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Gone MadThe voice refuses to leave me...
Wherever I go, it seems to be right behind my back. But when I turn around, it starts again from the other side. Whispering, softly, into my ears. It follows me everywhere, no matter where I go.
The voice calls to me to come closer. Closer to where, I respond. No reply. "Come closer, come closer"...
I try to avoid it. I run from it. I cover my ears from it. I hide from it. I scream at it. It never stops. "Come closer, come closer".
Then one day, the voice disappeared. I checked my ears properly to see if it was really gone. The voice left me? I am finally alone? I breathed slowly. Breathe in, breathe out. The voice is gone. I can relax now, can't I?
Apparently not. With the voice gone, there is too much silence in my life. I wait, for minutes, hours, for it to return. The sweet voice that used to haunt me. "Come closer"... I wish I could hear it again. The voice that used to strike fear into my heart. The voice which absence leaves me abandoned.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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