Creative Writing · Short Stories

The Voice: A Short Story

Authors Note: Hey everyone hope you’re doing well. Here is another short story for you to enjoy. I found a draft of this story on my laptop and stayed up last night to finish it. I hope you enjoy it and please let me know your thoughts in the comments.

6 min read


I expected darkness. I wanted to be engulfed by an endless void of nothingness. It’s all I could think about, despite my success and my apparent happiness. It was a struggle to handle the sharp blade. I kept it hidden inside an old book since the last time I tried. Or shall I say the last time I failed.  I was certain Aiden had never even opened a book, let alone the one I’d hidden it in. It was old, leather-bound and well-read. Though if it were up to him, it would have been used as a door stop. Once I was sure I wanted it to end, I held the blade with such care, almost as if any kind of mishandling would cause it to disappear from my hand. I wouldn’t let it fall from my grasp again. I needed to succeed.

The pain was nothing compared to the fear of someone finding me. I locked the front door, followed by the bedroom door and finally the en suite. Yet, I still froze with every creak and croak that dared to invade the silence. The house I was born in taunted me as my blood pooled and whirled around my wrists. I watched the crimson liquid spill onto the white tiles while my mind began to empty of all thoughts, it was like I’d pulled a plug in my brain when I made the incisions. I was emptying as my body was. The blood soon found its way into the grouted highways between the tiles. Each line began to meet up like veins, the blood flow eventually slowed and with it, I began to feel, dead. Or at least close to dead.

I felt my heart slow and thought, finally. I’m free. You would think I was successful. My body had been emptied of blood, of thoughts and of pain. Though I awoke. I didn’t see the blood. I didn’t see the knife. I was on the edge of a bridge overlooking an angry river. Rain pelted me from above, as if it were guiding me towards a watery grave. My foot slipped and before my body slammed against the rivers freezing surface, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. I wasn’t in my own body. I mean unless I forgot I was a white man with black hair. Then, darkness.

Sure enough, I opened my eyes once more. For a fleeting moment, I thought I’d been given yet another chance. I slipped last time and blew it but whoever was looking out for me, I wanted to thank them. That was of course, until I felt my arm, their arm, lifting something up. Something heavy.

“Stop!” I screamed but my mouth didn’t move. The hand got closer and closer. By the time I worked out what was happening, I was deafened by a sound I’d never heard before and was greeted with nothing once again. Only black.

Imagine waking up in the body of a stranger, a teenage girl. Imagine watching them cry into the mirror and feeling the hope drain from her heart.  Imagine seeing blonde hair littering the sink and not being able to stop her from ripping it out from the roots. I felt sick. Not just because the sight of her desperate face broke my heart, but because she had taken a fatal cocktail of drugs.

There’s nothing I can do. I can’t stop them. They can’t hear me when I scream and beg them to wait. To think about those who love them. To wait for the pain to pass and for clarity to return. I have no control.

Bang. I’m dead again. Jump, and again. It never ends because they never hear me.

“I can’t do this anymore; you can’t keep doing this to me.” I hear their words as if they were my thoughts. Voices ring and jingle in my head, pain etched into every syllable. Whoever this is, they’re not quite sure yet. They’ve been calling their partner over and over again for about an hour. He’s got a gun. Every so often he shoves the barrel in his mouth as hot tears warm his ghostlike face. But for the 10th time, he lowers his hand and curses himself for being too scared to do what he must.

“Just do it.” I say, almost to myself at this point. No one’s ever heard me before, why would they now? The distraught man freezes. Now I’m interested.

“Pick it up and do it. You know you want to.”

“Who is that?” He screams as he flicks his ear, gun in hand. I feel something reminiscent of excitement rise within. Within what exactly, I don’t know. But within me. My soul.

“Give into the darkness, you can do it. Nobody will miss you.” I almost can’t believe what I’m saying. Although, something tells me he’s already decided. You don’t control him, what’s the harm in speeding up the process?

The man sheds thick tears, nodding his sweaty head in agreement. He knows it’s true. I’m bored of waiting for him to do what he’s planned to do.

“Fucking kill yourself!” I scream.

Bang. Dead again.

16 thoughts on “The Voice: A Short Story

  1. Solid writing! And I enjoyed the concept too. The part of the cutting was close to home. Somebody close to me recently made an attempt, which of course put the family through a lot of turmoil. I know firsthand that It’s so important to seek help when considering your own death. We tell ourselves it’s realistic, but it isn’t realism at all. It’s a debilitating sickness that infects the brain with corrupt hormones and thoughts. This was a powerful, thought provoking piece of fiction.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Very true. It is an issue that has far-reaching consequences and as you rightly said, it is so important to seek help when we need it. Thank you for reading this even though it’s something you’ve had to deal with recently. I’m so sorry. Well wishes to you and your family and thank you.

      Like

  2. Somehow I thought it was a suicide plan. It’s hard to reach out to tell people about some deadly thoughts that flow in your head but it’s mostly worth it when shared with people that you think could be of help.
    I particularly love the ending💚

    You’ve been nominated for Vincent Ehindero Award, let’s make blogging fun as well.
    Check it out;
    https://estherikott.wordpress.com/2020/04/24/vincent-ehindero-bloggers-award/

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Depression and suicide still have huge social stigmas surrounding them that often make it uncomfortable to openly talk about / fear of being judged / that facade of ‘everything’s fine’ – the more we talk and share when we’re feeling low, the less daunting it becomes. You’re very brave for sharing this. x

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Thank you Tom, I really really appreciate your kind words. You’re so right, it is heavily stigmatised and those who battle with it feel even more alone because of it. I guess with this story I wanted to show, sometimes the voice in your head telling you to do it, isn’t you. At least not 100% anyway and sometimes we need to force ourselves to listen to the good thoughts, the ones telling you to wait. We should never ignore the bad thoughts because they’re warning signs, telling us there’s something we need to deal with x

        Liked by 1 person

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