"What are the voices saying to you?" The therapist sits across from Danny. She is going to ask how many voices and about their tone. Danny is frustrated, his eyes caste to the side, eyebrows bent, his lips quiver. His speech is pressured. To Danny this is a personal question. It's like an invasion of privacy to say. 

"They, they tell me to hurt myself, that I'm a piece of shit anyway." He wrings his chubby hands. His disheveled curly red hair is flopping over his eyes. His mother sits in the next chair, exasperated. There have been many therapists and attempts to control Danny's Schizophrenia. The voices started when Danny was eighteen. He is now twenty five. 

After the session and an increase in his dosages, Danny and mother go home.

No one can tell Danny the voices are not real. They live inside his head. They hate him. They lie to him and reward him when he obeys them. He begins to believe them. He believes the lies they tell of people only wanting to hurt him. They tell him not to sleep. He believes he is just a piece of shit. He believes the voices. It's one against many who bombard him everyday telling him why he should just die. That he is the alien supreme ruler of Neptune who needs to return to the goat horned hoof ship. He can trust no one but the voices. He is tired, he is drugged and follows the commands. He overdoses and dies. 

Were the voices real? They were to Danny. 

The voices in my head are loud today.

I plug my ears, but still I hear them talk;

oh please, oh please, just make them go away!

I thought that maybe I could take a walk,

that they would quiet down and let me think.

I plug my ears, but still I hear them talk.

I’m trying not to let my spirit sink;

these voices drowning out my fervent plea

that they would quiet down, and let me think.

I hear them use my mouth. That wasn’t me!

Oh please, help me ignore their foul demands,

these voices drowning out my fervent plea.

I hang my head, then fiercely wring my hands

as they tell me to do such evil things...

oh please, help me ignore their foul demands!

The silent echoes, misery now brings,

as they tell me to do such evil things.

The voices in my head are loud today;

oh please, oh please, just make them go away!

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

** The Terzanelle is a newer mixed form, combining the repetition of the Villanelle with the three line stanzas of the Terza Rima. This descent into madness was crafted in iambic pentameter, although the Terzanelle can be written in any meter.

I hope the voices, that I imagine I hear, are fake. I really do.

I say I imagine I hear them, because I can't say I have ever actually heard someone (or something) "talk" to me in my mind.

I just feel that sometimes, when I am caring on a conversation with myself, I get input from "someplace" else.

I hope it is as simple as my conscious becoming aware of my subconscious ideas. But I really don't know.

He exploded out of his dream, sweating, the hairs on his arm standing on end. Jack's had nightmares before, and this wasn't much different that the rest. Chased by faceless men, backed onto a cliff, falling... falling... falling... awake. He's always awake before the collision with the earth. Maybe it's the force of the fall that brings him back to the waking world.

He collects his breath. Focusing on the ceiling, he slowly brings his mind to the present. "I'm safe... I'm in bed, I'm fine, I'm fine," he thinks with urgency. It doesn't help. It's all part of a process that lasts an hour or so and usually serves to exhaust him back to sleep more than anything else.

Unfortunately, this dream seemed to end just minutes before his alarm. Terrible luck. "This is going to be a long, long day," he thought again to himself, sighing as he heaved his legs over the side of his bed. Staring at his feet, a dull pain sets in behind his right eye. "Not enough water... I never drink enough water," he tortures himself. Self-flagellation. It's another part of the daily ritual. As the sun rises, so must he remind himself to drink more goddamn water.

Jack lives alone in a house his great-grandfather built by himself in the early 1900's. None of the family is quite sure when he finished it, seeing as how nobody thought to document such things. It's a couple of bedrooms, a sitting room, kitchen, bathroom and shed sitting against a lake that hasn't changed at all in one hundred years. The house, which looks more like a cabin you'd rent on a weekend ski trip, also remains unchanged. A willow tree washes over it, stretching over the lake several feet. It's the only thing that would stand out to his great-grandfather as different.

Jack shuffles to the kitchen to make coffee. As it drips with an agonizing deliberateness, he stares out the window at the tree. His expression is blank. There's nobody there. There's no reason to put on the mask of the friendly neighbor. They can't judge him for looking unhappy or pained, and he can't be judged by them. "My god, my head... I'm dying. This is how I die."

The coffee isn't finished brewing, but there's enough to pour a cup. Jack does this and walks out to the front porch. He has a cheap folding chair waiting there for him. Ritual. The sun is just high enough in the sky to warm his skin, but the chill of the night hasn't been snuffed out yet. It's the perfect time of day. As he takes the first sip, Jack's brain registers that the troops have been deployed to claim victory over pain. They're happy soldiers, and he's glad to host them.

"Maybe it's time to tear that tree down," he offers, knowing he'll never do something so ridiculous.

"Maybe you should," comes a reply from an altogether new participant.

Jack stands straight up, staring out across the water. He stares back at the chair, wondering if it has an answer to who just said that. Nobody said that; nobody is there. He's alone, which means it's impossible to have gotten a response. It's impossible to have gotten a response from a thought in the first place. The pain behind his right eye has returned with a fury.