The Lost Voices

The Lost Voices

~by yahoos~

Voices

In crowds they seek me out

They tell me lies and stories

They talk and shout

But never tell me who they are

In the dead of night they whisper in my mind

They invade my fair dreams, turning them to nightmares

They refuse to leave, and do not answer when I ask -

And they never tell me who they are

One morning they were gone

In their place golden faces

Beautiful voices, beautiful songs

Yet I still do not know who they are

~©Liana Botha~

It's not deep. Not that deep at all. Go on. Just go. I'll be here waiting for you, on shore. You don't have to be scared. It's not that deep, not at all. And I'll be here waiting for you. Right here on shore.

For a moment imagine that all your problems in the world was one, big, icy black lake, and that you and Hope, that persistent voice telling you everything will be OK in the end, are standing on shore. Now imagine having to wade into those waters alone, with only Hope's comforting voice to sooth you while your faults and fears tear you apart as you delve into the depths of your problems. Imagine how you would sink to the bottom, paralysed and pulled apart, near the brink of being swallowed by it all.

That's exactly how I felt when I surveyed myself in the mirror that morning; my face was heavy, with dark bags under my eyes and jagged, criss-crossing lines sprawling from the corners of my eyes. They were shallow and nearly invisible, but they were there, signs that I, a seventeen-year-old, had seen more than one should see in a life time; testimony to the fact that life was unfair, and that there was little to nothing I could do to change it. Take your suffering, because when you're happy someone else isn't; take your suffering and get peace in return.

Eventually, and not always, this peace; eventually, but not guaranteed in any way.

And that's where Hope came in. Hope, a bright light, a deceased relative, an angel from God - however you see it, it's there sometimes, almost always, insisting that things aren't as dark as they seem. And sometimes, sometimes Hope even manages to convince you, but then the darkness and problems would engulf you again, and Hope was right back where it started. It was a consistent, repetitive cycle that never changed or varied; always the same, always doomed to fail, especially when you're problems are as dark as mine.

But not even Hope could save me now. I am doomed.

Doomed to what? To fail? To misery? I'd already failed, I was already miserable - and the headaches, the anxiety dreams, they'd started again. And the voices, those haunting voices had returned, whispering in the back of my mind at night, whispering of things gone past and things to come. It had taken so long to get rid of them - years, in fact, years of silent yet resilient battle in my mind - that I nearly collapsed when they returned. But no, I had to be strong, had to be strong, because life will never be any fairer, not even when you stand on the brink of self-destruction.

And I was dwindling on the edge, teetering across the line, dancing on my own grave. I knew it, but I couldn't stop it. This time I lost the war.

It had been a long fight, you know. But I was bound to lose from the very beginning. I knew it, they knew it, everyone knew it - but no one said it, just as it many times goes, nobody whispers a word for the sake of - etiquette? Manners? Why exactly didn't they ever say anything? It's not like they - the family, friends, long lost relatives - had any compassion or loyalty. Why then did they never say a word, not once, not ever? Where they scared, or playing ignorant? Ignorance is bliss, after all, something Abbotts have basked in for years. It cost us dearly.

I hate them, family and friends. They don't know or understand me, although they all think they do. They use it to feel guilty with glee; how could their friend and dearest Hannah, the sweet girl, the happy one, have depression? Oh, and we thought we knew her...it gave them reason to speculate and fest attention on themselves, something they all excel at. They don't give a damn about me or my depression; they are all simply worried that, when the time comes, will they be able to sob uncontrollable that they're dear Hannah would never do such a thing, never? Would they be able to tell tall tales of my passing and my "condition"? What would they say?

Nothing remotely flattering or of any sense, in any case. They were too caught up in themselves to truly say anything worth of remembrance or pride. I imagine that - on my funeral - they'd all jabber and cry, then after a fortnight they would go on with their lives and never look back, ignoring why or how, and other questions. Ignorance is bliss, and Abbotts have always basked in it. And they always will.

It is Abbott Destiny, one that I will not share.

Hannah Abbott, 1^st of January, 1997.

~

The moon hung in the cold, black sky like a silver pendulum, surrounded by feint, winking stars. The wind roared in her ears as she stepped out onto the stone steps, closing the large door behind her. Her cloak was scooped up, and billowed out behind her, her loose hair mulling around her pale face, sunken eyes glittering eerily in deep-set sockets. Dark shadows crowded under those haunted eyes, eyes that carried too many pain and years; more than one soul stared out through those eyes, souls that have seen and felt too much to carry it; souls driven crazy by the echoes of their past and the cries of their future, and the burdens of their present.

She descended the steps carefully, bare feet touching the cold rock, and then moved onto the grass. She carefully picked her way through clumps of pale white snow, goose bumps enveloping her skin, the freshness of the cold quickly turning to shivers and chills. Her arms hung loosely by her side as she steadily made her way across the lawns of Hogwarts, down to the lake. It was past midnight and she glanced up at the sky and sickle moon, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

She reached the lake's edge, and carefully - hesitantly - stepped into it. Iciness took her foot, but she stumbled in with a splash. For a moment she stood, her eyes wide - then she began to go deeper, deeper into the water. Soon the water was up to her chest. She paused and breathed in, then let it slowly out - and disappeared beneath the surface of the black lake.

It's not deep. Not that deep at all. Go on. Just go. I'll be here waiting for you, on shore. You don't have to be scared. It's not that deep, not at all. And I'll be here waiting for you. Right here on shore.