The Whispering Corner

It probably didn't scare you the first time you saw it either. It probably didn't make your heart pound, your chest heave, or throat tighten....neither did it make mine, but then again, I saw it with different purpose.

Look, here it is—in this corner—a chair. Don't give me that look. It's a simple chair in a simple corner. It is like those used in children's class rooms—short with a plastic back and seat, metal pieces connecting them. It is grey—like the corner. I don't suppose any one has moved it in years. Sit down, don't be concerned.

You're looking behind you? Oh, yes, those...The scratch marks where the, once white, paint was torn away. That little bit of red is, yes, blood, but don't be concerned. What is the word scratched on that wall? I think: Over. And on that one? Definitely Lost. And that one...toughy....I can't quite remember, oh, yes, Help. This one here says: even whispers make a sound. That's quite an obvious one isn't it? Obviously whispers make a sound! So does crying; so does raking your nails across the wall until they bend backward and bleed; so does the twisting of a knot; so does the creak of floor boards under the weight of a laden chair.

"Dinner, dear!"

Who is that talking to you? Oh, your mother...hm. Some things shouldn't make sounds. What do you say? Well...perhaps, not yet.

The chair isn't very comfortable, is it? No. Neither is life, I'm afraid. But chairs help—don't they?

"Are you talking to someone dear? It's time for dinner."

Oh, it is time...yes, it is time. Now—oh, yes, what are you looking at? The walls. They like to close like that. Now, just look at the corners! One, two, three, four! We're surrounded. Oh, and new scratch marks. Your fingers must ache, don't they? The tips must be raw and bloodied. Pain—such a trivial thing. But don't be concerned.

The walls are closing in, but that's okay. We don't have to worry about it.

What was that you said? The silence? Oh, she is my best friend—so ever present. There is silence between every word, you know—at the end of every thought, sentence, paragraph, time, speech, life. There is silence before too—very much. Do you like the way it rings? Yes, it can get a little frustrating, almost painful in a way...but always very full—very full. Sometimes it feels like your head will explode, but don't be concerned.

The ground is now beginning to lurch and turn dark, bubbling and twisting, folding in on itself—but don't worry. Yes, the chair will hold you if you stand on it.

Creaaaaaak.

Even, so, it won't hold you long, but that won't bother you, will it? No. It didn't bother me either.

Oh, what are you looking at now? The rope? The one on the ceiling? Yes, it has a nice loop in it doesn't it? It looks like a gateway—a door hole perhaps. It looks better from up here.

Do as I'm doing and you will forever have this view. Look at me here, as I hang from my rope, my black, hair fallen in disarray, my lovely dress that Grandfather got me, loose on my thin form.

A shiver goes through you, but in a moment, you won't feel any pain—don't be concerned.

That's it. That's it. Yes, your head. Through the hole. And step.

Oh, your throat is tightening, isn't it? Your heart is pounding? Your vision blurring? Your chest heaving? It won't be for very long! Don't be concerned.

"He-lp! He-lp."

I know. It's rather uncomfortable for a moment, isn't it?

"Hellllp. He—lp."

Hush, hush, hush, hush. Is your vision going dark? Yes. Don't worry.

"Help....help...help...."

Your vision is completely gone now, isn't it? Good. And hush, hush, hush, hush. Don't be concerned, dear. Even whispers make a sound.