The Nice Voices

There are many people here. Many young people. They move about quickly, and loudly––too loudly.

But perhaps these voices are the friendly ones. The nice voices.

There is a line on the left side of the large room. It weaves about like a snake, circling around tables, moving, fluid. Comprised of many young people. The other young people are sitting at round tables scattered throughout the large room.

There seems to be no pattern. No reason, no rhyme. I tap my finger against my left thigh, three times. My breath slows.

The line is moving––forward, past the long counter at the back of the room. As the young people stride through the doors on the east entrance, they either fall into the line or wander to a round table.

No pattern.

No wrong choice.

I walk slowly to the line. But not too slowly; I match the pace of the other young people.

There is a girl in front of me. She has long brown hair tied up in a loose braid that falls to the small of her back. There’s a strand of blue in it, right at the edge. She is wearing earrings. Small lollipops, with a golden swirl. She wears jeans with a rip on the left knee and a pretty pink sweater.

I look down at my outfit. Black sneakers. Black jeans. Black t-shirt. Black hair.

I am very different from the girl.

I straighten, holding my chin up. She moves forward. I move forward. Slowly, the line shuffles closer and closer to the counter at the back. I watch the girl closely. But I look away, occasionally, too. I don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.

That’s what grandmother always said.

I feel a pang as I think of her. I had not seen her for many, many years. I did not see her after they took me.

The girl is only feet from the counter now. She picks something up at the end––a red tray.

I follow her lead and grab the tray. It is cold. But not uncomfortable so. And I’ve known the pain of true coldness.

As she walks along the counter, she places things on the tray.

Food.

I stop, frozen.

This can’t be right.

We can simply take the food from the counter? As much as we desire? And keep it for ourselves?

I watch as the girl takes a plate with a burger on it. My mouth waters. I remember burgers. It has been a long time since burgers, but I remember them.

I quickly grab a plate and put it on the red tray. She slides hers along the counter. I do the same.

Every few feet, I reach forward and grab the next item of food. By the end, I have accumulated burgers and chips and carrot sticks and potato salad and brownies and vanilla pudding and even a crab leg, and every other food I remember from long ago. The red tray is heavy, so much so that I wonder if it will crack beneath the weight, splattering the floor with my goodies.

I hope not.

The girl walks away from the counter. I see her glance at my tray, and her eyes widen. She quickly glances up at me with surprise, before turning and hurrying toward a round table. I watch as she sits with another girl, though this one has blonde hair and large red-framed glasses. She says something to the girl, who looks up, directly at me.

They laugh. I look away. I tap my left thigh three times. Deep breath.

The round tables seem to grow farther away as I walk towards them. I am not sure where to look; there are young people everywhere, in pairs, in groups, all sitting at the tables, turned toward one another, talking, laughing. They move their arms and their hands and gesture about as the words fall endlessly and easily from their lips. There is touching, too––a hand on a shoulder, a playful slap on the wrist, a hug. A kiss.

I feel myself recede. I take a deep, steadying breath, and force myself to continue walking. I walk to the tables; then, I am walking through the tables, listening and watching and carefully selecting where I might belong.

There. At last.

An empty table.

I stride to the seat and sit down. My arms ache from carrying the food. I stare at it, mesmerized, at the colors and aromas. Then, I start to eat.

The talking and the touching and the sounds continue as I try food after food. I know I will not finish, which perhaps would lead to punishment in another lifetime; but, for now, I simply savor each flavor as they rest on my tongue.

“Hello.”

I freeze. The spoon carrying a bit of pudding is halfway between the table and my open mouth. I shut my jaw with a snap and look up, dropping the spoon back on the tray.

There is a girl and a boy. The girl is the one who spoke. She has brown hair, but she looks different from the girl in line. Her face is rounder. Kinder, perhaps. The boy has long black hair that frames large blue eyes. They peer at me with interest.

“Can we sit here?” The girl asks. Her tone conveys friendliness. It is... nice.

Though, I have certainly been deceived by that tone before.

“There are no other empty tables in the cafeteria,” she continues. “We’ll just eat and then get out of your hair.” She smiles brightly after my long silence.

“You can sit here,” I say. My voice is raspy, hoarse. Ugly. I clear my throat. “Yes, you can sit here."

“Thanks.” She and the boy sit opposite from me.

The boy looks at me with curiosity. “Are you new here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“How did you know I was new?” I ask, hearing the strain enter my voice. I take a deep, silent breath. “I mean. It seems like a big place. This" ––what had they called it?–– "cafeteria.”

"You mean the school?" The girl rolls her eyes. “Oh, it does at first. But that’ll fade real quick.” She snorts. “I can’t wait to get out of here. I think everybody knows each other a little too well, if you know what I mean.”

She must see my blank face, because she clears her throat and steals a glance at the boy. He doesn’t notice. He just looks at me with those big blue eyes.

“Er, anyways. So, you’re new?”

“Yes. This is my first day.”

“Well, welcome. I’m Erica. This is my brother, Alex. It’s nice to meet you… what’s your name?”

I try to smile. I don’t know if I succeed. But Erica smiles back encouragingly, which seems promising. “My name is Seven.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Seven? Like the number?”

“Um. Yes. I think so.”

“You think so?” The boy’s voice rises in surprise. Erica shoots him a warning look, but again, he ignores her. “Where are you from, exactly?”

“I’m from west of here,” I say.

“That’s not very specific,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning upwards in a half smile.

“Alex.”

“Sorry,” I say, nodding, attempting a smile at him, too. “You’re right. I am from the building west of here.”

His eyebrows furl. “West of here? There’s only one building, and it’s abandoned.”

“It’s not abandoned.”

He folds his arms, the smile slowly replaced by a frown. “Look, that place has been abandoned for years, and for good reason. It’s horrible, what happened there. Do you mean west of that? I think I know the neighborhood you’re talking about––“

“You’re wrong,” I say quietly.

The boy stops talking. He stares at me, except this time, there is no trace of curiosity or laughter left in his eyes. Instead, they are dark, and stormy, and filled with fear and a chill I am all too familiar with.

I sigh. So much for the nice voices.

”Yes. I’m from Forest Haven. Forest Haven Asylum. Nice to meet you.” 

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This piece is inspired by the Forest Haven Asylum.