In my dark teenage years I would make sketches of The Man with the Shadow Voice. I wrote poems about him:
There once was a shadow-voiced man
Who had the most devious plan
To get in your head.
You’ll wish you were dead.
I wish these dreams never began.
I was never a very good poet.
I keep thinking of Sylvia Plath’s “The Mad Girl’s Love Song.” It was my favorite poem in high school: “I think I made you up inside my head…I think I made you up inside my head.” Did I make up the Man with the Shadow Voice? Is he just a varmint of my imagination?
Maybe Brendan’s accident was just an accident. Maybe I’m not going to die at the end of the month. Maybe none of this is real. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Would that be better?
Given the option I think I’d rather die.
What happens next? Read the next part of the story here.
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