The Whisperers.
Prologue.
The whispers never went away.
"Mommy!" I screamed, hands over my ears. "Mommy! Make them go away! I don't like them!"
They sent me off. Locked me up, in an institution. They said the whispers would stop, and leave me alone. They said I'd be better, and healthy, and be normal. But to me, the whispers were normal. And with each growing day, my control over them got weaker and weaker, until they were absolutely unbearable to stand.
I was only seven years old.
Seven. The age where normal kids would be playing with Barbies, or playing outdoors on shiny new bikes. The age of Cootie Catchers, pinky promises and best friends forever. Seven, the age when I was locked up in a mental institution.
My days there were outnumbered, my memories unclear. I grew up distraught; hating myself for the whispers, and hating the whispers for being part of me. And, despite my parent's one promise they had made me many years ago, the whispers never went away. Never.
They followed me wherever I went, no matter how hard I tried to get them to keep out. They occupied my dreams, struggling to clarify themselves. I never understood. I never tried.
I spent nine years in that dark and trepidatious place. Nine years wishing to leave, to be let out of that hell and into a world of freedom. A world without whispers.
Sixteen. The age of boyfriends, sleepovers and makeup. The age of high school, fake IDs and cars. The age of my escape.
Sixteen. The age this story begins.
"Mommy!" I screamed, hands over my ears. "Mommy! Make them go away! I don't like them!"
They sent me off. Locked me up, in an institution. They said the whispers would stop, and leave me alone. They said I'd be better, and healthy, and be normal. But to me, the whispers were normal. And with each growing day, my control over them got weaker and weaker, until they were absolutely unbearable to stand.
I was only seven years old.
Seven. The age where normal kids would be playing with Barbies, or playing outdoors on shiny new bikes. The age of Cootie Catchers, pinky promises and best friends forever. Seven, the age when I was locked up in a mental institution.
My days there were outnumbered, my memories unclear. I grew up distraught; hating myself for the whispers, and hating the whispers for being part of me. And, despite my parent's one promise they had made me many years ago, the whispers never went away. Never.
They followed me wherever I went, no matter how hard I tried to get them to keep out. They occupied my dreams, struggling to clarify themselves. I never understood. I never tried.
I spent nine years in that dark and trepidatious place. Nine years wishing to leave, to be let out of that hell and into a world of freedom. A world without whispers.
Sixteen. The age of boyfriends, sleepovers and makeup. The age of high school, fake IDs and cars. The age of my escape.
Sixteen. The age this story begins.
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I like it, actually. I'm going to keep it. My ideas for this are getting big.Comments would be wonderful.