The Calling | The House of Voices #1

Twenty Four - Believing

Believing

Parish:

The crimson liquid seeping out of his skin was a stark contrast against the immaculately white room. White walls; white bed sheets; white floors; white pillow cases. Everything was white.

Parish looked around frantically for something to staunch the blood-flow; to wipe away the blood. He cradled his wounded arms close to his body, desperately trying to make sure that he didn’t spill a single drop of blood on anything that would stain. The last thing he needed was any authority figures assuming he’d started self-harming again.

After a quick glance around the room, Parish realized that it offered nothing that would aid him; so he did the only thing he could think of and took off his shirt. Wrapping the material around his arms, he thanked the heavens for the fact that he’d worn a black shirt. There would be a few darker patches on the shirt, but he could think of an excuse for those later.

Through the vent, he heard October’s horrified voice. “They cut you? Where?”

“My arms.” He replied, pressing the cloth tighter against his skin. He didn’t want to tell her about the jagged cut that ran across his stomach. She already sounded terrified as it was; he didn’t need to scare her more. “They’ve made it look like I’ve done it to myself.”

 “So, they aren’t that deep then?” The tremor in her voice made Parish wonder what the voices had been doing to her on the other side of the wall. There was a throaty quality to her voice that hadn’t been there before. Had they strangled her? If they were capable of crossing over to his room and slicing his arms, who knew what kind of torture they put her through on a daily basis.

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he thought about all the horrors the girl must have had to endure throughout her life. When he’d first discovered her self-harming tendencies, he’s assumed that she’d been doing it because she was depressed, like he had been. But what if the voices drove her to commit those acts? What if they’re the ones who hurt her in the first place?

“No, they’re not.” He lied, staring at the deep, burning gashes that adorned his arms. Another pang of worry hit him as he realized that he wouldn’t be able to hide the marks. The voices had cut him all along his forearm and his shirt was a short sleeved one. How would he explain this to Darren?

“Don’t lie to me.” Despite the stinging in his arms and stomach, Parish couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in mild amusement. How had she been able to tell he was lying?

“I’m not.” He suppressed a wince when he applied pressure onto the gash on his tummy with the bundled up t-shirt.

“Parish.”

Suddenly, he was compelled to tell her the truth about the extent of his wounds. In the back of his mind, he wondered why that was. She hadn’t said anything remotely profound; she hadn’t threatened him or pleaded with him – she’d just, sternly, said his name.

Maybe she’s just one of those people you can’t lie to.

He sighed and, ignoring the impulse to tell her the truth, said “Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

He felt the vein in his temple start to throb slightly. The girl pushed his buttons more than anyone else ever had before; voices or no voices, she certainly had a way of bringing out the unpredictability of his moods. “Drop it October.” He was pleasantly surprised when his tone was a mix of gruff anger and rigidness.

“Fine.” She responded with an exasperated sigh. A muted thud followed.

Parish took the temporary silence as an opportunity to check on his wounds. Now that the bleeding had stopped, he could fully see the extent of the damage the voices had done.