The Last Voice I Heard Was Mine

I always thought death would be silent.
A fade to black. A single breath. An end.

But the last voice I heard wasn’t someone crying over me. It wasn’t my mother, or a siren, or even a whisper from whatever god people pray to.

It was me.

Screaming.

And I’ve been hearing it ever since.


---

It happened on a Thursday. That I remember clearly. The kind of day where nothing stands out—gray skies, a coffee stain on my shirt, the same argument with my boss. Nothing special, except for the slick spot on Route 27 that sent my car spinning into a tree.

People say it’s fast. The end. But for me, it wasn’t.

I remember the impact. I remember the crunch of metal and bone. I remember tasting my own blood and thinking: This is it. This is really it.

But then...

Silence.

Until it wasn’t.


---

I woke up—or thought I did—still strapped in the car. Everything was frozen, like time itself had been paused. I looked around, but nothing moved. The air was heavy, too still, like breathing underwater.

And then I heard it.

A scream.

My scream.

Long, raw, and guttural. The kind of scream a person makes when their body is being torn apart from the inside. It echoed through the trees like wind through dead leaves.

I tried to move, to speak, but nothing worked. All I could do was listen as my voice—that awful sound—played again. And again.

And again.

I always thought death would be silent.
A fade to black. A single breath. An end.

But the last voice I heard wasn’t someone crying over me. It wasn’t my mother, or a siren, or even a whisper from whatever god people pray to.

It was me.

Screaming.

And I’ve been hearing it ever since.
It happened on a Thursday. That I remember clearly. The kind of day where nothing stands out—gray skies, a coffee stain on my shirt, the same argument with my boss. Nothing special, except for the slick spot on Route 27 that sent my car spinning into a tree.

People say it’s fast. The end. But for me, it wasn’t.

I remember the impact. I remember the crunch of metal and bone. I remember tasting my own blood and thinking: This is it. This is really it.

But then...

Silence.

Until it wasn’t.
I woke up—or thought I did—still strapped in the car. Everything was frozen, like time itself had been paused. I looked around, but nothing moved. The air was heavy, too still, like breathing underwater.

And then I heard it.

A scream.

My scream.

Long, raw, and guttural. The kind of scream a person makes when their body is being torn apart from the inside. It echoed through the trees like wind through dead leaves.

I tried to move, to speak, but nothing worked. All I could do was listen as my voice—that awful sound—played again. And again.

And again.

It didn’t stop. Even after the world shifted.

The next time I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in the car anymore. I was standing at the edge of the road, looking at my own crash site. A mangled husk of metal and glass lay in the ditch, still steaming. My body wasn’t there, but I felt... present. Like fog, but conscious. A shadow stitched together by memory and pain.

Then a car drove by.

And as its headlights cut through the trees—

I heard it again.

That same scream.

My scream.

Louder now. Sharper. Like it had been waiting for something to amplify it.

The car didn’t stop. The driver didn’t notice. But I did.

And I realized I wasn't alone.
Time passed, though I couldn’t tell how much. Day and night blurred. Cars came and went. Sometimes one every few minutes, sometimes hours of silence.

But each time one passed, I heard it again. And with every scream, it got closer. More detailed. I started hearing my own last words woven into it:

> “No, no, no—please!”



> “I don’t want to—!”



> “Not yet.”



The worst part?

Sometimes, I could hear something else.

Something inside the scream.

A response.

One night, a car pulled over. Headlights clicked off. A woman stepped out, holding flowers. She walked to the tree, trembling.

I remembered her. She’d been behind me that day. She was the one who called 911.

She knelt and whispered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

And in that moment—something broke loose in me. My scream rose like it always did, but this time...

I answered.

It wasn’t words, not exactly. More like force. Energy. Pain converted into will.

The leaves rustled, though there was no wind.

The woman paused, glanced up—then froze.

I saw her lips part. She shivered and looked directly at the tree. At me.

Her eyes widened.

She heard me.

Then she dropped the flowers and ran to her car.

I didn’t blame her.

But I’d made contact.

That’s when I knew I wasn’t just hearing the past.

I was in it. Trapped inside my own echo.

And I could scream back.

The next night, I tried again. A teenage boy on a motorcycle zipped by. As his engine roared, I screamed with it—not my death scream, but a shout.

"Hey!"

He flinched.

He looked in the rearview.

He almost turned back.

That was when I realized: the louder the world around me, the stronger my voice became.

Over time, I began to shape it. Bend it. I could scream memories into the air. Images. Emotions. I left chills on spines, whispers in dreams, static on radios.

Some came back. Ghost hunters. Teenagers with flashlights. One even tried to talk to me.

They didn’t understand. They never stayed long.

Because the real horror wasn’t me.

It was what came with the scream.
I’m not alone anymore.

There are others. I hear their screams now too.

We’re like echoes stacked on top of each other—lost voices, fractured time, pieces of pain bound to the same curve in the road.

Some want to move on.

Some want revenge.

Some just want to be heard.

Me?

I just want to stop screaming.

But tonight, something’s different.

A black car just pulled over. A man steps out—middle-aged, heavy jacket, flashlight. But what catches me is the way he walks. Like he’s looking for someone.

He sets down a recorder.

“Connor James,” he says.

That’s me.

He’s holding something—an old photo. My photo.

“I think you’re still here,” he whispers. “I’m your brother.”

His voice shakes. “Please… scream if you can hear me.”

I do.

And for the first time—

It isn’t terrifying.

It’s hope.

Maybe this scream doesn’t have to echo forever.

Maybe I can finally find silence.
The End .