The Voice in the Room

  It was dark, so very dark – and quiet. The only sound was the faintest whisper of a breeze coming from somewhere, like the wind sighing as it caresses the leaves of a tree. The blackness in wherever he was – a room, a cell, a box – whatever, was total and sensory numbing, no light penetrated the gloom that he could make out. Why was he here? How did he get here? Many different questions started to crowd his mind, asking for answers that he could not give. The truth was - he did not really know who he himself was.

  Amnesia? Did you have any recollections whatsoever with amnesia? It was difficult to say, or to start speculating on his current situation. As it was, he did not feel in any great hurry to find out. There was a serenity about how he felt, a desire to stay in the moment, or rather, to deny the truth – whatever that truth was.

  Feeling around, there was nothing. No furniture or walls – nothing that he could touch. Holding his arms directly out in front of his face, he moved them out in a sweeping motion – almost like he was gesturing to a crowd. Thin air was all he found.

  A sound off to his right – so slight he almost missed it. Again, it came – this time a little louder and closer to where he stood. Straining, he tried to pick out what it was, moving in the direction it had come from – shuffling so as not to go tumbling over some hidden obstacle, and most likely, breaking a bone or two.

  Silence again – deathly silence. Then the breeze picked up and drowned out any hope of hearing the noise again – at least until it died down.

  Curious, he settled into the position he now found himself in and waited. Sure enough, the noise came again, and this time, it was right beneath him. It did seem quite muffled, but he was close enough to make out four words. “Mark, are you home?”

 The name triggered something deep within the recesses of his mind and he found that a light was beginning to penetrate the murky gloom that was his memory. Footsteps now – he was sure of it. The sound echoed, as if the steps were heavy and on a hard surface – a wooden floor perhaps. Again, the name was called “Mark, where are you?” More urgent now, with maybe a touch of panic in the tone.

  He tried to call out – managing to shout, “I am in here” as loud as he could. The voice, and the person who it belonged to, just carried on walking and calling out – obviously not hearing him. The owner of the heavy shoes had stopped directly below where he was now; he could hear the breathing coming out in shallow gasps – then a creaking and a rattling as something heavy parted company with what held it and the weighty slam, as whatever it was, made contact with the hard floor beneath.

  A pause then, silence for a while – perhaps thirty seconds or so. It was almost as if the person below was contemplating – deciding what they should do. Footsteps once more, getting closer, the breathing a little heavier – almost close enough now for him to reach out and touch. A buzzing sound halted the steps, a muffled cry of anguish and a sigh as a bleep echoed out, followed by the voice again. It sounded like a woman – now it was closer and he could make it out, definitely a woman. She sounded vaguely familiar, as though he once knew her; in the distant past – however – he could not quite place her.

  Listening intently, he tried to make out some of the words she was saying and managed to grasp a couple of them, “house” and “no sign”. Who was she? What was she doing and what was she looking for? The voice stopped once again, and the footsteps resumed. A sound like a handle turning filled the silence. Once, twice, three times but no door opened. Whatever it was, it seemed that it was stuck.

  Something jangled, was it keys? Then a creak as the door slowly swung open, allowing light to penetrate the gloom – rendering him unable to see clearly for a few seconds. It subsided and he made out the silhouette of a person standing in the doorway. It looked like a woman but from where he was, he could not quite tell. The light behind created a kind of corona around the form that was there.

  The figure moved forward a step, hand slipping down the side of the door – searching for a light switch maybe. There was a curse, almost a whisper but he caught it, “where is the damn thing”. It was definitely a woman’s voice, soft and soothing. He wanted to reach out then, put his hand over hers, and tell her not to switch the light on. There was an urgency deep within that screamed at him to stay in the dark, to send her out, send her back down the steps and away from this place. It only held misery and heartache.

  It was too late though. Light flooded the room, finding every dark corner and alcove – revealing all the secrets that they held.

  The woman was still for a few brief seconds, and then she screamed. It was a terrible sound, a haunting sound. Her hands found her face, her nails digging into yielding flesh – drawing blood. He watched all this with a dawning realisation of what was happening. He did not want to look but he was powerless to prevent it. Turning around, gazing back over his shoulder, he looked at what she was seeing.

  Hanging from the rafters in the roof, toes hovering a few feet above the boarded out attic floor – was the body of a man. Staring transfixed, he felt himself drawn away from the scene in front of him – as if an invisible force was in control of him. The man hanging behind him, of course, was himself.

  As he floated towards a blueish, white glowing speck in the distance, the screaming faded. The closer he got to it, the calmer he became - serene and peaceful even. Although he felt sad, for the pain he was causing to the woman he was leaving behind – he knew it was the best thing he could have done.

  The last thing he heard – away in the distance now – before he passed through the light and into the beyond was his wife screaming his name, over and over.