Young Writers Society

David lurched forward violently.

‘See, I told you that’s what you need’. Spitting in disgust at his own weak vulnerability David answered the malicious voice in his head: ‘Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.’

Still bending over, his head between his knees and the fingers of his greasy fringe struggling to push themselves that extra centimeter that would see them touch the floor, he started to cry. Then the voice that David hated, yet craved, came drifting into his head once more: ‘you gave in didn’t you? You feeble piece of shit.’ Tears slithered their way down his cheek, escaping the crimson red bloodshot eyes. Letting go of the cylindrical tube, weaponed with a deathly black needle; ‘the wasp sting’, the voice liked to call it, the visibly ill, bedraggled, exhausted addict wept again. It would come soon.

Venom cursed through his pulsing veins causing him to jerk sporadically; dropping harshly on wooden floor, David felt a surge of pain explode in his right shoulder. He quickly forgot about that, however, with the spontaneous movements of his limbs slapping against the floor. His body flexed and twisted as if something was forcing its way out of it; as if David was harbouring a monster of devastating capabilities. His tongue hung over his poisonous purple lower lip, scarred and bleeding from the aftermath of his jaw opening, closing, causing his few teeth to bite, release, bite and release. Then, for David, everything went black.

Stained curtains flew in opposite directions, the latch that would secure the window repeatedly smashed against the frame and the echoes of innocent children filtered through the room. A tender voice woke David from his slumber. ‘Davey lad, bin those ghastly tubes, and save yourself. Will you? For me old pal?’ Trickles of sweat flee from his brow only to be trapped in the bunker containing his narrow slits for eyes. One more reason for David not to awake fully: the tremendous sting of salty tears penetrating his sensitive, unprotected funeral black beads. Normally, he would ignore this voice, for the overwhelming guilt that engulfed him when answering was too much for him to bare. This voice cared, this voice wanted him to survive. Today was different, the slender frame of a man answered drowsily: ‘You don’t understand.’

‘Yes I do Davey lad. You need to ignore the bastard that lingers in your head and listen to me.’

‘I try to, I swear’, David replied rather hoarsely.

‘Do you want to continue living?’.

‘Yes.’ Silence erupted. Even the joyful screams of the little ones ceased.

Concluding that the voice had left, he intended to rise and get washed. However, he had intended to stop years ago and that failed miserably. Realising, too late, that he couldn’t support his weight, he collapsed to the floor: an experience that happened all too often. Lying there long enough for him to recover some strength, some energy sapped from the deepest reserve within his body, he crawled agonizingly slowly to the door that guarded the bathroom. Managing to haul his body into the bath, David turned on the tap and let the hellish hot water envelope his bare legs and climb to his waist before he switched it off. Not a sound uttered from David’s bruised lips. He found the intense heat of the water somehow comforting.

He always felt calm after a dosage. He always found himself in a state of total peacefulness and always wondered if this was what meditation felt like. David knew that this state of mind would only last a couple of minutes, so he savoured every last second of it. It would soon come.

A vehement pain surfaced at the rear of his skull. It spread like wildfire, incinerating all areas of his mind. It took hold of David; his head shook convulsively. The demon within tormented its victim.

As soon as it came, it was gone. Just like that: as though this was only a quick change over at a train station.

He heard him again. Only whispers at first, but he became increasingly louder, became increasingly indignant. David tried to suppress it. His effort fruitless: ‘LISTEN. LISTEN. LISTEN TO ME’. The malevolent voice giggled in triumph; not the cute giggle of a sweet little child, but the sadistic giggle of evil. It had David’s attention.

‘Hello there Davey. How are we doing today aye?’ hissed the, apparently pleased, voice.

‘go away, please, oh god, go away’ David ushered, quietly.

‘What’s that Davey? You want me gone? You know, as well as I do, how you do that.’

‘Not again. Please no.’

‘Yes, Davey. Inject old wasp sting over there’.

He shook his head.

‘YES.’ Another shake.

‘Do it! Do it now!’

Then a thought hatched. David lifted his head and spoke, ignoring the un-relenting burn in his throat, ‘Yeh, I do know a way out’. The voice, either stunned into it or waiting on an advancement, went silent.

With a sudden movement, David plunged his head underwater. Gripping the sides of the bath and forcing his head down, he unleashed a determination; a determination to die. A quite different voice spoke this time: ‘Davey, what are you doing? Live, please live. He will go, this isn’t the way out! Davey?’, this was the reassuring voice that David couldn’t handle. Some way, he had to push this voice away or he definitely wouldn’t have it him to finish this. He gripped harder, pushed his head down with a vengeful force. He opened his eyes. He opened his mouth. He let the water rush into his mouth, forcing its way around his teeth. The water, so pure, so clear, so natural, took on, through no fault of its own, a murderous role.