The Voice

By D.A. Cairns

It had been a long day. The rain was relentless, the wind aggressive and the cold, bitterly hostile. It had been a hard day. Leibman’s mood mirrored the black weather with its dark skies as he had mechanically gone about his business.

Now he sits alone in his living room, like he does at the end of every day, staring at the television screen and he hears the voice. He remembers the first time he heard it and how it frightened and confused him, and how it still has the same effect. Nearly a year has passed since that first encounter and in the ensuing months he has been subjected to a battery of probing antipathetic psychologists as they delved for endless hours into the murky depths of his mind, only to reach the conclusion that there was no voice.

"No, Mr. Leibman," the doctor said in a confident and detached tone, "I do not believe that you are suffering from multiple personality disorder."


He paid on the way out, handing over his credit card to a pretty young lady with a vacant smile and glazed eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Leibman," said another doctor, as he scribbled on a prescription pad, “You are in a state of melancholy but I cannot in good conscience assert that you are suffering from depression. May I suggest that a lack of sleep is the possible cause. Try these. One each night before you go to bed."

Leibman accepted the prescription wordlessly and paid the receptionist on the way out.

"No, Mr. Leibman," began a third doctor, a very thin woman with large spectacles and pale skin, "You are not becoming demented. Perhaps, if I may propose…your id, your own ego is communicating with you on the subconscious level. Nothing to worry about. It’s quite normal."

His id had told him to snatch that fancy ballpoint pen from her grasp and jam it into her forehead, and he wondered if he should share that with her and ask if that was quite normal. But after standing and staring at her for a moment, during which he imagined that very act of violence and she squirmed in uneasy silence, he left and handed over his credit card to a middle-aged blonde with large breasts and blue nail polish.

Leibman recalls all those words, those professional tones and those forced expressions of compassion which looked more like twisted pleasure than genuine expressions of empathy. The voice had told him those doctors were morons, and he had agreed.

The howling wind distracts him momentarily and he propels his thoughts away from the past to hone in on the present. Now: this microscopic drop in the ocean of timelessness where he exists but cannot really live. He has forgotten how. All the joy has been sucked from his body and he feels shriveled and ugly. Unwanted. Useless. He breathes in deeply and exhales very slowly. Leibman feels time decelerating. This technique is supposed to relax him, he read about it somewhere, but he wonders why because with the passing of time slowed, his agony is prolonged. Yet there is an otherworldly serenity about it which attracts him like a moth to a flame.

He breathes again, concentrating, focusing, and the wind fades as the room darkens. He draws another breath, filling his lungs then expelling the air almost imperceptibly through his open mouth. After repeating this action several times, Leibman begins to feel light headed so he smiles and reclines on the lounge. The voice begins to speak.

Some time later, he wakes up but he’s in his bed. He must assume he has been sleeping, having fallen into slumber on the lounge and then woken at some point and removed himself to bed. Other explanations are too disturbing to contemplate. Looking at the clock he is surprised to see that two hours have passed because he feels as though he has slept for much longer. He’s hungry which is a good sign he tells himself, and he feels encouraged for a second until he remembers that is the way it always happens. The pattern of his existence is fixed in a prison of heartless monotony from which there is no escape. Leibman has neither defense nor recourse, so he simply goes to the kitchen and eats.

Chewing slowly on an egg sandwich, he concentrates in order to overcome the gagging sensation he feels whenever he eats. He tries to draw on a memory of a good taste, something delicious but it’s as though he has never had such pleasure. The sandwich, like everything else he eats, tastes like soggy cardboard and he only eats half of it. Somehow despite the discomfort and inconvenience of eating he has been able to sustain his body. He is thin but muscular due to the nature of his work and the fact that physical exercise often provides a refuge from boredom and anxiety. Leibman has also managed to master the nausea which during his waking hours is a constant yet unwelcome companion. Reflecting on all this, Leibman fails to comprehend how he survives. Or more importantly, why?

It isn’t just the drudgery, the isolation, the lack of sleep, or the dissatisfaction with food, it is an indefinable feeling of brokenness, a pain in his soul which tortures him. A heavy sensation that he is dying and although he wants to die, he knows he won’t. Then he realizes that it must be the voice which keeps him going. This psychological tormentor who exacerbates Leibman’s physical affliction with every whispered curse has handed down a life sentence without the possibility of parole. There is no light at the end of this tunnel. Leibman feels his heart being torn in two and blood erupts from the wound with volcanic force.

Now he feels angry but he struggles to resist the rampant rage because he knows where it leads and even though he is seldom strong enough to fight, he has at least, a relic of righteous desire which always provides sufficient strength to begin the battle, if not conclude it. Mulling over the situation, he comes to realize that this sequence of events is also just a cog in an evil machine.

Later, having belted the punching bag until he was breathless and his knuckles red and raw, Leibman feels a little better. Suddenly he remembers that it is Saturday, and in a torrid panic he races inside the house to learn the time. It’s still early. He has been seeing a girl on the weekends and she is proving to be an oasis so he does not want to miss their date. Although he knows she would forgive him and accept whatever feeble excuse he proffered like she has done on two previous occasions, he really doesn’t want to disappoint her again. She is a solution to his troubles, a salve to his wound, and water to slake his thirst.

Ironically, he met her in the waiting room at one of the numerous psychologists he had visited, and even more ironically she was one of those receptionists who typically took his card and processed his payment perfunctorily and professionally. She, however, had been charming and courteous. Leibman doesn’t really know why she’d treated him differently, and in fact is not at all sure that she did favor him with any special regard and yet when their eyes met something happened. Undeniable. Irresistible. A truly miraculous burst of confidence produced a bumbling invitation which was received with a heart melting smile and the words, "Yes, I would love to have coffee with you."

As they chatted about the weather, she commented, "You don’t seem like there is anything wrong with you."

Leibman sipped his coffee and decided to avoid the issue. "Did I tell you I think your boss is a bit cold for a doctor? She has the personality of a refrigerator."

Alice smiled. "She’s a good doctor. Very professional."

Leibman made a sound of unconvinced agreement and studied her face briefly so as to not make her suspicious. "How long have you worked there?"

Alice dutifully and cheerfully answered his questions and the conversation progressed down all the safe major highways of acceptable social interaction until finally, when Leibman felt very comfortable, he steered the talk into a back alley which only residents frequented, and he confided in her. Everything except the voice because it was after all, still only early in their relationship.

Apparently, Alice had not been frightened off and they had continued to see each other.

Leibman worries continually that something will go wrong. He feels as though he is walking along a precipice and that at any moment the edge will crumble beneath his feet and he will tumble to a merciful death on the jagged rocks below. There is a chance, he realizes, that although the voice has remained sullenly silent thus far during his interludes with Alice, it may deign to interfere. He foolishly imagines it to be a jealous lover. The voice does not love however, it manipulates and confuses, it hunts weakness in its prey and devours it with wicked relish. Leibman is more afraid of the voice than he has been of anything in his life. Even his childhood fears of heinous monsters under his bed, and later his wild fear of bees after a random stinger nearly brought about his death via anaphylactic shock, pale in the face of the threat that the voice poses to his sanity.

As barbs of anxiety begin striking him, Leibman feels hot and agitated. He wonders if he has time for a nap but worries that if he oversleeps, he will miss Alice. The truth is, he misses her already. His heart longs for her whenever she is absent. Would it work to have Alice with him more often? Could he somehow wear her like a holy talisman to ward off Satan? Was it greedy of him to want so much more of her? Would she give him any more of herself? His head aches with the desperation of these unanswerable questions so Leibman makes himself a cup of tea, hoping the ritual will calm his mind. With the tea made, he sits on the lounge and stares at the blank television screen. He shudders. Once he thought he saw something there, a shadow, a formless, nameless apparition of terror.

At five past five, Leibman starts from sleep and for a foggy disoriented minute or two he doesn’t know where he is. Slowly he focuses and familiar shapes assemble before his blurry eyes. A lamp, a clock, a hard back copy of Bryce Courtney’s Sylvia, his favorite jacket on the floor, dusty blinds cover the window, bedclothes crumpled like unwanted refuse. His mouth is dry and his neck is stiff, so he rubs it and rotates his head slowly and it brings a portion of relief. Then he notices the time. He rises, showers and dresses and leaves the house at six, bound for Anzac Parade, Kensington where Alice lives with a friend on the seventh floor of an apartment building in the heart of the retail and commercial strip. To Alice, his friend, his lover, and his savior.

He feels like he is floating as he walks from the car park to the foyer and presses the button on the intercom. Hope floods his soul as he thinks of the sweetness of Alice, her voice, her breath and her soft touch which always makes him shiver at first and causes her to giggle. The voice is a distant darkness, far away in another world, like the war between ethnic tribes in Sudan which is real and terrible but no threat to him.

He has decided to ask Alice to move in with him, and now as he waits for her to respond on the intercom, he reckons that if she likes that idea he might even ask her to marry him. An image of marital bliss plays in his mind and it comforts him. He smiles, feeling secure and peaceful, almost normal.

Just then, Leibman hears a familiar voice behind him.

"Hey," she says casually.

He turns to see Alice’s flatmate Wushan standing and smiling at him. He isn’t sure whether she likes him or trusts him but he doesn’t care.

"Alice isn’t answering."

"You guy have date?" she asks in her occasionally cute but mostly irritating accent.

Leibman nods and forces a smile to hide his annoyance.

Him not replying to the question doesn’t faze Wushan, she simply states that Alice is probably in the shower, and he should come up with her. "No problem."

His mood is souring, like milk left too long in the refrigerator as Wushan babbles away during the elevator ride to the seventh floor. Leibman hopes he has made the correct noises and gestures at the appropriate moments in the conversation so that she believes he is participating. Of course, he isn’t, he’s rehearsing his lines. Wushan’s presence is an unaccounted for factor but it won’t hinder him. He realizes that he loves Alice, she is light in his darkness and like breath in his lungs he must have her. He needs her. Buoyed, he quickens his pace to the door of her apartment which makes Wushan laugh. He doesn’t hear her laugh or the words she says afterward as she fiddles with the key in the lock of the door. Leibman’s heart is racing. He can’t wait to see her, to hold her.

Rudely, he pushes past Wushan who has stopped in the hall for some reason and is standing still. Is she shaking?

In the living room, Alice is lying face down on the floor covered in blood. Wushan is swaying, terrible emotions rocking her insides with hurricane force. Leibman notices her open mouth and her trembling lip. At first he thinks it is not his beloved Alice lying on the floor but who else would it be? He crouches to touch her as he feels a creepy numbness spreading through his body like an opiate injected into his vein. Willing himself to breathe he brushes blood matted hair from her left cheek which bears a gaping wound. He sucks in a deep shuddering breath as he reveals her eye, wide open with indescribable terror. Now he hears the air leaving his lungs and exiting his frozen body through his mouth. There is no other sound. Then, from deep within the horrible silence, comes the voice.

"You shall have no other gods before me."

Leibman understands instantly, and leaves Alice’s apartment. He says nothing to Wushan, who has begun to wail hysterically, because there is nothing left to say. His final, futile hope lays on the floor.


About the Author

D.A. Cairns is married with two teenagers and lives on the south coast of New South Wales where he works as an English language teacher and writes stories in his very limited spare time.

He has had around 30 short stories published (but who’s counting right?) He blogs at Square Pegs and has authored three novels, Devolution, Loathe Your Neighbor, and his latest, Ashmore Grief, which is available from Artema Press.