Museum of the Mind

Please note this story touches on mental health, domestic abuse and self harm subject matter. These subjects are not treated lightly and are not explored at length but are referenced within the overall story.

Whispers. It always started with the whispers.

The room was crowded but slowly emptied as wandering thoughts faded away throughout the day. Moments in time carefully captured and curated throughout the course of my life were cautiously displayed within the museum of my mind. Some moments sheltered memories other oppressively contained hostile memories that were better buried than displayed. It was not the brief visits to this cerebral museum that were burdensome but rather the lingering visits that clouded the consciousness with turbulent emotions. That was when the whispers started.

It was a Tuesday that started like any other Tuesday. I wandered in and out of the compartmentalized regions of my mind pausing for a silent smile as the memory of my brother was on display for my enjoyment. A soothing thought of the morning breeze caressing my brow with a gentle, refreshing touch unexpectedly turned to a cold, almost corrosive embrace. The softest of whispers resembling the sound of an old cornstock broom whisking its way along a dusty floor lured me down a long corridor that I had almost forgotten was there.

A sudden rush of sound burst into my ears as if beads of water were slamming against an invisible shower curtain. I stopped, startled not by the noise but by the surprising appearance of a sitting nook halfway down the corridor. A large portrait of a mangled form overwhelmed the area, sucking in all light and comfort. A whisper, yes it was a whisper, thundered through my very essence. “Sit” a raspy voice spewed forth with pungent enthusiasm that seemed to ooze out of thin air. My desire to comply was erased by the sight of a translucent ripple within the portrait that was before me.

I took pride in knowing the details and intricate nature of the contents held within the repository of my mind. This area had a very unknown aura exuding from it. I turned to continue down the corridor that was no longer there. Suddenly the small room was suffocating as only walls met my gaze until the stark reality that I was locked in a box of my own making slapped me in the face.

“Don’t look” a soft voice echoed in my mind. I stood with my eyes closed. I do not remember closing my eyes, yet they were closed. My eyelids could have been stone curtains for the thought of lifting the weight of them felt unsurmountable.

The deafening sound of indistinguishable whispers lashed out at me from the air around me. Painful, gut-wrenching feelings of sorrow ripped through me until my eyes snapped open. Earth shattering silence smashed through the room at the very moment my eyes met the gaze of the mangled form within the portrait. The translucent ripples became mesmerizing until everything blurred into a long-lost memory.

It was like a memory standing inside another memory as I stood inches away from my younger self. Cold, callous drops of October rain smashed across his face. Yet, he did not move. Transfixed by the magnitude of the silence from within the house half a yard away, we found a false comfort orphaned within the cruel night air. In spite of myself I flinched at the sound of a muffled scream that escaped from the house due to the indifference of careless old walls. He did not. Dull shouts, sounds of shattered glass then silence once more. Odd how silence humbled the mighty roar of thunder and the audacity of a blustering wind. 

An image of the old house was frozen for a moment within a tear drop that swelled up within the eye of my younger self. Then as if torn away by the very night itself, that image was gone. Replaced by another empty tear.

The eerie hush cradled within the house was broken once more with the appearance of the angry man spilling out of the house, propelled by the stench of his own rage. The angry man turned his wicked stare toward us, his face contorted with the ugliness of his intent. The angry man vomited air as his words were stolen by the boisterous wind. The angry man melted into the night; our eyes did not follow where he stalked off to. Bright lights murdered the night around both my younger self and I then the night blanketed back around us with the roar of a car speeding away.    

A moment passed before my mother was before me. Her eyes were darkened, and her face was wet. She embraced the younger version of me. The loving embrace was the only thing dry between them. Words of comfort withered away as he walked back into the house. A cold chill passed along my spine with the knowledge that my home was nothing more than a house once the angry man returned.

Ghostly ripples intruded through the night heralding the return of the mangled form. My mind fluttered to broken moments and fragmented ties to the past. Their jagged pieces didn’t quite fit, but they found a place within the tapestry of torment that breathed life into the mangled form.

Defiant, I stood my ground as if anchored before the corrupted creature that was the mangled form. The deeper my stare ventured into its eyes, the more the shadows within the darkest chambers of my mind gave way to an inner light. Through my broken eyes the faint echo of myself revealed itself to me. Loathing and self doubt clouded the true nature of the mangled form that haunted my sight. My old friends, pain, and emptiness, called out from within the mangled form with the promise of a gift. A gift of familiarity that was just that, all too familiar. A glimmer from deep within the darkness materialized into a small blade of a razor clutched in the withered fingers of the mangled form.

“Trust me” a nauseating whisper slithered into my ears.

I reached for the razor; it had such a majestic glimmer even as it was presented to me. The blade of the razor had been my only true friend but, it was greedy and never satisfied with the flesh it was given. More, always more is what it wanted and more it received. My mind surrendered to the dull numbness of my very existence. A thousand whispers weaved into a strange laughter that saturated my every thought.  

My attention shifted to the eyes of the mangled form. Everything else faded away until my reflection in the mirror before me stared back with scornful eyes. Hideous apparitions of doubt, of fear, of loathing eagerly greeted my weary gaze. Another night locked in my museum, my construct within this mind of mine that is both hospitable and hostile.       

The museum of the mind is an intricately designed home for many unique items collected over a lifetime but it’s important to remember if you linger too long you may just get locked in.     

Whispers, my undoing.