They're coming to get me.
Can't you hear them?
Oh, don't tell me you can't – they all say they can't – they say – they say – they say. They say that there are no voices. But how can there be no voices? They're everywhere, everywhere.
It all started, oh, I don't know when. How could I know when?
When? Let's forget when. Where, now that's another story.
Where – in my house. Before the voices.
Oh, I was happy enough. Single guy with a good-paying job, good-paying, like that was all that mattered. I was a lawyer. A crooked lawyer. I sent too many, too many innocents to jail.
You've heard – you've heard of the famous Brooke Anita case, haven't you? Of course you have. Everyone has.
I was the prosecutor.
Brooke Anita was completely innocent, innocent, innocent, but I sent her to jail, no, not jail, worse than jail; I sent Brooke Anita to her death.
And here's the best part – oh, the very best part – I didn't care.
Not one bit.
Whoever had the most dough won my services. And in most cases, the crooked side got me.
Some murderers were let free under my guidance. Other innocents were sent to jail, or like Brooke, sent to their deaths for murders they never committed.
And I sat in my big house, alone, alone in the house and I laughed at them.
And I counted my money, the money that was earned from guiltless people's deaths, and I laughed even harder.
It was night. Oh, don't ask me when – you know that gets to me – when, when, when.
It was night. That's all I can remember.
It was night. I was sitting alone. Reading a book. I could hear the grandfather clock ticking. Tick, tick, ticking.
Then I heard it – it, don't ask me what IT is – it, a voice, speaking to me.
“Kardoff,” it hissed. It was the voice of a lady, an old one, gravelly and choked. “Thomas Kardoff, you've killed me! You've killed me!” It started as a whisper, a whisper so tiny I thought it was nothing, nothing. Then it swelled and swelled into a scream, a high-pitched scream that seemed to burst my eardrums.
I found myself on the floor, clutching at my ears in pain as a wordless scream filled my ears. I knew it was her death cry. Brooke Anita's death cry.
Then it stopped – abruptly. I scrambled to my feet. There was something I needed to know, needed, needed, NEEDED to know. I looked and searched and scoured records until I found it -
“APRIL TENTH (it said)– Brooke Anita is found guilty and sentenced to death by-”
The words were blurred there. But I dried it, I furiously tried to read it until the last two words appeared – death by what? death by- death by-
“-electric chair.”
I fell back in my seat, eyes boring a hole in the wall, breathing heavily. That scream – is was Anita's. Even if she hadn't voiced it at the time of her death, it was what her soul had screamed.
And just as I thought that, it returned, the ear-splitting, glass-shattering shriek of pure pain and fury and I curled to the ground in torment.
The next day. (I can remember that much – I'm not completely gone! NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAY!)
The next day I was tired from not sleeping – how could I sleep? The cry had gone, but the voices stayed. This time it wasn't just Anita's. It was others – others I had sentenced to die. And then more that I hadn't heard of before. I tried to pinpoint the origins of those voices until I realized. Through my twisted works, I had let murderers go free. And they had re-committed their crimes.
Their victims were haunting me, as well.
I managed to get to my working place somehow - I can't remember how I managed to drive with the voices - managed to stumble into my office. My eyes glassy, hair unkempt. The secretary looked at me strangely but I managed to get into my office alone. I collapsed on the chair, clutching my ears. The voices, they had receded slightly, but they were still there, always, always there, taunting me, laughing at me, and what I had done to them they were giving back at me tenfold.
“Mr. Thomas?” the voice came through, static, electronic. I shot up at the sound, focusing on the speakerphone that rested on my desk.
“Someone here to see you, sir.” The door swung open to reveal a large man. I managed to motion him in, gesturing to sit down.
“I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name," I choked out.
“Chroe, Jason Chroe,” spoke the man. “Sir, I have reason to believe you're experienced in defending clients who-” he glanced furtively around him before continuing, “-aren't so innocent. I was wondering if I could employ you – I have a large amount of money I'm willing to-”
“NO!” I screamed. I can imagine my eyes then, wide, bloodshot, as I scrambled up in my chair like a wild animal. “NO! YOU'RE – YOU'RE ONE OF THEM!”
Chroe watched me with terrified eyes. “Mr. Kardoff, sir, I don't know what you're-”
“OUT!” I screamed, a guttural cry. “OUT!”
He stumbled backwards, scrambling out the door. My head cleared, except, of course, for the voices – so you couldn't exactly call it clear – clear – hah!
I took a step towards the door, where my secretary was watching me in shock. “Mary,” I slurred like a drunk, “Tell 'em I've gone home sick-”
Then I fell to the floor and all faded to black.
Even then – even then – the voices persisted. Even as I was unconscious, lying spread-eagled on the floor, they were there, always, always there, there, there. Still here, then there, always, always -
-and I woke up in a hospital.
“Mr Kardoff, sir,” floated a voice, like an angel, soft and soothing, and I relaxed, thinking maybe the voices were gone, maybe they left, or maybe I had died-
“YOU'VE KILLED US!” the screeches came again and I doubled up in pain.
“Mr. Kardoff! Please, stop, you'll hurt yourself!” came the nurse's cry as I trashed in my bed.
“Stop! Make them stop!” I moaned, pleading, tears leaking out the corners of my eyes. “They're everywhere – everywhere!”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” soothed the bewildered nurse. “There's nobody here.”
I felt the world plunging into black, pure black again and I managed to gasp a few more words - “The – the voices!”
Then nothing again, but always the voices.
You can't imagine the hell the next days brought. They labeled me as mad. Gone out of my mind. But I'm not mad. I'm not over the edge. It's the voices – the voices, I tell you – they make me crazy!
At last they put me here, in this place. I hear them whispering, in what they think, oh ho, what they THINK is a quiet voice. I hear them talking, pitying me, poor Mr. Kardoff, so young to be put over the edge, and what a wasted life, what wasted talent, what wasted youth, blah – blah – blah...
And then I say to them... I'm not a waste... I'm not wasted... I'm not mad... I'm fine... Perfectly fine... except for the voices, of course...
And the clam up and leave. And I'm still here.
Alone.
Yet not alone.
I'm not mad, I'm not, not, no, no, not me, not Thomas Kardoff, I'm fine, I'm good, I'm rich and young and well-off and nobody can tell me otherwise – I'm not mad, not, not, not mad...
You understand. You HAVE to understand. I'm not mad, I'm not. Let me out, let me out! No, don't leave. Stop walking. Don't leave me here alone again! - with the voices! - don't leave me alone again! Please, I beg of you! Shutting the door, now, are you? You'll close it soon. You'll stop hearing my voice, and never think of me again, except for remembering “poor Mr. Kardoff,” who thought he heard voices, voices, VOI-