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The voices in his head were quiet. For now.
He tried to make ignoring them a habit, but recently, they had been extra persistent. Maybe calling them voices was an exaggeration, but the nagging feelings of doubt and guilt were as annoying as he assumed actual voices would be. Telling him he was a curse, that he was better alone, that nobody would miss him. Part of him wished they would leave him be, but the other part wondered if they were right.
He never thought one person could feel so alone in a crowd. He was getting better, he was healing, but good things never last. Possibly one of the most annoying things to him was how his coworkers constantly chattered in blissful ignorance. They persistently tried to include him in work events, invite him to their random barbecue, or just review their day with him. As if he wanted to participate in their worthless acts of bonding. As if he looked like the kind of guy who wanted to meet their kids.
He took a deep breath and remembered the old Buddhist saying his therapist had drilled into him: pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. He just needed to smile and keep his head up. He powered through once, he can do it again.
One thing that had always helped him was focusing on work. Most people wouldn’t consider a construction job like his to be very glamorous, but it was the one thing that he could always count on. He was over the moon when his foreman assigned him the crawler crane. He had been training for weeks to be able to handle the behemoth, and when he was finally given the chance to show off his new skills, he was like a kid in a candy store. The idea of having such a heavy piece of machinery at your fingertips is obviously alluring, but it also allowed him to sit in his control station and be left relatively alone. That was his favorite part. The thrill of being able to pick up a car like it was a Hot Wheel was fun too, and the pay raise certainly helped, but he enjoyed his solitude.
Once the sun set, the crew headed back to the lockers to put their gear away. His coworkers engaged in idle conversation around him, but he wasn’t feeling very social. It didn’t seem like he ever felt like chatting anymore.
“Hey, Cyrus.” The booming voice of his foreman carried through the cramped locker room and they locked eyes. He strode over toward Cyrus and clapped him roughly on the shoulder. “Great work today. I’ll see ya’ tomorrow, yeah? Finish the week strong, we’re halfway through.” He gave an energetic wink, far too cheerful for a Wednesday night. Even if he wasn’t fond of it, Cyrus appreciated his grotesque optimism.
“Sure, man. See you tomorrow.”
~~~
When he looked over at the clock on his bedside table, it read 3:34 AM. Not the latest Cyrus had ever been up, but it was murder when he had to be awake by 6. The fact that he was getting used to the lack of sleep was not something he was happy about. He lay awake in his bed, wishing that his mind would let him drift off, but he’d been staring at his ceiling for hours with no such luck. At least he doesn’t have to worry about having nightmares if he doesn’t sleep at all. After another 30 minutes, he finally threw in the towel and oozed downstairs like a man made of lead.
His house was impressive for a single guy like him. He never got married, even though he was close once, and though he’d always wanted children, the world seemed to constantly remind him that he wouldn’t be a good father. He particularly remembers the adoption agency using the word “unstable” when delving into his background. Kids would just muddy up his life anyway, he figured. Still, it would be nice to have someone as trusting and dependant as a child to keep him grounded. His two-story, 3 bedroom, white picket fence house could certainly accommodate one. His fiance had picked it years ago, before she died. He could never bring himself to let it go. As if living in her dream home somehow made her death easier. Maybe it did; he wasn’t sure. Either way, it was clearly not meant for one person, as is evident by the bare counters and dusty dishes that decorated his kitchen.
He reached for one of his whiskey glasses. No need to wipe dust off those; he never left them alone long enough to gather any. He didn’t bother with ice, just poured a neat glass and sank into it. This had become a bad habit of the last few nights when dreams kept him up. He only needed to make it through two more days until he could drink away his weekend. Nightmares never stood a chance against the oblivion of an alcohol-induced coma. Two more days.
~~~
Even through his sleep-deprived haze, the day went by pretty quickly. A group of the more outgoing coworkers invited him out for drinks, but he declined, opting for the coveted privacy of wasting away his Thursday evening in the comfort of his own home.
“Come on, Gloomy Gus.” The expression was meant to be endearing, but the irony was lost on Cyrus. If he was going to join them before—which he wasn’t—that certainly wouldn’t have made him more willing to spend time with his “friends”. They considered him a friend. He didn’t share the sentiment.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Cyrus replied dryly. He left before he could see the confused looks on the group's faces, as if they were actually concerned for his well-being. Cyrus supposed they just felt bad for him; that’s probably the only reason they would invite him out in the first place. It’s not like he was the most fun person to be around. He lost the ability to be charismatic sometime after he realized he was better off alone.
Damn, his therapist would have a field day if he ever went back to her.
One more day.
~~~
Deja-vu hit him hard when he looked at his clock and it, again, read 3:34 am. A cruel coincidence in his mind. This night had not been as peaceful as the last. At least tonight he got some sleep, but it was violently interrupted by a recurring nightmare he’d been having for weeks. He’d hoped it had left him for good, but he knew better than to think such optimistic thoughts. Now he lay in his bed, panting and sweating, somehow feeling more tired than before.
When he attempted to get a few more hours of rest, he was plagued with a different but just as familiar nightmare. It was his fiancé. The love of his life. The only person he’d ever let truly know him. On a day as beautiful as she was, they were driving through the familiar winding roads of their chosen home when the joy in her smile was wiped clean and was replaced with terror. He didn’t acknowledge the fact that the car had flipped until he heard the sputtering breaths of his soon-to-be bride grow in panic beside him as she realized she would never make it to her wedding day.
This was usually the point where his dream forced him awake, but for some reason, this time, it trapped him. Trapped in an endless loop of watching his love take her final breath. Trapped in the despair of knowing there was nothing he could do for her. Trapped in the hate he had for the careless driver who stole her life from him.
“Your fault. One day, you’ll end up just like her.” The threatening comment came from an unfamiliar voice, jarringly interrupting Cyrus’s paralyzing nightmare. “Hopefully sooner than you think.”
He was finally released and allowed to wake up, returning to the dark silence of his bedroom. He’d relived that memory so many times, both while awake and in his dreams, but it had always been the same. It never deviated. The fact that it had not only been drawn out longer than usual but had now changed to include some stranger’s taunts was more disturbing than Cyrus was willing to admit. Not to mention that this stranger knew him, but Cyrus was certain he had never heard that voice before.
“Oh Cy, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten so quickly.” The voice persisted, making Cyrus jump out of bed. He thought he had woken up. Was he still dreaming? He was kidding about hearing literal voices before, but now the joke didn’t seem so funny anymore. The stranger continued in a dark and menacing tone, “Here, I’ll help you remember.”
No, no, no, this wasn't real, he wasn't real, it was just his head playing tricks. Before he could be pulled back into the darkness of his memory, he raced to his bathroom and drowned himself in the coldest water his shower could produce. As the icy drops rolled off of his head, the voice resentfully faded into the background and left only Cyrus’s jumbled thoughts. He sat and stewed under the water for as long as his angry skin could stand, and when he finished, the sun was peeking through the semi-transparent shower curtain. He reluctantly dried off and got ready for work, which was even more of a chore than usual.
~~~
His day continued as normal as he tried to forget the horror that had plagued him the night before. He had decided that the voice was just a figment of his imagination, just another way for his past to haunt him. Like some cruel joke. He disguised his tense and jumpy demeanor well, but he got the feeling that his coworkers were catching on to his less-than-favorable mental well-being. Nick—the same guy who had invited him out the night before—was the first to voice his concerns for Cyrus’s health.
“Hey dude, you alright? You don’t look so good. I know we went out drinking without you last night, but you look more hungover than we do.” His voice sounded genuine, like he was truly worried about Cyrus.
Cyrus responded with venom, an uncalled-for reaction given the situation, but he didn’t care. “I’m perfectly fine. Shove off and mind your own damn business,” he snapped.
Nick gaped, taken aback by his sudden outburst. “Okay, man. Sorry.” He turned his back to leave, but Cyrus heard him add a final comment under his breath. “At least I didn’t kill my wife and my best friend.”
“What the hell did you just say to me?” Cyrus grabbed Nick by the collar and shoved him against one of the lockers. The terror in Nick’s eyes didn’t reflect the combative comment he had made seconds before. “Who told you about Sutton?”
“Wha—what?” The man fumbled over his words, hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything! I swear! I was just trying to help. I’m sorry.”
“You know he was thinking it.” The jarring voice appeared in his head again as he stared down his coworker. “One day, they’ll all find out what a freak you are. A curse. They’ll turn on you like all the rest.” Cyrus tried to shake the voice from his head, but it only proved to make him look more insane than he already did.
The altercation had gathered a crowd, which now included his foreman, who pried Nick’s collar from Cyrus’s fists. After breaking the two apart, he pulled Cyrus aside and awarded him with a written warning, benching him to desk duty until further notice. Firing him would’ve been less humiliating. Desk duty for a construction worker was a death sentence, and everyone knew it. In an attempt to control himself from ripping his foreman to shreds, he decided to take the rest of the day off and go home early.
As if on cue, the moment he got home, that infuriating voice piped up once again. “My my, how aggressive you are. Short fuse, huh?”
Cyrus roughly fisted his hair, willing the voice to go away. The gesture was ineffective. “Come on,” it continued in a mocking, whiny tone, “I know you can hear me. Engage, buddy. Talking to myself is no fun.”
“Leave me the hell alone!” Cyrus exploded, yelling at the imaginary voice in his head. If anybody looked through his window, they would think he was crazy. At this point, that wasn’t an unfair classification.
Cyrus’s response was exactly what the voice was looking for as it giggled with unrestrained glee. “There we go! Calling me imaginary is a bit offensive, but I’ll let it slide.”
“You—I—you’re in my head. You’re not real.” Cyrus tried to reason with his own mind, tried to convince himself that he wasn’t losing it. His efforts once again proved to be futile.
The voice apparently found his internal conflict amusing as it continued to laugh at his pain. “Ok, yeah, so I’m non-corporeal. But don’t think I’m not as real as you are. I’m just a bit more—call it ‘experienced’.”
Cyrus stilled at that; his attempts at deciphering what this voice was telling him momentarily distracted him from his hair-pulling. “So,” Cyrus tried to make sense of what the voice had said, “you’re like, a ghost?”
“Oh, ew, no.” The voice responded with disgust. “I’m no ghost sweetheart. I’m a demon.”
The voice revealed its identity like it was supposed to make Cyrus feel better, but he was certain right then that he had lost his final marble. He was so tired that his head made up a demon tormenting his mind and adding unnecessary commentary to his already disturbed life. Seeing no other easy way to get this voice to go away, he decided to humor the so-called demon. “Say you are what you say you are. What do you want with me?”
The demon paused for a long moment, as if that was what it had been waiting for ever since it chose Cyrus as its prey. He could imagine a menacing smile that spread across the demon’s figurative face as it replied with malice, “I want you to suffer the same way you forced me to, and then I’ll give you the mercy of death.”
Cyrus was about to counter with the fact that he had never heard this voice, much less met a demon before, but as if prepared for this, the voice made good on its earlier threat and pulled him into the far reaches of his mind. To a memory he had tried his hardest to leave behind.
~~~
The road was illuminated only by the light reflecting off of the moon and bathing the dense greenery in a silver glow. The passenger seat of the car was occupied by Cyrus, with his best friend Sutton behind the wheel. Cyrus had tried to convince Sutton to pull over for the night and get some sleep, but Sutton was as stubborn as he was determined, and he refused to waste any more time on their weekend off.
“It's okay, I promise. I’m a good driver, don’t you trust me?” The smooth voice of his companion weaseled its way into Cyrus’s thoughts, pushing all doubts aside. “Look, I know you don’t like cars so much, so I’m really glad you decided to let me drive you, but you have to relax a bit. It’s a vacation, not a hostage situation.”
Cyrus relented, giving Sutton a playful shove. “Alright, fine. White flag. Just don’t fall asleep, or I’ll kill you myself.” If only Cyrus had known that he wouldn’t have to.
Cyrus stood watching the nightmare unfold in third person as the car swerved into oncoming traffic, collided with another vehicle, and spun into the trees blanketing the ditch. It came to a brutal stop against a thick telephone pole that caved in the driver’s side, crushing the door and trapping Sutton in his seat. The driver of the other car, which had somehow remained on the road, stumbled out and stared in horror at the unfolding chaos in front of him before jumping into action and trudging down the shoulder to the wrecked car.
Cyrus watched as the man yanked his body out of the car and into the road, checking to make sure he was ok before returning to free Sutton.
“That was my first mistake.” Cyrus jumped out of his skin as he noticed a smokey black blob of a man standing next to him, also watching the scene play out. He had no face, but Cyrus recognized the voice as the one in his head. This was the demon.
The bright light of flames forced Cyrus’s attention back to his memory as the shredded pole sparked the fuel line and ignited the car with both Sutton and the stranger inside. Cyrus watched, paralyzed, as his past self scurried into the safety of the stranger’s car and fled the scene, leaving the two to die.
The black smoke turned to him and stared with soulless eyes as if waiting for Cyrus to respond, to break down and beg for mercy, but he just stood with tears running down his face, frozen in guilt and shame. After a long moment, the demon broke the silence with an explosion of hateful rage, “Are you kidding me!? You have nothing to say!? You let your best friend— and me—die, and for what?
Because you were too afraid to step the hell up? Because your girlfriend got killed.” His tone shifted to a high-pitched mocking voice before returning to a low growl, “You not only killed her and your friend, but you killed me. And you will rot in Hell for that.”
Cyrus fumbled over himself as he fell to his knees, desperately clawing at any sense of security he could find. “I—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He wailed, sobbing deep and guttural as tears streamed down his face.
“It’s too late.” The smokey demon grabbed his face and pulled him up so they were eye-to-eye. “Your soul is mine, and I will torture you for eternity. Nothing can save you from damnation.” The demon disappeared in a haze, and the memory melted away, leaving Cyrus alone in his living room.
He broke down in tears, overwhelmed with regret for what he’d done. He knew that there was no excuse for the unspeakable damage he had caused, but he had fooled himself into thinking that it wouldn’t catch up to him one day. He knew deep down that the demon was right, that he deserved eternal punishment, but that didn’t make the inevitable reality any more bearable.
His life was over, his afterlife was cursed. The black stain on his soul could never be washed away.
He found himself gazing at a rushing river below him as he sat on the edge of a bridge just outside of town. The long walk had exhausted him, and he welcomed the wind on his face and the salty mist that dampened his hair. The peaceful chill and darkness of the water was calling to him.
One final moment of tranquility.
Maybe he could make it last forever.