Vent

Voices

Long ago, when the voices first started to visit they drifted up the stairs and through the heating vents, muted, dreamlike, and impossible to ignore. You knew that a peaceful night’s sleep rested on confronting them, but it wasn’t that simple, there were too many questions, and too many fears.

What if they heard you? And what if they knew you were planning to get out of bed? Wasn’t it possible that even the slightest move might tip them off to your plans? Absolutely, but then again how could you even know for sure what they could hear or what they knew? You couldn’t. And that not knowing was paralyzing.

You would lie there for what seemed like hours, struggling to climb out of bed, your body fighting you every step of the way. You would tell your legs to move, but they would not. You would try to raise an arm, but it would not budge.

The solution ultimately lay in moving inch by inch, breathless, and full of caution. And it wasn’t a bad approach really for there were times when you managed to not only get out of bed, but open the bedroom door and step out onto the landing as well.

It was all quite amazing really. It was also as far as you ever got. Because amazing or not, you were just too damn scared to learn what might await you should you cross that threshold. It just seemed smarter, and safer frankly, to stay where you were – close enough to the voices to hear some of what was said, but far enough away that you never had to quite hear all that was going on.

And maybe that wasn’t all bad, because as time passed the voices receded as they are wont to do and with that came a kind of normal if not always peaceful sleep.

Sleepless Night

Well, until tonight that is, because on days like today, whatever today is, the voices still visit and you still have no idea what will make them go away when they do.

And so you find your glasses and stumble through the house, dodging chairs and clothes and old magazines. You search for vision and shapes that make sense. And you seek out the bathroom, somehow believing, and hoping, that buried somewhere deep within the medicine cabinet is the answer - the pill or liquid or gelcap that will somehow allow sleep to come tenderly and mercifully. But there is nothing in there, no secret key, no magical elixir.

Instead all you can do is stand there, like so many nights before, and you look at what you have become. You stare deep into the mirror, trying to convince yourself that maybe your mere image holds some secret message or means to relief. But even as you do so, you know that in this place, at this time of night, there’s no lying to yourself like you do throughout the day.

You cannot put on a happy face and glad-hand your way through the crowd here, because there is no crowd, there’s just you and your thoughts. And they’re not going anywhere. No matter how hard you try to wish them away. No matter how much you hope to avoid them.

And so you continue to stare because what else can you do at this point. You have no more answers then you did when you first stumbled out of bed.

And as you stare you notice the clock ticking off in the living room, and then the cars passing somewhere below, and then the fan rotating endlessly in the dark behind you, and then finally all the nothingness happening around you. Soon it is just you and your heartbeat, and its pounding away like some crazed metronome, but still there are no answers.

Vent

And then you hear the voices - loud voices. There are people out there somewhere, a man maybe, possibly a woman, it’s hard to say really. You look around for their source, and notice the vent above the sink. The voices are coming from the heating ducts that connect all the bathrooms in your building. You realize that they must be neighbors. And that they are fighting, words fly like daggers.

You sit there fully engrossed in the argument, fascinated, but guilty, interested, yet scared. It’s like a car crash you can’t quite look away from. You’re sure that you hear yells, hers, and breathing, his. And then whimpers and pain, apologies and anguish.

You wonder what you should do. Should you intervene? And if so, how? You could call the super or the police. Or, maybe knock on every door until you find them and then carry her off to safety. You just don’t know. You realize though that in some odd way this could be an opportunity. A doorway has opened, and if you step through it, well, who knows what may await you – peace, freedom, answers - the possibilities just seem endless.

You find yourself flush with an excitement you have rarely known, your breathing suddenly rapid, your temple now pulsing. This is all new, and different, and you never want this feeling to go away.

Voices

And maybe it doesn’t have to, but there is a catch, because despite the wonder, and the energy, and the hope, you find that you can’t quite move. You are glued to the spot, still staring at the mirror, still listening to your heartbeat, still paralyzed after all these years. You want to fight the inertia, but you don’t know how. You never have.

You stand there for what might be forever and then plod back to bed, the voices active as ever, sleep nowhere in sight.

 

Ben Tanzer is a social worker and writer who shoots pool, runs marathons, and lives in Chicago with his beautiful wife Debbie. Ben has had a series of short stories and articles accepted for publication in online and print journals including New Works Review, Fresh!, Board Member, Nonprofit World, and Running Times. Ben can be contacted at bendeb@rcnchicago.com.