Inside

INSIDE

This story is inspired by what I saw during the 10-years I was held hostage by a drug addict.

The walls of Room 14 were the color of a bruised lung, peeling in long, jagged strips that revealed the grey plaster beneath.

I didn't look out the window. I couldn't. Beyond the thin, nicotine-stained curtains, the sky was screaming. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the blades felt like it was chopping the air inside my chest. They were closer now. I could hear the heavy thud of boots on the asphalt outside, the metallic rattle of gear, and the sharp, rhythmic rapping on the doors down the hall. I panicked as I was jolted by the strong wind of the helicopters approaching my room. The noise outside the room was deafening. The children were screaming for their lost mothers. I must remain silent, even though my head was filled with a million scenarios of how it would all end. The end was finally here. "Or is it?"- the Small Voice challenged the end. "Yes, the end is here." I was sure of it. The end was pulling at the strings of my consciousness. The lights were out and suddenly, the room felt as dark as my soul ever was.

Knock. Knock. Knock. "Who’s not prepared?" the Voice boomed, vibrating in the marrow of my bones. "The end comes for the unready. The end takes the weak."

I scrambled across the threadbare carpet, my fingers fumbling with the pull-tabs of the tin cans I’d scavenged. Peaches. Baked beans. Cold spaghetti. I stacked them in a frantic pyramid near the bathroom door. My breath came in shallow, ragged stabs. I had to be ready. If they saw the emptiness in me; as if they saw the hollowed-out space where a soul used to be. They'd take me away to the place where nothing grows; to a place where fear would crawl inside of me. I could feel the way insects dug deep into my bones, pulling at the strings of my heart like an instrument of pain. "I'm still here", I whispered to the symphony of my broken soul. The symphony that was composed long ago, long before the soldiers existed.

"Look at your hands," the Small Voice whispered. It wasn't loud like the helicopters. It was soft, like a secret shared under a blanket. "They’re shaking, love. You’re vibrating right out of your skin. Let me help you."

"Shut up," I hissed, shoving a tin of tuna into the corner. "I’m preparing. I’m getting ready for the shift."

"You’re starving," the Small Voice crooned, and I could almost feel the warmth of it against my ear, a ghost of a touch. "And you’re so, so tired. Just take it. I promise it’ll be different this time. I promise it won’t be the same dark hole. Just a little spark to light the way. Think of us. Think of the euphoria. The way the world stops being a war zone and starts being a symphony. I could hear the dual voice humming Mozart's Requiem in D-minor. I felt the joy as if it was composed for my own requiem. But I wasn't ready to go yet. I couldn't let the soldiers find me. The Small Voice insisted, "Remember? Do you remember the happiness?"

I froze. The cold metal of a can pressed against my palm. My skin felt like it was crawling with a thousand invisible insects, all trying to dig their way out. I could feel the insects rotting inside my bones. I wish the insects would die but not inside me. They need to crawl out from me, but how? The Small Voice whispered, “you know how. You know, you need me. You won’t survive this without me.” The voice was right. I did need it. I desperately needed it. God, I missed it. I missed the lie of it.

"But something shifted," I muttered, my voice cracking. I looked at the bathroom door- at the sanctuary of the porcelain. "Something shifted in me. Something changed within me. Inside. I’m ready to let that go."

"Come on," the Small Voice challenged, its tone sharpening with a cruel, familiar edge. "We can do it together. One last ride before the world ends. And it is ending. You can’t survive the soldiers without me. They are looking for you. You’re done. You’re nothing but a ghost in a tiny motel room without me."

The boots stopped outside my door. The shadow of a soldier blocked the sliver of light at the threshold.

The shadow at the door didn’t move. The handle rattled- a cold, metallic sound that sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my spine. They were checking the locks. Checking for the hollow men.

"Something shifted. Something inside me." I whispered again, but this time it wasn't a plea. It was a severance.

I didn't wait for the door to give way. I grabbed the heap of scratchy, moth-eaten blankets from the bed and retreated. The bathroom was a narrow, fluorescent-lit tomb. The air smelled of damp lime and old bleach. I stepped over the pile of tin cans- my pathetic fortress- and climbed into the tub.

It was a toddler’s size, a cramped, yellowing plastic basin with rust weeping from the drain. I curled my six-foot frame into it, knees pressed against my chest, chin tucked low. I pulled the blankets over my head until the world was nothing but the scent of dusty wool and the sound of my own frantic heart.

"Look at you," the Small Voice sneered, though it sounded thinner now, like a radio signal losing its grip. "Pathetic. Hiding in a tub like a child. Think of the euphoria, the way the pulse of it makes you a king. You’re shaking, love. You miss it just like I do. Your blood is screaming for it."

My skin was a live wire. Every pore felt like a tiny, hungry mouth. I bit my lip until I tasted iron.

"I'm ready," I choked out into the dark of the blankets. "I'm ready to let that go."

Outside, the world seemed to tilt. The thwack-thwack-thwack of the helicopters began to stretch, the sound pulling apart like taffy. The heavy thud of the soldiers’ boots grew muffled, receding down the hallway of the motel, passing my door without a second rattle. The shouting died down into a low hum, then into a silence so heavy it made my ears ring.

The Small Voice didn't scream. It didn't fight. It just sighed—a long, weary sound of a ghost finally admitting it was dead.

"Well done," it whispered, so faint I almost missed it. "You did it."

The shaking didn't stop, but the weight did. I stayed there in the tub, tucked away from the end of the world, breathing the stale air of a man who had finally decided to stay alive.