I Hear a Whisper in the Wind
...and it told me of so many things…
It started off with little things. A glimpse of gold and black and tan; the ghost of a voice whispering in the wind. Little things I could pass off as an overactive imagination; the gods know I have enough of one. It wasn't so bad in the daytime; daylight had always been a remedy for night frights. It was the evenings, after dinner, before bed, when I would sit alone in my room and feel him.
My other self.
It wasn't supposed to be possible, but then again, he was always a part of me. I created him, so perhaps it wasn't so strange that I was seeing his shadows in the corners of my eyes. His silhouette in place of my shadow; my hands disobey. A wish? A subconscious desire to be freed from responsibility by the gift of madness?
He plagued my dreams, a shadow of my shadow, and always I saw him sitting caged upon an electric throne. Even when I chose to stand by the tiny prison, his gaze was directed inward; he couldn't see me. From his lips spilled words that defused before they reached my straining ears, but no distance could hide the sorrow.
"You made me; how could you abandon me?"
I began sleeping less and less, but that only let him invade my days. He sleeps at my feet, catlike and innocent; he sits in the chair opposite, eyes blank and silent. It began to affect my behaviour. I had to fend off my concerned siblings with half-truths that I was afraid of going to bed. But that wasn't it: I was afraid of seeing him again and again.
Crying in the darkness.
As if to compensate for the decreasing frequency, the dreams grew more vivid. There were nights when I could see the pattern of veins on his hands, nights when I could finally hear the words he was saying, and nights when I wished that I couldn't.
"I was only what you wanted me to be; why did you throw me away?"
Insomnia and fatigue took its toll. When I woke, he was beside me. His violet eyes held no reflection, and he didn't seem to see. I screamed. I hit him. I ran.
"Why the fuck are you still here?!"
And he? He lay as still as the dead, closing his violet eyes. "You called for me, so I had to come."
It was an hour before I dared to move again. When I touched him, he was warm, but unresponsive. The body moved where I guided it, but there was no spark of life in his eyes. It was almost as if I was moving a doll. Or a corpse.
But he was still there; I could feel it, the soft pulse of his presence in my mind, filling the gaping space he once left behind.
I put him in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind. Sleep is once more mine.
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