A Compilation of Short Stories

The Magritte Mirror: The Voice

"What are you doing?"

"No, please... Please don't do this... Let me go... Please..." Simon whispers each syllable back to the hissing voice as he looks at the mirror, his hands flat against the glass while his forehead gently rests. His legs quiver below, weak and exhausted. Simon refuses to sit.

A cackling voice rips through his ears, "You think I'll let you go? After everything I've done to get you here? Hah! You think I'll help you? You think I'll sympathize with you? Do you truly believe I'm capable of those feelings?"

The hard, cold glass is smooth against Simon's clammy palms, the perspiration glistens against the skin he's always hated.

"I promise I won't tell anyone..." Simon's voice comes out high and pitchy: the sound of a child. His breath fogs up the glass reminding him of... failure. Failure to fight the voice; failure to save himself; failure to survive.

The voice catches on to the fear, roaring with infuriation, "Don't lie to me! You should know better! How dare you! How dare you try to defy me. To deny me. To escape me! I'm not sure if you understand me completely, Simon Becking."

A slight pause, before the voice slithers its way through Simon where it clearly breathes, "I... Own... You."

The silence, drawn out to an impossible length, seems to infect the air with a poisonous gas sending Simon's mind into a maze.

His body crumples, exhaustion overwhelming him. Leaning against the wall, legs pushed out as if attempting escape, his eyes refuse to leave the mirror that still hangs above and to the left of him. His eyes press into it, with a strength he didn't think he had..

Simon takes a deep breath, "No. Please... You don't understand, I need to be there... They need-"

"Who needs you? Who?" The voice screams, cutting Simon's voice and his courage. Disgust and frustration thunders across the voice's own vocal chords, "I thought we covered this already, Simon. To be frank, I am quite disappointed in you. No one needs you, Mr. Becking. Absolutely no one." The voice pauses, watching Simon tremble under its power. The voice continues louder with each syllable, thriving from the power it has over Simon Becking. "You are on your own, Simon. No one needs you, and no one will help you, and no one will look at you with anything other than pure and utter disgust." The last word is growled, deep in the throat of the unknown voice. It reverberates against Simon, whose hands are clamp against the sides of his head, but they don't feel like his hands. They hands push, harder and harder, the voice screaming louder and louder,

"Disgusting! Vile! Abomination! Minuscule!"

"No, it isn't true! I'm not that!" Simon's eyes stay locked on the mirror

"Oh, but it is! Simon Becking, the scumbag, the failure! Your parents question why they decided to keep you! Your friends wish they could abandon you! They would actually be happy, you know. They would love to leave you in the dust, go out to the movies without worrying about you! They despise you, Mr. Becking! They cannot stand you!" The voice pounds against the head of the young man on the ground, breaking through every barrier he thought would keep it out. A cheshire-like smile of the voice was felt throughout the room.

Simon's body curls in on itself, and his eyes finally break from the mirror. Simon rolls over, facing the ground as if hiding his face could hide him from this unseen terror. "LEAVE ME ALONE! Let me be..." Simon's veins pop out of his neck, pulsing the blood he wished would finally leave him. His screams combine with the voice, both intertwining within one another.

"Worthless-"

"Leave me alone-

"Sickening-"

"Let me be-"

"Coward-"

"Get OUT OF MY HEAD!"

And at last, the voices combine at the perfect Hertz, the perfect volume, the perfect time, and Simon realizes that the voice attacking him was but his own.