The Calling | The House of Voices #1

Twenty Three - Proof

Proof

October:

I definitely didn’t want to be the one who broke the silence; partly because I wanted to give Parish time to digest everything that had just happened – but mostly because I was feeling too awkward to say anything.

What could I have possibly have said that wouldn’t have made things more uncomfortable? “Sorry your mom left, but yet on the progress in your relationship with your father”?

Somehow, I didn’t think that would fly too well, so I kept my mouth shut.

I’d honestly tried my level best not to listen, especially when Darren mentioned Parish wanting to take pills to help him fall asleep. That kind of stuff was extremely personal – definitely not something you would want an almost-stranger to overhear.

But when he came to the part about finding his Dad in the kitchen, I couldn’t help it. Something about the way his voice shook, the way it abruptly cracked in some places, made me want to listen. It drew me in. The vulnerability in his voice was undeniable – it felt like I was listening to a completely different boy than the one I thought I knew. Not the cocky, sarcastic Parish that I’d grown used to over the past few days. Not the closet nice-guy that showed up once in a while – but a broken boy.

Parish Feltman, It appeared, wasn’t as strong and confident as I’d first believed him to be. I could tell by the slight tremor in his voice as he told his tale that he was just like me; just like the rest of us – Troubled, bruised and unsure.

I sat there, leaning against the bed in silence, waiting for him to speak first. A good five minutes passed and I began to wonder if he was doing the same thing – waiting for me to initiate the conversation.

I was just about to clear my throat when his voice reached my ears through the vent. “I’m guessing you heard all that?” He asked, a slight hint of sadness coloring his tone.

“Yeah, I did.” I confirmed. “I’m sorry Parish. I tried not to listen.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He replied. At first I thought he was being sarcastic; mocking me. But there was something about the way he said it that made me realize that he was being sincere; that he believed that I tried not to listen.

“Do you...” I twiddled with the edge of my sheet nervously, not having any idea what to do or say next. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His response came instantly. “No.”

“Okay.” A small part of me was slightly offended by his response, but forced myself to remember that he had every right to refuse. We didn’t know each other that well and the topic obviously caused him a lot of pain. Why would he want to talk about it with me?

A minute passed before he spoke up again. “So, how much are you pitying me right now?” he asked quietly.

“Pitying you?” I repeated. Pitying Parish hadn’t even crossed my mind. Should I have pitied him? Yes, what he’d been through was awful; there was no denying that, but hadn’t we all gone through traumatizing things? My thoughts flew to Sid, who’d been regularly abused by his neighbor, and Kara, whose cousin had tried to kill himself while she was in the next room. Everything we’d been though made us all perfect Pity Party candidates; but what good would pity do? We didn’t need pity. It couldn’t help us. What we needed was something more. Understanding, compassion, people who wouldn’t abandon us – That’s what we needed. Parish didn’t deserve pity, he deserved empathy. “No.” I finished. “I wasn’t pitying you.”

The relief-laced gratitude in his voice was practically tangible. “That makes you the first person who hasn’t.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that.