The Voice He Hears (Part 5)

The sound of his own voice was beginning to irritate him, let alone those of the few that he would hear from. Jobless, lazy as all get out and so full of lame excuses, left unlimited time for him to stew in his misery. The deep-seated resentment of a questionable origin was now his identity, unbeknownst to him.

The seasons came and went. His mother was beginning to wonder what happened to the son that used to always have a smile upon his face. Now, when she did see him emerge from the dark of her basement, he was pale. Lifeless. His simple eye movements were the responses to her questions. The question, “Are you depressed?” would usually be mentioned during opportune moments, like when he was upstairs to find food. Or, when he would be behind the door of the bathroom. She simply worried. Her unconditional love for him was true, but the bitterness he was so enthralled by didn’t paint her picture as love. It was more of an annoyance; a nagging, shooting pain inside of his head. One that he couldn’t avoid for very long.

He found himself on the floor. The light was streaming through one of the cracks in his dry-rotted mini blinds, shining its despicable light right in his closed eye. It woke him from the Rum-induced coma. He laid there for a few moments, and he just stared at the light. All sorts of thoughts began to rush through his foggy, waking mind.

This light–not like the usual light that would do nothing but burn him in more ways than one–was speaking to him in some mysterious way. It was almost angelic. It was almost like the experience he once had while tripping on Blotter, but there was nothing causing him to hallucinate. There was nothing but the light. There was nothing but the waking moments.

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