Whispers in the Night
The night is at its peak. The moon is peaking out from behind Earth's shadow, creating a bright white sliver. It could be thought of as God's smile as he looks upon his creations.
Or maybe it's the Devil as he looks upon our suffering? Who's to say.
The pale light peaks through the curtains into the small bedroom occupied by Charles Bradley. It doesn't make it far into the room, just creating a slight glow around the covered windows, as if it was a doorway to the ethereal plane. A soft green light paints his room as he stares at the ceiling. He shifts gently from side to side, eventually turning towards the source of the light. He squints at the neon numbers pointed at him.
'Shit. It's already 3:00 am.”
He says this to nobody in particular. The voice that escapes his throat is gravelly and tired. He slowly sits up in his ruffled covers and stretches his neck from side to side, eliciting a pop as he tilts his head to the right. Charles exits his bed and heads towards the door connecting his bedroom to his main living space. As he opens his door, he has to shield the opening from a cunning intruder with his shin. He feels a soft bump to his leg as he exits the room, and hears a loud chortle as a response to the block. He bends down to pick up his black critter and lifts it to his eye level.
“Hey bud, did you miss me?”
The cat meows softly and presses its face against his. A gentle rumble is produced from its chest as the pet purrs in its owner's arms. Charles shuts the door and brings his cat to the couch and sits down while holding his furry companion.
The room is dim. The pale moonlight is desaturating the walls and items strewn about the living room, making everything look various shades of silver. The only source of light in the room comes from the blinking lights from the internet router. The bright blue illuminates the room, flickering off regularly to show the silver of the moon light. The way the different lights create different shadows is surreal to Charles, making him think momentarily that he is in another dimension.
He lifts his hand off of his purring feline friend to rub his eyes, hoping to increase his tiredness.
“Well Frank, another night of not being tired for me.”
Insomnia. Its a condition that plagues many people. The body needs sleep and it can be unbelievably frustrating when you don't get any. One of the biggest causes is stress, and in the 21st century, stress is as common as breathing for most people. Life used to be simpler and stress was less common, but the difficulty of living has spiked in recent years.
But a self diagnosis can be faulty, and Charles Bradley doesn't necessarily have insomnia.
“You should try some tea.”
Charles puts Frank gingerly beside him on the couch and pats his head. Frank responds with a tired groan with a hint of discontent from being off his owner's lap. Slowly makes his way to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. As the metal container clicks on and starts heating the water enclosed, Charles turns on the light and opens the cupboard. He makes a slight glance at the sink of dirty dishes, but pushes that out of his mind.
“You should have rinsed those better. They will smell in the morning.”
“They will be fine.”
Charles looks at the dishes once again, with his hand rising to rub his temple, closing his eyes at the soothing relief.
“Stop that Chuck. You know better.”
He turns back to the cupboard and looks at his selection of tea. He scans through the collection and picks up the box of Cherry Sunrise Black Tea and inspects the box.
“You'd be an idjit to drink that now. It'll wake your dumbass up more than it already is.”
Charles stops, and puts the box back. He picks a box of Chamomile and puts a bag into a mug. He closes the cupboard and rubs his eyes again, letting out a long sigh as he does so.
“Dear, why don't you add some honey? It will soothe you and enhance the sweetness.”
Charles goes back into the cupboard and picks up the honey in there, and ponders it momentarily.
“Doesn't sugar wake you up mo.... No. I'm not doing this any more.”
He puts the honey on the counter with some force.
SLAM
Sweat starts to form on his forehead, dampening his hair slightly. His gaze is fixated on the counter as he takes some deep breaths. A small drop hits the counter creating a mere whisper of a sound upon contact. He wipes his eyes, creating another sigh as he does so.
“Please stop. I don't want this.”
After a few moments of quiet breathing, he regains his composure and walks to the floor length mirror next to the couch. He looks at himself and rubs his face in an attempt to quiet down his mind. When he wipes his eyes though, he catches something out of the corner of them. Something faint, like a blur. When he turns around he sees nothing there, but still, he looks. He keeps seeing something in the corner of his vision, but keeps missing it. Like an object just out of reach. His heart starts beating quicker as his breathing quickens. Unbeknownst to him, Frank, his cat, is looking in the same spots as his owner.
CLICK
Charles jumps as the kettle clicks off. This scares him, but also makes him chuckle slightly.
“My tired mind is making me crazy bud.”
He says this in the direction of his cat companion, who simply tilts his head at his owner. Charles pours the hot, steaming water on top of the paper bag willed with dried flowers and leaves. As the water is poured onto the bag, the contents inside start to bleed into the water, the yellow slowly spreading through the mug. Before long, there is a pleasant aroma coming from the brewing tea.
Without thinking, Charles picks up the honey and starts to pour some into the mug. He stirs it, watching the thick, gooey substance mix in and dissolve into the hot beverage in front of him. He turns the light off and seats himself back in the blue flashed darkness next to Frank the cat. He holds the mug in his hands, the heat rushing through his entire body.
“You better not be thinking of putting that in your mouth just yet. It'll be like putting you hand into boiling oil.”
“Thanks, I'm not that stupid.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Charles rolls his eyes, blows on the tea, and wafts the scent into his nostrils. It is already soothing his mind and making him feel tired, but he isn't quite there yet. His mind is racing and he is losing himself into the maelstrom of his thoughts. Before long, he is centered on his worst fear.
Schizophrenia runs in the Bradley family. His father developed it, as did his father, and his father before that. With them, along with himself, it starts with hearing voices, then responding to them, then to having full blown hallucinations. Last year, Charles started to develop the first stage. At first, it started with one that would pop in every now and then. He didn't think it was anything major, just his own thought but in a different voice. The voice said what he was already thinking.
But then one voice turned into two, and two turned into three.
It was at this point that Charles knew he contracted the family disease. At first he thought it was amusing. He would hear different voices tell him different things. Nothing major, mostly they were looking out for his best interest. Hell, he even gave them names.
Dolores was the nurturing woman who tried to take care of him.
Clint was the classic crotchety old man who constantly called Charles a dumbass.
Emily was his female counterpart, who's opinions matched his own and often beat him to voicing them.
Things were going well. He would only hear them a couple times a day. It went on like this for months, and Charles thought that if this was it, then it would be easy.
His thoughts on this changed the day that he responded to a voice.
He was cooking, making an Alfredo sauce. He had prepared all the ingredients and he just started sauteing some garlic in butter.
“Some onion would bring some great flavour into this, you know.”
“Yea I know, but I really am not a big onion guy.”
As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he knew it was a mistake. It felt like his brain was expanding and that his head would explode. There was an orchestra of noise in his head that blared for what felt like forever. But as soon as it started, it all came together into one, concise message.
“HE CAN HEAR US!”
This was the beginning of the madness that kept him up at night now. As he finished his tea, he had to keep telling himself to not respond to the voices. One of the last things his father told him was that the Schizophrenia got worse the more he associated with the voices. Charles couldn't let that happen. He started to tune them out, ignoring any thought that wasn't his own voice. But, just like most things, there are good days and bad days.
Right now, this was about a medium, but more on the bad side.
As he sips his tea, he has to keep reminding himself that he shouldn't reply to these voices. That gives them power, right? The more power they had, the worse off his mental state would be, and that was the last thing Charles wanted. But sometimes it was easy to forget that rule, and he would respond. He didn't feel worse, but he didn't want it to get to that point.
Charles finishes his tea, and heads back to bed, saying goodnight to Frank with a light head pat. He is noticeably tired at this point. He will have a good sleep. He walks by the full length mirror on his way to the door, paying no mind to it, as he only sees himself in a tired state.
He misses the three figures standing in the mirror, watching him as he walks to bed.
He doesn't see Dolores Charmichael in her favourite blue dress. The healthcare worker with a heart of gold, who dies from a heart attack. She just wants Charles to take care of himself properly.
He doesn't see Clint James wearing his dirty coveralls that he always wore while he was working on cars. Wore it every day until one of those cars crushed him. He knows Charles has potential and wants him to strive for better.
Lastly, he certainly doesn't see me, Emily Collins. I was a teacher who pushed a kid out of the way of a bus when he didn't look both ways before crossing the road. Better that I got hit, rather than him. In another life, Charles and I would have been great together. From what I have seen and what I have felt, I might have been Emily Bradley. I just want him to be happy.
Charles isn't crazy, he is gifted. He can hear what we have to say, and maybe he can actually see us, only if he tries to grow this gift. I hope that one day that can be the case. But I often wonder, why us? Millions of people die every day, so why can he hear us three? I do hope to figure that out. If I don't, it really is ok. My time has passed.
It's Charles' time now, and I just want him to live.
- Cody S
Or maybe it's the Devil as he looks upon our suffering? Who's to say.
The pale light peaks through the curtains into the small bedroom occupied by Charles Bradley. It doesn't make it far into the room, just creating a slight glow around the covered windows, as if it was a doorway to the ethereal plane. A soft green light paints his room as he stares at the ceiling. He shifts gently from side to side, eventually turning towards the source of the light. He squints at the neon numbers pointed at him.
'Shit. It's already 3:00 am.”
He says this to nobody in particular. The voice that escapes his throat is gravelly and tired. He slowly sits up in his ruffled covers and stretches his neck from side to side, eliciting a pop as he tilts his head to the right. Charles exits his bed and heads towards the door connecting his bedroom to his main living space. As he opens his door, he has to shield the opening from a cunning intruder with his shin. He feels a soft bump to his leg as he exits the room, and hears a loud chortle as a response to the block. He bends down to pick up his black critter and lifts it to his eye level.
“Hey bud, did you miss me?”
The cat meows softly and presses its face against his. A gentle rumble is produced from its chest as the pet purrs in its owner's arms. Charles shuts the door and brings his cat to the couch and sits down while holding his furry companion.
The room is dim. The pale moonlight is desaturating the walls and items strewn about the living room, making everything look various shades of silver. The only source of light in the room comes from the blinking lights from the internet router. The bright blue illuminates the room, flickering off regularly to show the silver of the moon light. The way the different lights create different shadows is surreal to Charles, making him think momentarily that he is in another dimension.
He lifts his hand off of his purring feline friend to rub his eyes, hoping to increase his tiredness.
“Well Frank, another night of not being tired for me.”
Insomnia. Its a condition that plagues many people. The body needs sleep and it can be unbelievably frustrating when you don't get any. One of the biggest causes is stress, and in the 21st century, stress is as common as breathing for most people. Life used to be simpler and stress was less common, but the difficulty of living has spiked in recent years.
But a self diagnosis can be faulty, and Charles Bradley doesn't necessarily have insomnia.
“You should try some tea.”
Charles puts Frank gingerly beside him on the couch and pats his head. Frank responds with a tired groan with a hint of discontent from being off his owner's lap. Slowly makes his way to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. As the metal container clicks on and starts heating the water enclosed, Charles turns on the light and opens the cupboard. He makes a slight glance at the sink of dirty dishes, but pushes that out of his mind.
“You should have rinsed those better. They will smell in the morning.”
“They will be fine.”
Charles looks at the dishes once again, with his hand rising to rub his temple, closing his eyes at the soothing relief.
“Stop that Chuck. You know better.”
He turns back to the cupboard and looks at his selection of tea. He scans through the collection and picks up the box of Cherry Sunrise Black Tea and inspects the box.
“You'd be an idjit to drink that now. It'll wake your dumbass up more than it already is.”
Charles stops, and puts the box back. He picks a box of Chamomile and puts a bag into a mug. He closes the cupboard and rubs his eyes again, letting out a long sigh as he does so.
“Dear, why don't you add some honey? It will soothe you and enhance the sweetness.”
Charles goes back into the cupboard and picks up the honey in there, and ponders it momentarily.
“Doesn't sugar wake you up mo.... No. I'm not doing this any more.”
He puts the honey on the counter with some force.
SLAM
Sweat starts to form on his forehead, dampening his hair slightly. His gaze is fixated on the counter as he takes some deep breaths. A small drop hits the counter creating a mere whisper of a sound upon contact. He wipes his eyes, creating another sigh as he does so.
“Please stop. I don't want this.”
After a few moments of quiet breathing, he regains his composure and walks to the floor length mirror next to the couch. He looks at himself and rubs his face in an attempt to quiet down his mind. When he wipes his eyes though, he catches something out of the corner of them. Something faint, like a blur. When he turns around he sees nothing there, but still, he looks. He keeps seeing something in the corner of his vision, but keeps missing it. Like an object just out of reach. His heart starts beating quicker as his breathing quickens. Unbeknownst to him, Frank, his cat, is looking in the same spots as his owner.
CLICK
Charles jumps as the kettle clicks off. This scares him, but also makes him chuckle slightly.
“My tired mind is making me crazy bud.”
He says this in the direction of his cat companion, who simply tilts his head at his owner. Charles pours the hot, steaming water on top of the paper bag willed with dried flowers and leaves. As the water is poured onto the bag, the contents inside start to bleed into the water, the yellow slowly spreading through the mug. Before long, there is a pleasant aroma coming from the brewing tea.
Without thinking, Charles picks up the honey and starts to pour some into the mug. He stirs it, watching the thick, gooey substance mix in and dissolve into the hot beverage in front of him. He turns the light off and seats himself back in the blue flashed darkness next to Frank the cat. He holds the mug in his hands, the heat rushing through his entire body.
“You better not be thinking of putting that in your mouth just yet. It'll be like putting you hand into boiling oil.”
“Thanks, I'm not that stupid.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Charles rolls his eyes, blows on the tea, and wafts the scent into his nostrils. It is already soothing his mind and making him feel tired, but he isn't quite there yet. His mind is racing and he is losing himself into the maelstrom of his thoughts. Before long, he is centered on his worst fear.
Schizophrenia runs in the Bradley family. His father developed it, as did his father, and his father before that. With them, along with himself, it starts with hearing voices, then responding to them, then to having full blown hallucinations. Last year, Charles started to develop the first stage. At first, it started with one that would pop in every now and then. He didn't think it was anything major, just his own thought but in a different voice. The voice said what he was already thinking.
But then one voice turned into two, and two turned into three.
It was at this point that Charles knew he contracted the family disease. At first he thought it was amusing. He would hear different voices tell him different things. Nothing major, mostly they were looking out for his best interest. Hell, he even gave them names.
Dolores was the nurturing woman who tried to take care of him.
Clint was the classic crotchety old man who constantly called Charles a dumbass.
Emily was his female counterpart, who's opinions matched his own and often beat him to voicing them.
Things were going well. He would only hear them a couple times a day. It went on like this for months, and Charles thought that if this was it, then it would be easy.
His thoughts on this changed the day that he responded to a voice.
He was cooking, making an Alfredo sauce. He had prepared all the ingredients and he just started sauteing some garlic in butter.
“Some onion would bring some great flavour into this, you know.”
“Yea I know, but I really am not a big onion guy.”
As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he knew it was a mistake. It felt like his brain was expanding and that his head would explode. There was an orchestra of noise in his head that blared for what felt like forever. But as soon as it started, it all came together into one, concise message.
“HE CAN HEAR US!”
This was the beginning of the madness that kept him up at night now. As he finished his tea, he had to keep telling himself to not respond to the voices. One of the last things his father told him was that the Schizophrenia got worse the more he associated with the voices. Charles couldn't let that happen. He started to tune them out, ignoring any thought that wasn't his own voice. But, just like most things, there are good days and bad days.
Right now, this was about a medium, but more on the bad side.
As he sips his tea, he has to keep reminding himself that he shouldn't reply to these voices. That gives them power, right? The more power they had, the worse off his mental state would be, and that was the last thing Charles wanted. But sometimes it was easy to forget that rule, and he would respond. He didn't feel worse, but he didn't want it to get to that point.
Charles finishes his tea, and heads back to bed, saying goodnight to Frank with a light head pat. He is noticeably tired at this point. He will have a good sleep. He walks by the full length mirror on his way to the door, paying no mind to it, as he only sees himself in a tired state.
He misses the three figures standing in the mirror, watching him as he walks to bed.
He doesn't see Dolores Charmichael in her favourite blue dress. The healthcare worker with a heart of gold, who dies from a heart attack. She just wants Charles to take care of himself properly.
He doesn't see Clint James wearing his dirty coveralls that he always wore while he was working on cars. Wore it every day until one of those cars crushed him. He knows Charles has potential and wants him to strive for better.
Lastly, he certainly doesn't see me, Emily Collins. I was a teacher who pushed a kid out of the way of a bus when he didn't look both ways before crossing the road. Better that I got hit, rather than him. In another life, Charles and I would have been great together. From what I have seen and what I have felt, I might have been Emily Bradley. I just want him to be happy.
Charles isn't crazy, he is gifted. He can hear what we have to say, and maybe he can actually see us, only if he tries to grow this gift. I hope that one day that can be the case. But I often wonder, why us? Millions of people die every day, so why can he hear us three? I do hope to figure that out. If I don't, it really is ok. My time has passed.
It's Charles' time now, and I just want him to live.
- Cody S
Comments
Post a Comment