The Other Voice

My hands are gone. And my arms. I feel my shoulders, but they’re like boulders shoved into my neck. It hurts, but I’m not bleeding as far as I can tell. I don’t remember where I am or how I got here, but it is a beautiful place.

Lush grass rises to my ankles and tall pines surround me; the sun sends its rays through treetops, basking the area in a dreamlike haze. The air is still, calm, cool. Birds chirp from somewhere in the trees ahead of me, and there is a rustling in the bushes to my left.

I’m not alarmed. Quite the opposite. I feel at peace with the world. With myself. It is a peace that I once experienced a long time ago, but it is hard to remember, hard to conjure up that memory. It is fleeting, like most of my memories, but I want to remember this one. I don’t want to leave this place; it feels familiar.

Walking forward, the bark rough against my skin as I drag my hands along trunks, my nose filling with the crisp, woody aroma of pine needles, pinecones crunching underneath my feet.

I’m barefoot but the ground is soft on my soles. Why would I be barefoot? I don’t recall ever going outside barefoot in my life. Where are my shoes? Did I take them off? Turning my neck, I look back but see more of the same forest. No shoes.

Continuing on for several minutes in a delightful mood, I happen upon a stream. I cup my hands, fill them with water, and drink from my flesh bowl. The water is cold and refreshing to the touch, but it lacks flavor. It does not seem like I have taken a drink at all.

I let the water trickle between my fingers, finding that it leaves a stain as it waterfalls from my skin. My fingers are streaked with reddish-black veins. I shake my hands violently, but it does no good. A horror seeps into me, one of guilt and rage.

Looking up from my hands, night has arrived. Shadows are long, the world dipping from color to blacks and grays. Scraggly branches reach out from above, like hands trying to grab me.

“Hello,” I cry out, but there is something in my mouth that makes the word come out jumbled as if I am drunk.

“You must take us there,” a voice calls. But it feels like my voice. Like there is someone inside my head responding to me.

“Where?” I ask, frantic to get out of here, to find a safe place to stay the night. I hate the dark.

Suddenly lights appear ahead of me. A house. I’m so relieved that I can barely contain myself. I bound over the stream and race toward the house. Whoever is inside must help me, must tell me where I am.

As I draw near the house, I come to a screeching halt. This house is familiar. A wood cabin with a large porch, open concept, and a single upstairs room. My cabin. The one I built years ago. But I didn’t build it here.

“Where did you build it?” the voice in my head asks.

I step onto the porch, stairs creaking under my feet. My wife should be waiting inside for me. Cary must be the one who turned on the lights for me.

“Honey, I’m home,” I say but it is garbled. What is wrong with me?

“Where is this?” the voice says again, this time with bite.

Why does the other voice not know if it is part of me? It knows but it wants me to remember. My house should be on a small hill with mountains in the distance, not in a dense forest like this.

I step up to the door, grab the handle and twist it. The door opens inward and I step in. A warm fire is dancing in the fireplace, giving the cabin a warm, welcoming glow. My innards have stopped spinning inside as a nostalgic sensation washes over me. I find the leather recliner and sink into it. The fire warms my face as I lean forward to watch the flames flicker and listen to the wood snap.

I will be able to let go of this confusion once Cary comes to me and we sit by the fire together, sipping on wine and making jovial conversation deep into the night. Then we’ll ascend the steps to our bedroom and make love for hours.

“Where is our cabin?”

For a split second, I hear my wife's voice, but it is just mine; my other voice.

I lay back and try to conjure up the location of my cabin. Somewhere up in the mountains, away from civilization. I didn’t like people much, except my wife. I hope she doesn’t leave to go into Alsbury again. That dread town. I hate it there. Cary and I are meant to live here, just the two of us. We never needed anyone else.

I hear footsteps behind me and crane my neck to look around the chair back. Cary stands at the top stair to our bedroom. She is just a silhouette, but I know it's her. Tiny waist, long braided hair, short stature. Cary stands there, unmoving. Does she want me to come to bed?

“Come and sit,” I mumble and try to pat the chair next to me. It doesn’t work because I have no arms. I turn to face the fire again, knowing she will join me soon. She always obeys me.

“Where is our cabin?”

The voice is growing annoying. I hope once I recall where I constructed this haven, the voice will leave me alone.

There was that little dirt road off the highway north of town. It wasn’t much of a road, more like a dirt path hemmed in by trees and bushes. A place only my truck could reach and one that people could not find. A perfect place.

I built this cabin at the end of the dirt road on a hill with tall pines and white peak mountains to look at every day. The open air and just my love and I.

Hands grip my shoulders. I smile and tilt my head back to look into my wife’s green eyes. What I see makes me want to leap from my chair, but she holds me down, her nails digging into my skin. Cary’s once beautiful face is mangled. One eye is bashed to a pulp; her skin black and blue. Blood pours from a wide gash just above her temple.

I scream.

Then I’m blinded by the whitest light I’ve ever seen. It dims as my eyes adjust. I am in an empty room. It’s small and square and white. My arms aren’t missing; they’re tied behind my back as part of the jacket I’m wearing. There is a helmet fastened tightly to my head and a mouthpiece between my teeth.

“Thank you for telling us where your wife is,” the voice says, this time from above me, booming throughout the room.