest of the world.

It’s too much work to try, it said often—its most common refrain—slithering deep into the foundation of his subconscious, so much so that he was no longer certain if the voice was his, or something external. Perhaps, he often though, I’m losing my mind. He was right, of course, but not for the reasons that he believed he was. There was a blight upon his soul—though he didn’t believe in such things—eating away at the edges of his perception until the world was ragged at the periphery. It was a slow change, and while he’d always known it was there, always heard the voice, it acted upon him so slowly that the change was imperceptible even as it was causing catastrophic damage to his psyche.

The voice, and the Thing at the end of it, was slowly killing him.

Worse still, under all the masks that suggested otherwise, he wasn’t sure how much he cared.


*             *             *             *


He didn’t remember when he started hearing the voice. And lest you think this is some sort of metaphor, know that in time he didn’t for a moment believe that it was anything but an outside entity. His was not a delusion but a statement of fact. It is more difficult to dismiss ones senses of sight and touch than it is to accept the potential that madness might be pressing in and directing actions, no matter how banal and pointless those actions might be.

He saw it sometimes, when the natural blind spot in his vision was oriented at just the right way and at just the right times. As best as he could tell (because as soon as he looked directly where he saw it, the Thing would vanish from his sight, but he still felt its weight), it was a misshapen, pale, mostly hairless creature. He best descried it (to himself… to describe it to others would suggest that he wasn’t in his right mind, which—as stated—he most certainly was) as the pulsing, squamous, aborted fetus of an albino. Not the most elegant descriptions, but the part where it was the premature ejecta of unwanted human life was spot on. He knew, instinctively, that it was a part of him. It was something deep within his psyche given form, which was as close to the Thing being symbolic of his own failings as he would allow it to go. While it might have started as something more symbol than object, it had formed into something that he knew was its own, separate entity. It was tied to him, for certain, but it was no longer his. It was his child, birthed from his ID or his ego or some other psychological bullshit, let loose into the world. Only, it chose to stay with him. To torment him with the incessant whispers. The easy choices (watch Netflix. Play video games. Ignore the child and the wife). To remind him that he wasn’t good enough to be a father or a husband. That at any time, his boss would find out that he wasn’t, in fact, productive or qualified to do his job.

That someone would yank the masks off and reveal the truth below. Because if he was the father of a scaly pale fetus Thing, what did that say about his own true face?

His first memories of the voice happened at a young age. He didn’t remember when it started, likely because to remember the Thing being birthed from his own body (mind?) would be too traumatic. He remembered its birth no more than he remembered his own, and for much the same reasons. But he knew that it wasn’t always there. Or if it was, it took some time to begin speaking. His smiles as a child were too genuine. The masks were occasional; the normal faces he learned to put on at early ages to adjust and that he could take off when we were finished with them and the danger had passed. Before he left the masks on all the time, he was happy. This he remembered.

(Unless the Thing whispered to his memories, too, changing them. It would be insidious if it were true. Perhaps if he’d always been miserable beneath the veneer of normalcy, he would feel that there was a common baseline to life. Instead, memories of happier times served only to remind him that the Thing was there on his shoulder now.)

It may have been the first year he didn’t make a B or higher on his report card and he’d felt certain that he had unforgivably failed his parents.


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