A Small Voice

Chapter One

12:34 a.m. Monday, September 16, 2001

It must have been God, or maybe even the devil himself, who helped guide my car into the driveway. I was so tired. Tired in my body, tired in my mind. My motor skills were shutting down. I nodded off a few times on the drive home from the graveyard, but by sheer will, I made it.

The house was pitch black. I knew Rachel would be otherwise engaged for most of the night. Yellow tape surrounding the beach house, men in blue questioning frazzled saints. I guess I crashed the party. My duplicity was hidden no longer.

I stripped off my clothes on the grey tiled entryway. It felt natural to be naked; strangely, it always had. I opened my arms wide and let the darkness engulf me; her quiet whispers speak to me. After a few moments, I looked down, cursed my goddamn cock, and grabbed the knife from my pant pocket.

"Finally, finally time to relax," I mumbled. It felt difficult to talk, more difficult to walk. I grabbed a bottle of wine from the pantry, hidden in the back from the unreal weekend with Brittney, and shuffled up the stairs. The plush, ivory carpet felt nice under my tired feet. Once in my room, I opened Rachel's nightstand drawer. I noticed a small, kitschy journal and read the cover, If God be for us, who can be against us?

"Romans 8:31," I slurred, proud that I still knew the location of most verses, even as fucked up as I was.

The journal had a picture of an angel on it, jogging my memory of the car ride to Pastor Richard's place, where Rachel had said something about my dream of an angel being a sign that God would finally heal me. The flashback made me smile. Rachel, always the optimist. If she only knew how shitty I had become.

I grabbed my phone, the journal, and a pen, and walked into the bathroom. I placed the bottle of wine on the bathtub's edge and turned on the water. The sound of the streaming faucet had a soothing ring. The water rising was an ominous sight. I couldn't help but watch it. Only when my body started to throb, reminding me of my broken nose and bruised muscles, did I snap out of my hypnotic stupor. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I chuckled at the sight of myself; dried blood surrounded my mouth and cheeks. I read a story a few years earlier where a rock star got really fucked up on drugs and booze, and he and a chick screwed all night long. In the morning, he was shocked when he looked in the mirror and saw a face full of dried blood. He realized he had been going down on the girl during her cycle. He was so messed up, he had no idea. As sick as that mental image is, I was pretty sure my current reflection would give him a run for his money. There were grass stains on my temples, and dirt in my hair. I swear to God I could see an imprint of a high heel on my forehead. Fuck, I was one disgusting looking motherfucker.

Opening the bathroom cupboard, I pulled out the bottle of Percocet stashed far in the back. I liked to hide my vices from Rachel. But even if she found the pills, she probably wouldn't even understand that I was abusing them. Popping off the childproof cap like a champ, I tossed two in my mouth. Two more were left in the bottom, they looked lonely, and I thought it compassionate to drop them in my wine. Then, easing myself into the warm water, I took a big swig from my glass, washing down the drugs.

"Really?" It was Merlot. I hate Merlot.

I picked up the notepad and began to write.