A preview of my new short story, The Whispers. I’ve been working on it awhile, and some of you probably read some of it in a previous blog post. I decided to finish it tonight and ended up using a couple of this weeks prompts at Inspiration Monday to complete it.
Since it is over 1,000 words long I chose not to post the full version in a blog post. Instead, you can find it here.
A taste of The Whispers
Once upon a time, I used to have dreams. Now all I have is piercing blackness. So comforting but so ready to destroy me. It cloaks me in the darkness that hides me from the people that could be my accusers. They cannot blame what they have never seen. His men will not find me here; in this place I am safe. They cannot find me.
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 and he’s never coming back.’ and worse they tell me, ‘You killed him.’
I cannot escape them. They have too many ways to attack, sleep will only bring their nightmares, but wakefulness is just as bad. 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?
The back roads always thought they were his, twisting and winding their way through the city, they were his kingdoms and he ruled them well. No one dared travel his road and managed not to be forever changed. If they travelled down his road then they met him. They met him then they thought they were more than disposable men. But I knew better. They were always just temporaries to him. He told me too many times, that a good leader made everyone feel important, but no one truly mattered. I knew he followed that policy with everyone, even me. And if he did, that meant I didn’t matter. But I let myself think otherwise, to read into his careful treatment. I let myself believe that he must have cared a little to take me in, and more to let me tag along with him, when I only caused him trouble. Then on my honest days I would tell myself the torturous truth. If they were only disposable men, those who were so much more useful than me, what could I be beyond a pet?
The way he glared at any of his men that looked at me wrong, and wouldn’t let anyone near me, I read into it as big brotherly protection. Now I see he only wanted me to feel that way. He wanted to buy my loyalty. I hate him for it. I hate him because he succeeded, and even though he’s gone, I still want to follow. So the Whispers tell me why I cannot.