The Voices Made Me Do It

I was ten years old when the whispers started. At first, they were quiet. Little voices urging me to do little things, like breaking my mother’s dishes or slashing my father’s tires. My parents brought me to the doctor, and she asked me why I would smash my mother’s china. The voices told me to do it, I had said. If I don’t do what they say they scream so loud until my head hurts. She had only smiled at me and told me the voices were only my imagination. She told my parents I only wanted attention. I tried to tell them how the whispers never left, and how they always wanted me to do unimaginably horrible things. They denied me again and again, dismissing the voices as a need to be seen. They didn’t understand how insistent the voices became in the next six months.

Kill the neighbor’s dog, they told me. Kill the dog and then they’ll believe you. No, I told them. I can’t kill the dog; I would never hurt a fly. The whispers started screaming, scraping the insides of my head until I couldn’t make out their words. It felt as if a knife had sliced through my brain and the blood was drowning my senses. Fine! I’ll kill the dog, but you have to go away after, I told them. They agreed. I drowned the dog in the pool the next day. It killed me to do it, but the voices vanished. My parents brought me to a different doctor who told my parents I would have to stay on medication for the rest of my life to stop the voices. The medication provided no help.

The whispers returned the day of my twelfth birthday. My parents were at work and I had just returned from school when they made me do the worst thing yet. There’s a tank of gasoline in the garage. Turn on the gas stove and pour the gasoline on the burner. When I refused, they screeched worse than ever before, scarring the insides of my mind and cutting at the nerves in my head. I turned on the burner and emptied the gasoline tank onto the open flame, and ran. My sister had been in her room when the house went up in flames. She burned with the rest of the building. I never meant to kill her. I had to make them stop their screaming. I didn’t want to harm anyone. I never did. But they wouldn’t stop slicing away at my brain, and the fire was the only way to make them stop. My parents sent me away after that. They said I was a danger to myself and others. They said they couldn’t handle my violent outbursts. They brought me to an asylum and never came back. Not for visits, and certainly not to bring me back home.

I hated the asylum. I didn’t bother to tell them about the whispers because who would believe me? They liked to poke and prod at me as if I was some sort of anomaly, some experiment. The whispers made me kill again, when I was fifteen. This time I didn’t object. I killed the doctors who treated me like some frail glass object and ran far from the asylum. I left blood and glass and pain in my wake, but at least I was free. At least the whispers didn’t scrape the sides of my brain. But they were never silent after that day.

I wake at dawn as usual, as the voices never let me sleep long. The bloody knife lay next to me, staining my bedsheets crimson. I swallow hard, throwing the knife in the sink. I don’t remember who I killed last night, or why. But the voices demanded it, and I must deliver. It’s been seven years since I escaped the asylum. Seven years of screaming and blood and death. Sometimes I miss the asylum. At least there I didn’t have to wake up wondering about the innocent lives I ended during the night. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. There’s nothing to worry about anyways. The police won’t find me. They never can.

I slip myself into the bathtub, watching the blood swirl with the soap. I scrub myself clean from the remnants of last night’s horrific events. I dress in my usual black and walk to the cemetery. The voices don’t follow me here, for whatever reason. It is the only time I can be alone in my head.

It’s an unfortunately beautiful day, and I think about the people I will kill tonight, who will have to die on such a terribly gorgeous winter evening. The branches of the cemetery’s pine trees are weighed down by half a foot of snow, and it’s a miracle they haven’t snapped yet. I sit underneath one, disregarding the cold bite of the snow beneath me. I like breathing in the crisp fresh air. It makes me head hurt less, and I treasure the moments of silence I receive here. A barn owl perches on the tree across from me, its head tucked under its wing. Strange, I think. I’ve never seen an owl in a cemetery.

“Aren’t you freezing?” A voice asks from behind me.

I jump, startled, quickly turning around. A boy is standing on the gravel path, wrapped in a scarf, snow in his hair.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t,” I lie. I’ve always been so very good at lying.

“Are you visiting someone?” He asks, gesturing to the gravestones.

I shake my head. “I like the quiet here. It’s peaceful.”

“Ah. Well, its nearly one below and you’ll freeze to death out here. How opposed would you be to going to a coffee shop to warm up?” He extends his hand, and after a slight hesitation, I take it.

I sit across from him in the shop, warming my hands on the mug of coffee he bought for me. No one has ever bought me something before. No one has ever show me such kindness.

The next day, I see him in the cemetery again. He tells me his name is Azrael, and that he is an orphan. I tell him that my parents died, too. It’s easier to lie than to explain why my parents abandoned me at the mental hospital. I don’t want to scare him away. But the voices are always silent when I am with him, and I like being able to talk and listen without their painful wailing filling my head. We meet in the cemetery every day for a month, and I find that it’s so very easy to fall in love with him. I love his remarkably beautiful brown eyes and the way he always runs his hands through his hair to keep it out of his face. I love his gentleness, his kindness, which made me fall so hard for him. I love how he smiles when I say something funny. That’s another thing- he thinks I’m funny, too. I never thought I was before I met him.

And then, six months later, we are sitting under the tree where we first met. It is now mid- August, and the cemetery is bursting with life, ironically. The trees are full and green, and squirrels scamper up and down them, startling the chirping birds.

“I wonder where that owl is,” Azrael says to me, scanning the tree branches. “Shall we go look for him?”

I smile, taking his hand. We walk, hand in hand, along the gravel path until we find the owl.

“Oh!” I gasp, covering my mouth with my free hand.

The poor thing is dead, its broken wings twisted in an awfully gruesome manner. Its feathers are nearly torn out and blood coats the bird’s body, as if another animal had been eating it. Azrael takes it and buries it beside our tree, and we stand by its miniature, unmarked grave in silence.

“At least he’s in a better place now,” I reassure him.

“He was here every time we came to the cemetery.”

“But now he has us to remember him,” I tell Azrael, leaning my head against his shoulder. He gives me a sad smile and leads me through the cemetery’s broad iron gates.

When we pause outside my apartment complex, I turn to him and ask, “Azrael, would you want to move in with me?”

He smiles, showing me his perfect teeth. Another thing I love about him. “Of course I’ll move in with you, Elysia. After all, I love you.”

And for the first time, his lips touch mine, and I smile against his kiss.

Azrael moves in with me that week, and I have never been happier in my life. Until that night. That one night ruined everything. I didn’t want to hurt him. I never did. But the voices came back louder this time, for the first time since I met him.

I’m standing in the kitchen, slicing bread for dinner when the front door closes, and I hear his footsteps on the hardwood floor.

“Whatever you’re making smells delicious, my love.”

I smile up at him, pressing my lips to his. “I made your mother’s stuffed shell recipe. I know how much you love when I make it.”

He smiles, turning, and heads to the dining room to set the table when he pauses, wincing as he presses a hand to his temple.

I set down the loaf of bread I’m holding. “Azrael, are you alright?”

“Just a headache,” he assures me before taking a handful of napkins out to the dining room.

And then the voices spoke to me. Kill him, they whisper. Kill him with the knife. It would be so easy. I nearly drop the knife. No. No, I won’t do it. I’ll kill anyone else, but not him. Please not him. I relished my time without the voices. Without killing. I didn’t have to wake up in the morning worrying about what I’d done the night before. I didn’t have to think about the innocent lives I was ending. You must kill him. He trusts you. It would be so easy. They’re screaming now, worse than they did when I set my parent’s house on fire. The sound blinds my senses. I can’t think. I can barely see straight. I love him. Please leave me alone. I’m happy with him. I can’t hurt him. They insist. I feel like my head is about to combust. Just one more death, they promise me. All you have to do is kill him, and we’ll go away forever. You can love someone else. His life doesn’t matter.

I’m not myself. It’s like the voices have taken over my body, forcing me to grab the knife. They’re not supposed to be able to do that. They’re not supposed to be able to leave my mind. Stop! Please, I beg them. He means everything to me. Everything! I’ll kill anyone else. I’ll kill for the rest of my life if you let him live. Nothing works. The voices won’t listen to my reasoning, to my pleading.

I walk into the dining room to find Azrael staring at me, standing unnaturally straight.

He glances at the knife in my hand. “What are you doing?” His voice is small and weak, and my guess is that he already knows.

“I don’t know. Please, believe me. This… this isn’t me. The voices…” I trail off. How can I tell him?

“You hear them too?” He swallows, moving his hand. He’s holding a fire poker. When I nod, he continues. “I thought I was the only one. They… they made me kill my parents. I had to, for them to stop screaming.” His body is shaking, afraid.

“They stopped when I met you. I thought they were gone.”

Kill him! Kill him now!

With all the strength that I have, I drop the knife. The voices don’t like that. They howl, ripping at the nerves in my brain.

“I won’t do it! I won’t hurt him!” I scream, tearing at my face, hoping to claw the voices out of my head. My hands come away bloody, and the voices remain. My body jolts, the voices taking over once again. I watch myself pick up the knife, stepping closer to Azrael.

“I can’t make them stop, Azrael. I can’t make them stop!” I scream, panicking. I don’t want to hurt him. I’d rather die than hurt him.

He raises the fire poker. “It’s okay. I know this isn’t you. I’m not myself, either. It’s like they have control over my body.” His voice is shaking, tears trailing down his cheeks.

He stabs me, the point piercing my abdomen. I crumble to the ground, and Azrael does too, knowing what he’s just done. Pain rushes throughout my body, and blood quickly seeps through my shirt. He kneels by my side, trying to apply pressure to my wound.

He removes his trembling hands from my stomach, palms stained vermillion. He stares at them in horror. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I love you, Elysia. You have to know this isn’t me.”

I feel my arm swing out, slicing the skin on his neck. His hands shoot up to the wound, but he’s still breathing. I crawl to his side, planting my hands on both sides of his beautiful face.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, tears clouding my eyesight. “I love you so much Azrael, I love you so m-”

His arm jerks forward, shoving the fire poker into my chest. I gasp, momentarily out of breath before he pulls it out, the metal grinding against my ribs. I lurch forward, pressing my hands to the wound to try to halt the bleeding. It’s no use. I draw heavy, shallow breaths. It’s almost over, I think. Only a minute or two more of pain and then it’s over. He tries to sit, stroking my cheek.

“I love you more than anything else. We’ll see each other again, I’m sure of it. We’ll see each other in death, Elysia,” he says, taking my hand.

The knife runs through his throat, and we both take our final breaths. I die next to him, his hand in mine, our blood soaking though the carpet and staining the hardwood red.

But in the end, it was as Azrael promised. I do indeed see him in death.