This is the opening to a short story I’m working on. It stands on it’s own pretty well so I thought I’d preview it here. Hopefully I’ll be posting the whole thing soon anyway.
I’m not sure if the punctuation is right in the last sentence of the opening paragraph, any help?
Piercing blackness. So comforting but so ready to destroy me. It hides me from the people that could be my accusers. They cannot blame what they have never seen. But the Whispers can. There is no hiding from the Whispers. They know what I’ve done, they tell me so. Always whispering. So no one else hears them. But to me, they scream louder than thousands of bells tolling together. They scream, ‘He’s dead.’ ‘He’s never coming back.’ and worst they tell me, ‘You killed him.’
I cannot escape them. So I resign myself to hate the Whispers. I’ll loathe them the way they abhor me. They must hate me. Why else would they spend so much time haunting me?