Seven and Deadly

The Voices

Kiku's eyes suddenly go wide. He barely saved his mug from shattering as his grip faltered. What in the world?! What..?

You heard me! I don't like it when people forget me! The frustrated British voice came again. Kiku's heart began to race. He looked around for an intruder, but no luck. You can't see me, idiot.

Kiku stumbled into the living room, aiming for his couch. He sat shakily, not knowing what to do. He wasn't a schizo, right? He'd been mentally stable his whole life...

The Japanese man breathed heavily, his fingers clenching and unclenching area of his sweater over his heart. This reminded him that he needed to change and freshen up.

...

Hello?

No reply.

Maybe it was just some kind of stress that made that happen. He would be okay.

Kiku went into the bathroom, trying to figure out how the shower worked before he started unpacking his soap and shampoo. He showered and changed quickly. That was better.

The day was relatively typical. He spent most of his time unpacking, trying to get it all over with in one fatal blow. However, the thought of that voice plagued his mind. God, what was that?! It scared him.

That night, Kiku slept hard. He hoped to get over the mess from the morning, but unfortunately, he fell into another terrible dream.

This time, each man was dressed in black. Some had tails and slitted pupils. It was so confusing- where even were they? It wasn't infinite void or endless white, it was solely... nothing. As if he couldn't see at all. As if the only things that existed were them.

He distinguished the one with emerald eyes who had called him a twat. He wasn't looking at Kiku. Strange. The others, dull and lifeless as usual, but he? Anxiously tapping his foot, huge eyebrows twitching, arms crossed... he was loaded with emotion.

Kiku nudged him on the shoulder and he immediately whipped around, hissy faced. "What do you want?!" he snarled, slapping his hand away.

"..." his breath hitched. That was definitely the same voice. "Y-you!" his hand trembled. "You're the one who yelled at me this morning..!"

The slightly taller man rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. Any other brilliant observations?" Jeez, this guy had an attitude. Kiku noticed the green aura around the Englishman- what was his brain trying to tell him? Sigh.

He awkwardly shuffled away from the dream, once again waking up in a cold sweat.

***

 An overwhelming fear settled in the air. What in the world? Had Kiku been... wrong? About life? There's no way that that demon could be real! He racked his brain for answers, but nothing.

Is it possible I should see a thera- his mind started questioning.

No! Don't do that! A new voice with a heavy German accent rattled his skull. He sounded even more pissed than the British one.

Lucky prick. He has the opportunity for help. Just let it go. The familiar one was back.

Kiku felt woozy. He decided he would ask for another two days off from work. To A) unpack and B) recoup from whatever the fuck that was.

Over the next few days, the voices came and went. Every few minutes after he got home, he was barraged by arguing and strange accents. All this conversation and not a single one would tell him what was happening! It was as annoying as it was terrifying.

During the night, less and less of the demons appeared. Every night a new one came to life, and the next it would be gone.

After a week, Kiki had figured out that it wasn't his mind or his dreams. But he didn't believe in magic, right? RIGHT???

That's what he had thought.

But really, what was it that continued to plague his mind with conversations? Was it some kind of... microchip? ...No, that's far fetched as hell.

It was beginning to drive him a little crazy. He found himself exhausted on casual days, wondering if it was from a lack of sleep. Unable to fall asleep, Kiku lay in bed, humming tunes without care. When he did succumb to rest, he would fall into a nightmare.

He began to notice how little sounds like a spoon dropping or ice being made in his fridge pissing him off. At work, he would tap his pen on his desk as a tired/stressed/nervous tic and then get mad at the sound after five minutes and nearly throw it across the room. However, he had enough self-restraint to hold himself back.

He wanted to crush the voices out. For some reason, he listened to them. Therapy was not an option. He followed their simple instructions. It was dreadful.

One day, it was completely silent. Kiku was changing into his pajamas when a voice cut the air like a knife.

So, I'm getting the feeling you don't really like what's going on, Kiku.