The Voices

By Katrina Michelle

December 1

Something happened today, and if Papa finds out…

He can’t know.

He can’t know I have Voices.

When I first heard the murmurs early this morning, I almost jumped out of bed and ran to tell him. I’m lucky I caught myself. If he knew his apprentice—his own son—was a Voicer… I already disappoint him enough.

I don’t know why they came to me, but I have to fight them on my own.

– Caden

December 7

Papa’s angry with me. My work has been poorer than usual because the Voices won’t leave no matter how I try to block them out. I find myself lying awake at night, either cursing at them to go away or trying to figure out what they’re saying. By morning I’m even more exhausted than normal.

They don’t seem to be saying words. It’s like they’re pretending to whisper something just to be creepy.

And they make me feel like I’m being watched. I can’t sketch designs, write in here, or even get dressed without feeling like someone is spying on me. I hate Voices. I hate them so much.

I need to go—Papa’s calling me. I swear, when Papa speaks, the candlelight trembles a little harder.

December 14

The Voices quieted today. For just a moment. But still, for the first time since the nights turned freezing, they actually stopped.

And then one of them helped me with a garden design.

I know, I know. It’s almost unbelievable. But it’s true. One of the Voices spoke and helped me.

I had a general idea of the garden’s structure, but the Voice expanded on it in ways I couldn’t have developed on my own. At first I was too shocked to obey its soft, earnest instructions, but once I got started, I couldn’t stop. Pencil was everywhere. It was amazing.

When Papa stepped up to look, the other Voices joined in again and they all returned to their wordless murmuring. Then, crazily enough, Papa nodded at my design. He still sat me down after I was done eating dinner in my room and lectured me on my sloppy efforts up until today, but I think he might be less disappointed than he was before.

If I work with the Voices instead of fighting them, maybe I can live with this. Maybe I can become the man Papa wants me to be.

December 21

My face is so numb that I can’t feel the tenderness in my bruised left eye even when I touch it. I’ve spent the whole evening wishing Papa would let me light my tiny fire again, asking the Voices for help, and staring into the dirty mirror at my black eye. It makes me look like a fighter. I’m not.

If I tried to fight Papa, I’d get worse than a few bruises.

Why did the Voices come to me? Do they know what Papa thinks of them?

I don’t think he’s going to let me sketch designs anymore. I don’t think he’s going to let me do anything. Not now that he’s figured it out.

I thought the Voices could help me, but all they’ve done is make everything worse.

December 22

I’m shaking so hard I can barely write this.

The Voices didn’t murmur today—they chanted. A phrase that’s been haunting me for years and years, ever since Mama left and Papa took me on as apprentice.

“I’ve got you, son,” he said.

But that was years ago. That was before I had learned enough to do anything but watch over his shoulder as he sketched. Before the alcohol, too.

The Voices weren’t here when Papa made that promise. How do they know?

Sorry for the messy handwriting and the scribbled-out lines. I keep writing “I’ve got—” because it’s the biggest thought in my head. One second all I hear are the Voices blending together. The next all I hear is his voice.

The old version of it. The one that made the candlelight warmer instead of harsher.

Leave me alone, Voices. Just leave

me

alone.

December 23

Everything hurts.

Today, Papa wanted to know if the Voices were saying anything yet. I told him. Then I tried to explain how it isn’t my fault. How I’m as confused as he is.

But he doesn’t care what I say. He only cares what the Voices say. And what they say is somehow my fault.

These bruises hurt so badly.

Sorry for the tear stains.

December 24

Why do I even write in here? All this journal can do is hide under my lumpy mattress.

December 25

The Voices stopped chanting today. Now they’re telling me to do something, and it has nothing to do with a garden design.

I think I’m realizing why they chanted, why they came to me in the first place. I think I understand.

“Leave this place. We’ll show you where to go. We’ll be with you.”

Okay, Voices, I’m going to do it. I’m going to try.

January 1

My feet throb, but for once it’s a good kind of pain.

It’s crazy how much distance one can travel in just a few days when their life depends on it. Doesn’t matter how hard it snows.

Today, a woman I don’t know treated my bruises like she was my own mama. She’s one of many proofs that the outside world is better to me.

I’m sorry I was such a disappointment to Papa. Maybe he’ll be happier without a Voicer in his house. I care about the old version of him enough to hope that.

On another note, I’ve discovered how to respond to the Voices when they speak to me. It’s the strangest experience—too awe-inspiring to describe on paper.

But the first thing I said was, “Thank you.”

The second was, “Where’s Mama?”

– Caden

Can you guess which song inspired this story? (This month it could be any time period, any genre.) Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katrina Michelle is a university student doing her best to balance classes with her passion for storytelling. She spends her days studying in pursuit of a Spanish degree, inching through her most recent short story or novel WIP, and devouring books (such a sweet break from academic reading). Her Myers-Briggs type is INFP, and she can’t look at any BBC Merlin pins on Pinterest without feeling suddenly and extremely emotional.

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