Voices – Page 1
Part 1 — Eyes
The girl’s eyes were hurt, haunted, the color of faded blue-jeans and staring wide out at him from under a mop of dirty hair that might have been blonde when clean. She was sitting on a milk carton next to the alley by the A&P. “Please,” She said. “Please, do you have any change?”
This was New York, and in New York, begging for change is an art form that generally requires a lot more effort than a simple request, but those eyes stopped him, and John Storm found himself asking “For what?”
He could have found out without asking, of course. The voices could have told him; they were everywhere, and he had only to pick the right one and listen to it. John had been tuning out the voices for as long as he could remember. They floated on the air like ghosts. Whispers and screams, moans and sighs. He only listened now when he had to, because it seemed rude somehow to know everything there was to know without ever having to ask.
The girl looked away from him and it seemed a shudder passed through her, some spasm, some momentary twinge, suppressed nearly as soon as it began, and she made a coughing noise that sounded like a snarl. Her hands made little fists and when she looked back up John noticed the lines under her eyes and realized she was older than he had thought, closer to his age than the teenager he had taken her for initially.
John was twenty-six. Tall, dark and handsome, with green eyes and short black hair, he had not been wanting for female affection since some time in his early school years. Now though, he had grown distant. The voices had done that to him, over a time. The voices, and thinking he was crazy. People withdraw, when they think they’re crazy.
“I need a drink,” the girl said. “It’s dark and I want to sleep, but I can’t sleep, because I need a drink. I can’t sleep without it, or he’ll come for me. I can’t sleep without it.”
At least she was honest. John had no idea who would be coming for the girl, or how a drink might keep him away, and he supposed it didn’t really matter. He was going to give her the money anyway. You don’t stop, in New York, if you’re not going to give them the money.
“How much will buy you a drink?” He asked.
“Buck and a quarter will buy me something,” she said. “Please.”
He nodded, handed her a five, said. “Take it. Get your drink.”
“Thank you.”
John eyed the girl’s scrawny frame. “Don’t suppose I could con you into spending some of it on food?”
“Probably not.”
John stood there a moment longer, and when she looked up at him again there was anger in those blue eyes. “If giving me money means I have to let you stand there pitying me, you can have it back.”
John shook his head. “No, it doesn’t, and I’m not. I’m trying to figure out whether I should ask you who’s going to come for you.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Okay. Take it easy, blue-eyes.” John walked. This was New York, and in New York when you’re not wanted, you move on. He didn’t care about the five, didn’t care that the girl got pissed, didn’t care much about anything, except those haunted blue eyes. Those had interested him, and now John found it impossible not to listen to the voices. He wanted to know, and after a minute, he did. Not all of it, no, but enough to understand the eyes.
He stopped in his tracks, ignoring the obscenities this earned him from the people behind him, spun, and moved back toward the girl. She saw him coming and for a moment John thought she might bolt, but she held her ground as he approached.
This time John hunkered down so he could look directly into those eyes. She met his glance for only a moment before looking away.
“Tell me something,” he said.
“What?” She wouldn’t look at him.
“Which part is it that makes you look like that? Is it when the man that you dream about does whatever it is that he does to you? Or is it when you kill him for it?”
