When I started hearing the voice, I didn’t think much of it, because there have been many voices in my head. It’s crowded in there, especially since I got married. My wife’s voice dominates with her grocery list, as she dictates it to me, in the aisles of the supermarket.
“You got Scented Detergent. I wanted Unscented. I have sensitive skin!”
Then, there’s my mother’s voice, that is always trying to improve me.
“You’re getting fat, Andy. You need to walk more and read the Abascal Diet.”
It’s bad when I answer their voices under my breath.
Mostly, I go about my days, mumbling to myself.
My imagination is in there, and my boss too, and don’t forget God, and my conscience—they talk to me.
Each has their own distinct voice, but the new one worries me.
I don’t know who it belongs to.
My aunt died last week.
She was the one I visited in the nursing home, and I inherited her farmhouse tucked in a rural corner of the city between two hills. Before she passed, she was hearing a voice, or so she told me.
I wonder if there’s lead paint in the walls.
To be continued…