Anthem, Silent

Schalk

I've always been more than just a little "twisted".

Ouma swore up and down that I was worse than the devil, and Oupa cried fat bloody tears whenever he saw me. There were other people who could probably call me much worse- except, dead men tell no tales and you won't ever get the chance to hear their truth.

I casually cracked my neck as I sat in my silent car, in the underground parking lot of the work building that my father owned. Today was another work day, another day where I was forced to be around people I didn't want to be around and deal with their stupid looks. Everyone knew better than to talk to me, Schalk (Sh-all-k) du Toit wasn't exactly the next smiling face of the office, and I've had more than one instance where I've let my twisted side show and ended with bloody footprints all over the office. Pa hated when I dirtied the Persian rug in my office with blood. He said that blood was impossible to remove and he was getting tired of buying Persian rugs every other day.

I ran my fingers over the Bentley sign on my steering wheel and then reached for the door handle, letting myself out. "Fuck. I hate Mondays," I groaned under my breath, pulling out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes as I locked the car and placed a trusted cigarette to my lips. I pulled out a plain silver lighter, bringing it to the cigarette and lighting it as my sneakers pressed on the concrete floors of the underground parking lot.

"Morning, morning, Baas (boss)," one of the security guards, a 36 year old man named Jabu, greeted me as he rubbed his hands together but maintained the distance between us. He was practically on the other side of the garage and I couldn't help but find it comical that he was the one with the gun and all I had was Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter; yet, I'd be the one to cause the most damage- and he knew that.

For a moment as I walked, with my eyes to the floor and my hoodie covering me, I half wondered if I should turn in his direction and get the soles of my new takkies dirty, maybe mess up that Persian rug that pa just bought for his office. I felt a dark smirk spread across my lips at the thought of ending Jabu's life, but I frowned thinking about the new hoodie that I was wearing and how blood took too long to wash out so I continued walking towards the lift, opting to deal with him a little later if I didn't find another victim.

The doors of the lift closed as I pressed the button for the fourth floor, the highest level in the modest building. "Smoking kills. Respect your body enough not to be the cause of your own death," I read the sign inside the lift with my usual raspy and deep baritone voice. I read it every morning and every morning it sounded even more stupid, "I need to find whoever made this stupid ass sign and shove it down their fucking throat," I said deadly, as I continued my smoking. The lift doors opened to reveal an empty floor since it was still early and most of the employees were yet to arrive.

I walked through the floor, making my way to my office on the other end. I saw my name on a golden plank on my office door with the words "Chief Financial Officer" and I opened the door, entering the stale room that I had done very little to design to fit my personality or likes. I didn't like much of anything, I preferred the simple brown table, the laptop in the centre, the neat stack of folders on the left corner and the swivel chair that allowed me a view of downtown Sandton and the influx of trendy restaurants, bars, malls, skyscrapers, fast cars and people.

I walked over to my chair and sat down on it and then let myself face the window like I always do. I got lost in watching the outside world, watching the steady rise of the sun as I finished my cigarette and lit another. I could go days, weeks, months in silence, not bothering to speak to anyone except the voices in my head. I could keep myself going with just myself.

My phone rang- right on time- at exactly 10:25 every morning, and I brought it to my ears, accepting the call after exactly four rings. "Good morning, Schalk," the voice that belonged to my therapist, Pieter (Pee-Te-Rr) (emphasis on the r) came through the speaker and registered in my brain. Pieter's voice was boring, like he worked in customer service and was bored to death of repeating the same sales pitch every day. However, I preferred it to the emotional voices that had belonged to my previous therapists who were mostly women. The 'you can talk to me, Schalk', or 'you can trust me, Schalk' or the 'please! Don't kill me! Help!' the last was my personal favourite.