by R E Swirsky
CHAPTER 56
Wednesday 23:55 Near Okotoks, Alberta, Canada
“I really think you should try calling him again, Richard,” Michelle said. “It’s already eight in the morning in Paris and we can’t let this go on any longer. Not after tonight.”
Richard was reluctant but understood Michelle’s concern. The evening had been a difficult one. Michael’s mood worsened as the day wore on. His rage swelled and waned, finally erupting in a violent outburst of more shouting and fisticuffs. It took all of Richard’s strength and energy to calm Michael down. It was almost midnight and Michael was finally asleep.
“I’m not sure pursuing this with the Senator is the right thing to do. It might just exasperate Michael’s slide even more. That kidnapping seemed to push him right up to the edge.”
“Slide? What is this slide? You’ve used that word before.”
He really didn’t want to say anything, but at this point he didn’t have a choice. It felt like he was digressing years and reapplying the label to describe his son’s condition in big bold letters across Michael’s forehead.
“Michael hears voices. He has since he was ten,” he said reluctantly.
“Voices?”
“Yes, voices.”
She frowned. It was the typical reaction he had learned to hate so very much. Having to explain it over and over through the years was the hardest thing he had ever done. It pulled deep at his heart strings, almost causing them to tear. He knew what her next question was going to be, and she gave it right on cue.
“You mean he’s schizophrenic?”
He sighed and tears welled, but he didn’t cry. “No. He just hears voices—random voices, like white noise with words popping out. When he gets stressed and upset, it’s like the words suddenly rise to the surface and form complete sentences.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
He hated having this conversation. “Because I was hoping he could keep it under wraps. He’s been doing so good for so long but…it’s clear what happened. This thing with Lucy woke it up inside of him and it’s not settling down. It used to go away as soon as he calmed down. Children hearing voices is more common than most people realize. Michael’s condition was just a bit more animated and active than most. They said he would grow out of it at the end of his teen years.”
“Is that why he rubs his fists at his temples?”
“And all of the wild random shouts and shushes he makes, yes. The voices are talking to him and he’s trying to beat them down.”
“Hmm,” she replied. She was clearly disturbed.
“Yeah. And sometimes he listens to what they say.”
“What do you mean?”
Suddenly she seemed overly concerned. That’s why he hadn’t wanted to tell her. Everyone always reacts the same way and he knew the next time she looked at his son, she would see a label glowing bright across his forehead. She would react differently to everything Michael said or did from here on, and he hated it. He hated it so deeply, and he hated himself for telling her.
“It means the voices tell him things. Michael says it’s his conscience talking out loud, whispering at him, taunting him, and just annoying him with repetitive chatter. When you and I try to decide things, we just do it. We mull things over and decide. With Michael, it’s different. He doesn’t mull things over, he just decides, and across the vacant space that is his mind, a voice speaks in response to what he has decided or not decided.”
“It doesn’t sound that different from what I do.”
“But it is. When you or I concentrate on a task, we think in a straight line. We are very focused, and nothing steers us from our train of thought except when some external distraction intrudes. With Michael, the distractions come from within. Sometimes, every single thought he has gets a response, and then the battle starts. The voices scream and shout, talking over his own thoughts until he can’t even understand his original thought anymore.”
“Oh, that sounds terrible. How does he manage?”
Richard laughed. “You saw tonight how he manages. It’s like there’s a whole different person shouting at him inside his head. Sometimes it’s one—sometimes many—but it’s the same voice all the time. And he trusts it. He has to because the voices are all his voice, his inner voice. He has to trust that it has his best interest at heart, or he would probably go mad.”
“He trusts it? Does that mean he changes his mind because of what he hears?”
“Just like you or I reconsider things, yeah, I guess. But it’s different with him. The voices argue when he decides against their little prompts and pushes.”
“Has he ever hurt anyone? I mean, as a result of the voices?”
Those two questions were at the root of his concern. The voices didn’t always follow the rules. Their judgment can be flawed. He knew it could because he’d seen Michael at his worst, giving in to the voices and letting the voices decide what action was best. He preferred seeing Michael flustered and fighting for his sanity, because the alternative was unthinkable.
“No,” he said, but it wasn’t the truth.
Michael first surrendered himself completely to the voices when he was thirteen. It was as if every single label that had been pasted upon his young body by children at school, their parents, and acquaintances had been absorbed into his bloodstream like a poisonous venom. The endless bullying and taunting became too much, and he quit fighting and started listening instead. A switch had suddenly been turned off inside him—shutting down his ability to filter himself from the voices.
“He’s never hurt anyone,” he lied.
Little Erkel Davis felt the full force of what the voices were capable of once the switch was flipped. If not for two older boys stumbling upon Little Erkel’s red shoe poking out from the pile of stones, Little Erkel may never have lived to feel his mother’s hugs ever again.
“Will he be okay?” Michelle asked. “I mean, in the morning. Once he rests.”
“Yes. Michael is always okay in the morning,” he said.
But that was not quite true either, and there lies the difference. At his worst, Michael couldn’t remember what he’d done after surrendering himself to the voices. He still can’t recall the day that Little Erkel Davis sat in wait for him in the bushes alongside the forest path below the hospital as he made his way home after school. Little Erkel, with his tiny round head and beady eyes, jumped out after Michael passed by and heaved a huge rock into the centre of Michael’s back. Before Michael could even turn around, he followed up with a swift kick in the back of one knee, causing Michael to crumple to the ground. Little Erkel then followed up with a flurry of name-calling, pushing and punching as Michael tried to get back up on his feet. Michael, only thirteen at the time, was well acclimated to being on the receiving end. He never fought back, never threw a fist, and always played limp and took it all, blow after blow, until his attacker grew bored.
If Erkel had known the voices were about to take over and knew what they were capable of, he might very well have ran for the hills that day. But he didn’t run, and now Little Erkel wears his own reminder of what happened next—a deep scar permanently etched across his forehead for all to see.
As Michael fell to the ground, his hand happened upon a rock twice the size of his fist. When he stood up and turned to face Little Erkel, the rock was clenched within his slender fingers, and inside his head a voice screamed with an uncontrollable fury and rage—Hit him back! This time really do it! You know you want to! Hit him! Hit the little cocksucker! Hit him! Michael swung his arm holding the rock awkwardly out in a wide, sweeping arc, connected with Little Erkel’s forehead, and knocked him backwards into the bushes. He was out cold. Yes! You did it! You actually did it! The voices were proud. They knew what Little Erkel needed next. Grab his legs! Don’t let him get up! And so Michael grabbed hold of Little Erkel by both ankles above his brazen, red-coloured shoes and hauled him out of the bushes across the path and into the small, stony pit on the other side. Ki
ck him now! Kick him like he kicked you!
Michael kicked him.
Again!
The voice screamed its impatience as if Michael’s movements were too slow.
Again!
Michael kicked him once more in the ribs.
Harder this time!
This time he felt something break.
In the head now!
One kick to the side of the head.
C’mon! Another one!
More kicks came, and each kick was harder than the previous.
Keep going! You can kick harder than that! Again! The ribs again!
The doctors later determined Erkel Davis was repeatedly kicked and stomped on well over one hundred times. Little Erkel’s body was battered and bruised from the top of his head all the way down to his bright red shoes.
Make him go away now, Michael. Forever. You want to. Make Little Erkel go away where he can’t touch you ever again.
And Michael then proceeded to bury Little Erkel right where he lie. Blood eked out slowly from his tiny, round head, soaking into the gravel, but Michael paid no mind. Slowly and methodically, he placed stone after stone on top of him until only one red shoe stuck out at the path.
“I hope so,” Richard said. He really did hope his son would be okay this time.
Little Erkel spent ten weeks in hospital before his spleen, one kidney, and two ribs repaired themselves and he was strong enough to stand again, albeit with the aid of crutches.
“Then we really need to call the Senator. You or me, I don’t care who,” she said. “We can’t expose Michael to any more of this. I really wish you would have told me about this sooner.”
“Well, I didn’t.” The image of Little Erkel floated in his thoughts restlessly.
“That’s what I’m saying. You should have. Let’s make that call now. It’s getting late and I want to be up before Michael.”