Voices

by R.E. Rowe

  Reizo chuckles. “You’re the poet, not me.” He abruptly stands up and begins to pace, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll tell you why I came to the pond.”

  An awkward moment passes as I watch him pace.

  Then he stops and takes a long deep breath.

  “I came to the pond to die.”

  chapter twenty-six

  Aimee’s expression changes from surprise to concern.

  Why did I bring it up?

  An awkward moment stretches into a painful moment. She deserves to know. I stop pacing and sit down next to her.

  “You were going to kill yourself?” she asks.

  When Aimee says the words, they sound harsh. Brutal. Industrial with sharp edges. It doesn’t sound anything like it did when I said it to myself a million times.

  Where do I start?

  “I just can’t take the pain anymore, okay?”

  I prepare myself for a lecture. I’m sure she’s going to freak, call me an idiot, or tell me to get away from her. But she surprises me. She doesn’t do any of that. Instead, she wipes tears from my face and embraces me.

  What the hell?

  “I—I just can’t take the noise anymore, or the way the meds turn me into a compost heap, or the way people look at me . . . I—”

  She leans back and probes deep into my eyes.

  I want her to understand how the voices constantly beat me down. How the meds mess up my ability to do what I love. How I constantly attract anxious stares as if I’m about to go kung fu master on some random stranger’s ass. I’m a defective human. Stuck on a misfit island of one. Lonely. Depressed. Occasionally locked up in a mental hospital. I’m so freaking lame. I want to scream, but I start to cry instead.

  “A bottle of my mom’s pills,” I whisper, tears dripping from my eyes. “I figured I’d take a nap near the pond and never wake up. It was my way out.”

  The concern in her eyes changes to sadness, as if she feels my swirling confusion. Making her feel sad is the last thing I want her to feel when she gazes at me. But honestly, I expected her to react differently. She’s not making fun of me or telling me how stupid I am. Instead, she’s actually listening.

  “What about the meds your doctor gives you? Don't they work?” she asks softly.

  “The voices stop, but the meds turn me into a creative zombie. I feel like I’m the walking dead. My desire to spray wilts. I don’t feel like doing anything, not even throw-up tags. Hell, even if I felt like it, I couldn’t do one. I suck. The meds lock me into a place I hate the most. Cement walls. Asphalt roads. Steel beams. A gray world.”

  Her voice softens, and she talks slower. “If there was a doctor who could prescribe the right meds for you that allowed you to create, would that help?”

  “My mom tried everything. I can’t go back to crazy Dr. Stewart. He’ll lock me up forever at Willowgate. I don’t trust the jerk.”

  She rubs my back with a soft, caring touch. “I know how it feels to be overwhelmed,” Aimee says. “How it feels to be on Misfit Island, as you say. I know how it feels when everything closes in and you feel so lonely it crushes you. Feeling lost. Worthless.”

  I’m shocked. “You know how it feels?”

  I see angst in her eyes. “Yeah, I do. I feel that way occasionally. But I’m pretty sure everyone feels that way sometimes. When it gets bad, I think of something I love. I force myself to believe that I’ll feel better. I have faith a better day will come. Even flowers in full bloom have a bad day, but a bee eventually comes by and lands on it. Think of your Mom and how much she loves you.”

  Aimee’s words hang in the air with the smell of gardenia flowers, her bright eyes full of passion.

  I think about Mom and how she’d feel if I was gone. Damn. I hadn’t considered any of that. All I wanted to do was escape the voices in my head. It’s hard to think straight with voices rambling all the time.

  My throat thickens. I can’t speak. When I’d thought about it to myself, my plan felt right. It was my way out and a way to get rid of my trespassers. Yet when Aimee says it so clearly, I know it’s not the right thing for me to do.

  “I think you just need a better doctor, Reizo. We need to find one that can adjust your meds, get you on the right combination. I’m sure we can find one that will help you and not turn you into a zombie. Will you at least try?”

  When she says we, I like it.

  Aimee continues without waiting for an answer. “Grams told me everyone has life to experience and things to do. You, Reizo Rush, have things to do too.”

  “Like what kind of things?”

  “Like adding color to the gray. Just like you told me. Your art puts smiles on faces when people see the color you’ve added. You amaze kids with your creativity. I saw the magic you created after we painted the yogurt store.” She pauses. “When you feel bad, will you talk to me about it? I’ll listen. I promise. Put your exit plan away for good, okay?”

  I agree. “So your grandmother told you everyone has a purpose?”

  “Not one purpose. More like lots of things to do, being alive, experiencing life. Does that make sense?”

  I hesitate, trying to think of something positive to say. “Sort of, I guess.”

  “I’m pretty sure she told me a lot more too. But I can’t remember everything. I do know this life thing is a gift each one of us should cherish.” She takes my hand and firmly grips it. “Promise, Reizo, that you won’t give up.”

  I wipe my face. At first I’m not going to answer, then I surprise myself. “I promise.”

  I feel lighter after I say it, as if a massive weight has been lifted. If I’d pulled off my plan, I wouldn’t be embracing Aimee now. I wouldn’t be here at all. What else would I have missed out on? Who else would I have hurt by giving up?

  Aimee kisses me. It’s strangely sweeter. She runs her fingers through my hair when our kiss ends.

  “Come on,” Aimee says. “We better get back. Uncle Pete might be starting to worry.” She returns the diary to the desk. “I should tell him about this place.”

  “It’d probably be a good idea. But do you mind if we keep this place secret for a little while longer? I want to see if there are any more photographs of my grandpa Thomas before other people start searching through the place.”

  “Sure. No problem. The Franklinville Historical Society will go nuts when they find out. But it can wait. I’ll borrow a lantern for our next visit. You want to come back here tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, that’d be cool.”

  I blow out the candles and start up the ladder, with Aimee following close behind.

  When we are both out of the shelter, I snap off a big bush and use it to cover the metal hatch to hide the entrance.

  chapter twenty-seven

  My brain is in overload. Tossing. Turning. I can’t sleep.

  His cute laugh. His half-smile. Shy. Passionate.

  Reizo Rush.

  I want to kick myself. Why’d I tell him?

  I hit my head lightly with both hands. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone. I’m an idiot.

  But it felt like I should be honest after his confession. He was going to take pills at the pond? Oh my God.

  I need to get him help, a better doctor, someone that can work with him professionally. I’ll do research. Find a doctor who’ll get him on meds that won’t destroy his creativity.

  Mom will help.

  I wonder what it’d be like to hear talking in my head all the time. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to carry on a normal conversation with voices talking.

  A sharp pain suddenly shoots down my right arm. My entire body flinches and I grimace.

  Breathe, Aimee. Breathe.

  A few moments later, the pain subsides. I shake it off. I probably pushed myself too hard, but I refuse to be weak. I can power through the pain. I know I can.

  As I finally relax, my eyelids grow heavy and my thoughts float above me. An ancient storm shelter full of
old books. Old family stories. Old photos. Thomas’s diary—his heartbreaking love story with my great grandmother. What are the odds?

  Reizo’s second great-grandfather Thomas was in love with my second great grandmother. Poor great grandmother Anna—sent away because she loved him. I wonder why they didn’t send Thomas away instead?

  I never thought I’d be interested in ancient family history. But after seeing the old picture and reading Thomas’s diary, I want to know more about their life.

  I yawn again and turn on my side, scrunching up the pillow under my head.

  Thomas and Anna.

  Something bothers me about the way Wesley Rush died, but I can’t put my finger on it. In US History, Mrs. Robins told us that deaths during childbirth happened back in those days. And people died from lots of other common things: fever, sickness, and accidents. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that Wesley’s wife, Ethel, died during childbirth.

  But the strange part was that Wesley died after being committed to an asylum. It happened suddenly. He just died inside the hospital.

  I turn over on my other side and readjust my pillow. I suppose it could happen. Maybe he was depressed? Maybe he couldn’t handle the loss of his wife? Maybe he’d become ill?

  Still, Wesley had a son who needed him. Why wasn’t the man stronger? Instead, Wesley totally lost his sanity and was committed? Then he died? It feels suspicious. Or maybe I’m just thinking too much again.

  Yet the mansion is the weirdest part of the entire story. The huge house was just torn down after Wesley was committed. There wasn’t a fire or natural disaster or some other accident. Who flattens a perfectly good house? Especially back in the 1800’s. It makes no sense. They could have sold off the materials to build another house or a barn? But wouldn’t my great-grandparents have wanted to keep a beautiful lakeside mansion?

  I know I would keep it.

  My thoughts swirl again to the old family picture with the lake in the background. Today, all that remains is a pond and the storm shelter.

  It’s creepy how much Reizo and I look like Thomas and Anna.

  I fight off another yawn. A smile stretches across my face.

  Thomas was cute, just like Reizo.

  Twisting and turning, I roll over again, scrunch up my pillow, and force my eyes closed.

  WELCOME TO THE CLOUD

  Login: general

  Password: *********

  How may I be of service, General?

  >>system status

  running..............

  Cloud: I am done with system check.

  >>report

  System Online

  Cloud Memory: Unstable

  Upload Status: Unstable

  Download Status: Unstable

  Pairing Status: Unstable

  Experience bell curve status: Deviating increasing

  Error rate: Exceeding Acceptable Tolerance

  >>special status update

  Password: *********

  10 Followers Active

  94 Followers Lost

  12 Enforcers Active

  57 Enforcers Terminated

  491,284 Innocents Lost

  Warning: Unrest continuing to grow

  >>search special status

  Password: *********

  >>command

  ?Please specify command?

  >>update on reizo rush

  Located Artifacts

  Located Last Will and Testament

  Key Not Found

  >>command

  ?Please specify command?

  >>interrogate

  ?Interrogate who?

  >>reizo rush

  ?When would you like to do so?

  >>now

  Followers notified

  >>logout

  Good-bye General

  Login:

  chapter twenty-eight

  Franklinville Rooster Cineplex—a three-story chicken-processing factory refurbished and converted into a movie theatre. When it opened two years ago, customers eating popcorn and watching movies complained about a faint, leftover chicken smell. Seriously disgusting. It didn’t take long before Franklinville’s city council issued a special permit to build a sit down restaurant inside the Cineplex. Of course, the owners decided to serve fried chicken. Brilliant. No one noticed the smell after that.

  The Cineplex building’s location isn’t as secluded as the yogurt store, but a large parking lot out front will prevent security patrol surprises. Three hours. That gives me plenty of time to finish spraying before the security patrol shows up at 4:30 a.m.

  “Why are you doing this?” asks Honesti. “This isn’t smart.”

  “Smart? Blah-ha-ha!” shouts Bouncer, laughing. “Reizo? Smart? He’s about as dumb as dumb gets.”

  “Stop it,” says Honesti.

  The voices have been debating nonstop since I left the pond—ranting as usual. My stomach twirls like a marching band baton.

  I focus on the image of Aimee in my mind as I climb the fire escape to the roof, pushing raving noises to the back of my mind. Dancing. Pinky fingernail sparkles. Dazzling eyes. Our kiss. I groan when I think about what I’d admitted to her.

  “How you feelin’, babyman?” asks Bouncer. “Wanna cry?”

  Bouncer makes my blood boil. “Shut the hell up for once!” I shout at the top of my lungs. With no one around the Cineplex, I’m not worrying about being heard.

  “You don’t have to yell, boss man,” says Bouncer. “So touchy. You can yell and we can’t? Hypocrite.”

  “Easy big guy,” says Honesti. “Isn’t that right, Reiz?”

  Why did I admit it? Why did I tell her?

  “You don’t have long,” says Honesti. “Better get started.”

  “Both of you. Shut up!”

  “Uh oh. Reizo is being serious . . . for once,” says Bouncer.

  “Like I’m not usually?” I shout at the night sky. “Would you both just give me a break?”

  “Easy, Reizo,” says Honesti.

  Surprisingly, the voices go silent. I drop my backpack on the roof and set up twenty-five spray-paint cans. The project will take longer than the yogurt store. To do the entire wall, I’d need more spray, but the piece I have planned won’t cover the entire wall. Instead, the wall will look as if it has giant peepholes in it, each hole revealing a 3D scene inside the old building.

  I take out the stencils, paper, brushes, chalk, three plastic bowls, breathing gear, and gloves. Then I put on the gloves and pull the breathing filter over my face.

  “It’s the human bug man,” says Bouncer. He laughs. “Buzz. Buzz. Bug man.”

  I adjust the paint caps. Everything I need for the top two stories of the Cineplex go back into my backpack. I didn’t think I’d ever need a harness again. But luckily for me, JT found another one in the hardware store’s returned equipment box.

  “Be careful, Reizo,” says Honesti, her voice sounding strained.

  I visualize little yellow chickens, a rooster, cows, horses, and a bull peering downward from the side of the building at moviegoers standing in line while waiting to buy tickets from them.

  With the rope tied to a roof vent, I crawl into the harness and secure the backpack of supplies over my shoulders. Carefully stepping over the side of the roof with one foot, then the other, I lower myself to my first target and spray the image in my mind.

  Farm animals: chickens, roosters, a bull, and chicks.

  Back up to the roof I climb, retrieve more spray, then return to dangle over the box office and paint the bull sitting in a folding movie chair. One hoof is out to take money from customers as he eats popcorn and gulps a large soda. Seriously a badass bull. Pay your moo-la here.

  I spray in a goofy rooster. Brown-orange body and long black tail features, sharp red comb and wattles, wicked eyes the size of bowling balls. I realize I'm smiling as I spray, but it’s not about the rooster. Aimee listened to me. She understood.

  My thoughts stay on Aime
e as I spray using both hands. She died, but lived to talk about it. It changed her life. Yet she’s not upset about it. She’s actually happy she talked with her dead grandmother.

  With the second and third stories finished, I lower myself to the ground. An hour to go, I need to pick up the pace.

  The piece includes a massive ranch and a chicken coop with a dozen chickens. It'll definitely make people smile. I spray a wildstyle, “REIZO.” The piece is done with time to spare.

  “The bee eventually comes by and lands on the flower,” she’d told me.

  I lower myself to the ground and step back to get a good look at my latest creation. Each colorful peephole tag on the wall is full of action, color, shading, and dimension.

  For the first time in a long time, I’m happy. I’d almost forgotten the feeling. I laugh, fall on my butt, and gaze up at the piece. It's my best tag ever. Aimee inspires me.

  “You better move it, funny boy,” Honesti says.

  “Yeah, move your skinny rear...” Bouncer adds.

  I ignore them.

  “Move your ass!” Bouncer shouts.

  I don’t let the loud-mouthed idiot spoil my moment.

  “You should listen to him,” Honesti says. “Please, Reizo.”

  “Alright already! Can’t I even have a moment?”

  “Jeez,” Bouncer says. “You’re always yelling at us.”

  “Why are you taking so long?” Honesti asks.

  I guess they have a point.

  Time to bolt.

  chapter twenty-nine

  Uncle Pete reluctantly agreed to let me meet Reizo at the pond. But after an hour in a lawn chair watching the fish jump, I’m done waiting for him.

  I pull open the hatch door of the shelter and climb down the ladder. Uncle Pete’s lantern lights up the mortared river rock walls and railroad tie ceiling. Cabinets built along one side of the shelter grow upward into shelves full of books extending to the ceiling. The book covers look new, but a faint musty smell tells me different. The aroma reminds me of Franklinville’s downtown thrift shop, specializing in antiques, used clothing, old ragged books, and historic newspapers.

  As I browse through the books, I realize most are first editions from the 1880’s to early 1900’s: Sherlock Holmes, The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Hedda Gabler, How the Other Half Lives, Tales of Soldiers and Civilians. They must be worth a fortune.