Two men, dressed in white scrubs that outlined fine muscles, held an even larger man by his biceps. They led him through the dreary bland hallways to one of many rooms in the labyrinth-like building. The large man walked in without fighting and one man quickly jabbed a needle in his arm, a sedative. As soon as the doors closed behind him he snapped his head around at it. He glared at the door for a moment, mumbling something his breath.
Ivan had been in a mental institution for years now. How long? He wasn't sure. He just knew it was a long, long time. He was admitted here when he was in his mid-twenties, now he was nearing middle aged. His family had stopped visiting him years ago. They left him. The voices told him that. They didn't want him. He was useless to them and they would let him die here.
Telling me all I don’t want to hear,
Like how in this life I don’t belong
And so begins the silent siren song…
Everything is great, maybe even divine,
Yet I’m still not okay or even barely fine.
Everything is alright but I’m all wrong,
Being driven insane by that siren song…
Every moment seems to last forever,
In a cycle that even love can’t sever.
This short life feels far too long
When hearing the slow siren song…
The voice still echoes within my head,
Singing of everything it knows I dread.
I’m starting to lose the will to carry on,
Sick of hearing this siren song…
I start to wonder if Death’s endless bliss
Is worth the pain of those that would miss
Me when I’m forever dead and gone,
Overcome and taken by the siren song…
Death is sounding more and more attractive
As I lose track of reasons to continue to live.
So now I’m givi
Are there physical signs for people who have given up on life, like symptoms of some terminal disease?
Maybe you can see it in their eyes, that ashy grey colour that indicates the total absence of any form of hope.
Maybe you can smell it on them; a sour, despondent smell, similar to the stench of turned milk.
Perhaps you can hear it in their voice, the lack of electricity, the lack of life.
A dead voice.
The voice of a suicidal person should sound like a note played on a harpsichord. Tinny, listless, flat. An unpleasant noise that makes your skin crawl. Nails on a chalkboard.
But maybe there aren't any signs.
Maybe the nicest boy in class is the same boy who gets abused by his step dad every day after school.
Maybe the girl with the infectious laugh is the same girl who is too afraid to tell anybody that she got raped because she still blames herself.
Maybe the boy who does charity work for homeless people is the same boy who cries himself to
"Miss ____!" A child ran up to you. You hurried to put out your only cigarette and hide it.
"And just as I found it, too...tsch." You mumbled to yourself "What is it, kid?" Your mom was a baby sitter, so you'd grown to know all these children, but it just fueled the hatred you had for them even more.
"Your mom told me to come ask you to take me and the other kids to the play place! She's busy today she said! But she said you would do it!" This kid was a bit older. Boy. Maybe Seven-years-old or so. brown, properly cut hair, blue eyes.
You let out and angered sigh, upset that your mother always signed you onto things that she knew you wouldn't accept. But you nodded, not allowing this to get to you.
"Sure thing, squirt. Go get your buddies." At least this gave you a r
Anybody Can Write a Novel
Chapter 7 “From Story to Art” – Section 9 “Speech and Voice”
With Links to Supplementary Material
After you finish your first draft in all of its rough, unpolished, corny, sappy, unorganized glory, you will likely note something rather disturbing about your characters. They all sound the same. And, upon further analysis, you may even discover that they all sound like you. Fear not! This is to be expected, and but another factor to be adjusted and improved in the many drafts to come.
Tip 1: Annotate how each character's speech pattern differs from your own.
When a child is young, it is often difficult to attribute them with much of a unique personality, so long as they are parroting everything their parents say. Similarly, separating a character's speech p
low and steady and the voices
thrashing against my
skull with the anticipation
of a child on christmas morning,
they howl with
laughter and spit on
the flames that
dimly light the
shadows under my eyes.
when my hands stop
drumming against my thigh
and the static of
my car radio dies,
silence will come
my temple’s door
her hands icy cold
and her grin all but pleading--
it’s time to play.
with pools of light streaming out of their torches like car headlights in the rain.
Tonight is long and lonely, and voices wash over me in the dark.
Night checks, and rays of light pour over the sleepy shadowed forms of us,
into our eyes. Each black silhouette,
the shape of a patient in the middle of a dream.
I can feel insects crawling under my hands
but I can never dig them out.
Early morning cups of sweet black tea bring
a sense of comfort and normality to being an
involuntary psychiatric patient locked up in solitary.
Sleepless nights lying with outward eyes
at the disembodied hands pushing through the ceiling.
I curl around myself and wish I could disappear.
My hands are red and raw from trying to scratch
out the bugs that crawl underneath. I try to show
the insects to the staff, but none of the nurses believe.
One of the humanless spirits holds my spine
while the disembodied voices whisper "stay as low as you can
"I'm telling you for the last time..." you took a deep breath. "I didn't hurt my brother, I could never hurt Sammy. You reflected on the kidney lying on the floor. What could've done that? What could have the heart, (Or lack of it) to tear out a little boys' organs?
You had practically stopped listening to Officer Marks. After all, You were in a hospital, waiting for news on your brother, and you had an asshole of an officer interrogating you, when you knew damn well you did nothing wrong.
"You can say that all you want, kid. There's no way anyone else could've done it though." You looked past him. You knew he wouldn't believe you. Who could have done it? He had a point. no one could have. But something... on the other hand...
"Hello?" He impatiently waved his hand in front of your face, his mouth wrinkling into a frown
"Wh-What the hell a-" he placed his bony, pale hand over your mouth. You couldn't move. You were paralyzed by pain and fear. And this thing seemed pleased by that. Where his mouth should be, it began to rip, and seep a fluid...a fluid much like tar. it dripped to the ground, melting through the grass and plants. It looked worse that anything you had ever seen. It was grotesque and disgusting; resembling tearing flesh with oozing black, infected blood, his mouth approached your body...Was he..smelling you?
He didn't seem to want to hurt you...but he seemed more and more familiar to you. This thing...was he what killed the children...
"You were the man in the street!" You exclaimed through the hand that muffled your voice. He was. This was him. But what what this monster you had labeled "hi