"You need to do this. Share with them the perception of being akin to glass encircled by bags of flesh. Tell them how the screaming never stops, that it is submerged so profoundly and so very far away," a voice hisses in your ear.
It never deserts you, often spewing your secrets. The words you keep in close proximity to your heart. Yet, It murmurs the unspeakable. How does this voice know these things? Is it you in the dead of night, whispering these facts to this creature beside your ear? You would never speak these secrets out loud, though.
You ponder the knowing voice. The answer is close, on the tip of your tongue-–but it's an undiscoverable secret. It's easy to notice beyond the context, unless it's the thing you do not want to perceive.
"Are your eyes aware of how they pass judgment on you? How they mock, smiling away, pretending. There you go, darling, thinking about your interactions," the voice jeered.
"Aren't you tired? Pay attention to their little acts. The pills only do so much. They cover your eyes. Poor thing," the voice chided. "I perceive what you are unable to comprehend. After all, I am what you buried so deep inside of you."
Every move is heavy. With each stride, the muscles contract. Colors fade, leaving behind unfamiliar shades of gray and white. A growing proximity to the white door with white trim affects your perception. Ahead of you, the broken skewed concrete stretches, thinning, causing the little house to seem distant. Grassy land beside the broken concrete leading up to the house appears black. Breathe, you remind yourself. Quick puffs escape the body. A slow, steady heart rate picks up pace, echoing around. Your vision wavers.
Home is a word that falls from the mouth easily, but it isn't a word that means safety. At least today it doesn't.
The cracked, dirty-gray concrete in front and behind is uneven. There are four inches of grass growing in between the jagged lines.
The house has changed very little in appearance. A fresh coat of paint hides the imperfections in the siding. The problem could still be seen clearly—parts of the siding peeling away from the house, some long flat boards hung loosely above their bottom counterparts. You know, if you glance downward, you would see the lines in the gray foundation.
"A house built on poor foundations," the voice utters. "Haha, they think they can hide this so-called family's dirty secrets. But look, it's cracked in the cement base just like the sidewalk."
"I can't help but agree." The uttering leaves your lips before it can be stopped. A flurry of hands slap across your face, leaving a dull sting.
Immediately, your eyes dart side-to-side multiple times, praying they did not hear you. The pounding from earlier, now prominent, silences the thoughts rattling in your head. The booming sound breaks through your chest, causing vibration to fill the outside world.
The voice laughs low and sinister. "Look at you, near tears—not a big boy, not a big girl. What are you, a small, confused child?" A numbness fills every bone and muscle, causing a weightlessness, as if you are falling backward, but never hitting the ground.
There is small comfort in the sudden haze that overtakes. The drooping eyelids cause the house to not be intimidating anymore. You can see nothing clearly . . . not the house with its pretend perfection . . . not the cracked sidewalk beneath your black boots. Was the sidewalk even still there?
You were standing, but are you standing now? That question is perplexing. You are above yourself looking down, sensing as if a singular string links you. The experience of being in an unfamiliar environment, no longer treading on a rigid surface but a lumpy mass of tissue, is usual to say the least.
How can one little mumble shut you down? Why does your effort to come back here create such a sense of helplessness? The body moves of its own accord, slowly down the broken sidewalk and up the painted blue cement stairs. Your hands reach for the stability of a black wrought-iron porch guard. This is not you. Has the voice taken over? Have you become someone new entirely? This doesn't appear right. Your identity vanished, leaving only a blank sheet. In a moment, a shift takes place again, and you perceive the world's colors coming back.
The gray fades, and you realize you can't do this. With a loud inhale, the body moves on its own again—a jerk with a rush of air, over the porch banister, down the once gray grass with a left turn. The thundering of steps follows like the beating heart does. The barking dogs, the sounds of the cars, shouts of people, all sound distant. All you can think about is fleeing—running from the rundown houses with the people sitting out front, to a nice green area surrounded by strangers and play equipment.
You need a place to escape the terrors of that house . . . an area where no one will find you . . . where the small voice cannot reach your ears . . . where you can save yourself, if only for a few moments. "Today is not the day, perhaps tomorrow you will enter that house," the voice whispers in your ear.
That voice, the imperceptible one by others, came with you. This voice is not meant to accompany you here. Has it always been with you? A part of you that hangs on your shoulder, biting your ear? You wonder if there is a safe space to escape these thoughts, to escape these memories and feelings.