Bullets and bombs explode. Screams sear his tired ears. With every explosion the young man flinches. He is only twenty something but he wears the whole human history of pain. Every age line creasing to cover the scars on his face. Lines linked by years of abuse, which are mirrored by mental scars.
The voice in the back of his head says “bite a bullet, hell better make it two,”
The computer screen flickers with horrible YouTube videos. Each one marking some new or old tragedy.
“The trick is to turn away before you see too much.” He thinks.
Photos lay scattered across his desk. Little vignettes of human horrors. A homeless man here. An abused child there. Two war zone pics that depicts the tragedy of human ingenuity. Modern warfare swimming in gore and sorrow.
The voice in the back of his head says. “Make sure you double click.”
To the left lay a stack of stories stapled together. Some are fantastic works of fantasy. They portray a wondrous worlds. Most are darker portraits that paint painful truths. There is a story about a lynching, a police beating, a dark society crumbling under the weight of fear and hatred. Tons of fictions that reflects this dark world, all his.
The voice chuckles, “don’t bother with a note, your writing says enough.”
“The trick is to find something to laugh about.” He says out loud.
A fake chortles spews from his lips, followed by a stupid sneer.
“Doesn’t work does it?” The voice laughs.
The young man bites his tongue. Smashing taste buds and drawing dark smears of blood. Merely a temporary distraction, but it feels good to him. Drips of warm crimson pool in his mouth. He swishes it around like some sick salt water gurgle. Then spits dark blood laced mucus into perfectly white porcelain sink. The red snot sinks slowly down till it disappears into the drain. Leaving only remnants of a terrible taste and slight pain in his mouth.
The voice cries” Blow your ******* brains out, you stupid ****.”
The man laughs, as a stream of stress related **** drains down his drawers.
“I can’t.” He cries.
“Why not?” the voice insists. “Just ******* do it. This world ain’t gonna get any better.”
Tears **** his worn out skin. Life has aged him harshly. Still, something new breaks. A crack cuts through the fuzzy haze. An awkward smile forces its way across his face.
He closes the Compaq computer killing the video, and bringing pure stillness to the room.
“You know for a voice in my head. You sure are ******* stupid. Which makes me stupid too I guess.”
“Why?” The Voice replies.
“Because” the smile widens becoming manic “I don’t own a ******* gun.” He laughs. “Hell I don’t even own my own marbles.”
He slumps down on the bed. Two hours of random racing thoughts keep him awake. Then the cool release of slumber finally hits. His sleep is interspersed with nightmares. Twelve hours later a calmer less worn man awakens. He sticks his tongue out and raspberries the desk.
“I am going for a walk” he says with a saner smile.
Somewhere behind him he hears a chilling voice say. “See you soon.”
