The Voice He Hears (Part 18)

“Michael, do yo..” “NOT, NOW, MOM!” She pulled her head back away from the stairwell and stomped through the kitchen. He could hear her murmur coming from different ends of the house as she moved about. “Love you!” He then heard the door slam. As he listened to the car speeding away, he let out a long sigh.

Nothing was real. He couldn’t come back to any sort of stable reality after all he’d undergone. Time seemed to just pass without mention as he became preoccupied with the thoughts of unsettling perplexities. He had no appetite, no desire to drink. He only brought himself to his feet to pee, which seemed like too much of a chore at both points. He only stared off. His only movement was the slight change of eye as he observed the occasional passing bird beyond the glass. The only sound was the ticking clock that would repeatedly line up with his heartbeat. He was tired, but well determined to not sleep.

Rick’s text made him jump. Mike was in the middle of thinking about the time he and his father had been welcomed into a home on Madison Ave. He remembered it well. A dwarf of a man with a very long ponytail. He welcomed them in to talk about the, “truth they were peddling,” as he recalled the man calling it. He remembered the man being very educated, as his choice of words were hard to comprehend. The man opened to the book of John, and he began to read from the King James version–a version the Witness community was to correct when confronted with. The man was sure of the opening verses, and he was sure of the erroneous teachings they brought to his table. Mike was in the middle of thinking about the look in the eyes of the man–convicting, and genuine. He was remembering bits and pieces of his spiel over the importance of contrition, when the iron bell notification from Rick shook his phone. “You alive?” Mike replied with only a yes.

It took him a few minutes to gather himself. He was beginning to realize how long it had been since he had showered. He moved upstairs to the bathroom.

The look in the mirror was one of disappointment. Greasy hair. Matted beard. He was studying the grays that seemed to triple since his last meeting with reflection. Passing off his already grave despondency, he stepped into the cascading water.



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