Follow the Sound of My Voice.

“You’re tense, I can feel it. Talk to me.”
At this exact moment in time, I’m sat in a small leather comforter, within a cold, white room. The name ‘comforter’ is actually pretty hypocritical, because I feel anything but comforted at the moment. In fact, I’m pretty uncomfortable. Although, in consideration, calling it a leather discomforter wouldn’t exactly be a great business plan. So, I’m sat in a leather comforter.
I’m sat in said leather comforter in said cold, white room, and there’s a man sat in front of me, in another one of those comforters. I don’t know much about him, aside from the fact that his name’s Frank, and he has lots of tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. I spotted letters on his knuckles and I’ve been focused on trying to spell out what he has written across his fingers for the past 20 minutes, rather than what I’m actually here for. So far I’ve deducted that ‘Halloween’ is strewn across one section of his knuckles in blocked writing. His fingers move fast.

I like Halloween. There was only one time that I didn’t, and that was when I was 12. I remember it like it was just yesterday. My brother stole my candy and hung a skeleton in my wardrobe to frighten me when I was dressing for bed. I never properly forgave him for that.

Maybe my brother’s the reason why I’m sat here in a small, leather comforter in a cold, white room. Maybe the prank traumatised me so severely that I now have to endure an hour of therapy weekly because I’m having some mysteriously induced mid-life crisis.

I look up and realise that Frank’s been staring at me throughout my internal monologue, and I jump slightly as I remember that he asked me something three minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago.


“I watched a documentary a few days ago.” I respond. I see him smile from the corner of my eye.

“Really? I remember you telling me that you used to like those. What was the documentary about?”

“Psychics. They said that they do exist.” another pause. “I think I’m a psychic.”


His eyebrow raises ever so slightly, but his facial expression never falters from a caring one, as he takes his notepad out of his breast pocket and begins to write down what I’ve said.

His index finger, middle finger and thumb wrap gently around the pen, and it rests against his ring finger. The tattoos shift and move with every flick of his fingers.


“Why do you think you’re a psychic, Gerard?” The octave of his voice lowers as he says my name.


I bite my lip, and I think for a little while. It’s not as if I saw a psychic on TV and thought ‘I want to be like them, so I’ll say I’m like them’ because that’s not true, I really do think I’m a psychic. I wouldn’t lie about that, because lying is wrong and sinful and evil and I shouldn’t lie. My mum said that to me when I was 11. She said to me exactly “lying is sinful, so don’t lie” and so, I don’t lie.

“Psychics can predict the future, right?”

“People with precognition tend to be able to foresee the future, yes. Why?” His octave raises.

I hear the word ‘precognition’ and begin to nod frantically.

“Precognition! I think I have it.”

“How come?”

“I see the future, Frank. I see it before my own two eyes. All the time. I see so many things that become true a few moments later. I swear on it.”

“That’s why you’re here, Gerard. Your brother sent you here because he was worried about this precognition concern you seem to have.”

“But it’s true, I swear on it!” I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t understand why people think I’m capable of lying. I’ve never lied.

I once stole a condom from my mum, and I was honest about it. I was completely honest about it and she knows I was honest because she found it under my mattress a few days later.

“Can you predict something for me now?” Despite him questioning me, he doesn’t seem to be doubting me, which is a relief.

“Nothing small. I can’t see things like birds flying into windows. A little bird flew into my window the other day and I didn’t see it beforehand so that must mean that I can only see big things. Like, major world events.”

His fingers begin to move again as he writes down what I’ve said. His fingers move very fast.

“Give me an example of something you’ve predicted.”

I stiffen at that. I don’t like being under pressure. I specifically said to him the first day that we met that I hate being under pressure. I had to sing in front of my parents when I was 6 and I fainted on stage because I was under pressure. It was horrible.

He quickly adds “No pressure. Take as much time as you need, okay?”

I nod, and take a deep breath as I begin to think of a time where I’ve correctly predicted something major.

It didn’t take long, at all. 29 seconds. 20 of those were considering whether I should just use another example. I make a noise of achievement. He looks at me with hopefulness.

“I predicted 9/11.”

His eyebrow raises again. He does that a lot. “9/11?”

I nod. “I was sat on a train, on my way to work. The chair was red and stained. It was uncomfortable, too. The man sat next to me smelt like noodles and it was weird, but he had a friendly smile so it was okay.”

He never stops me, or asks me to get to the point. He just nods, waiting patiently for me to continue. He likes listening to me.

“Suddenly, there was a cold feeling, deep in my stomach. It was shuddering. I blinked, and the shock of the cold electrified me. Seized up my veins and forced me into some sort of paralysis. I saw the planes. I saw the people. I saw pain and heartbreak and suffering, tears and smoke and blood. I saw fire. Before even thinking twice, I picked up a pencil, and sketched the visions. It hurt to do it. Noodle guy was watching, almost entranced. The picture started to take shape when the first plane crashed. We looked at each other in horror, then to the drawing. Identical. Fucking identical, Frank. The falling man, the skyline, it was all there. Sat in front of us, identical, in two different forms.”

Frank had written everything, his fingers moving almost as fast as the words spilling out of my mouth. He chews on the silver ring pierced into his lip, and after a while of studying the notes, he looks up at me. For the first time in 5 minutes and 52 seconds.

I panic. He doesn’t believe me.

As an almost frantic last resort, I pull a crumpled, folded A4 piece of paper from my left hand front pocket, and unravel it. Seeing each pencil line, every blended mark and trace of misery sends those same, familiar shockwaves through my limbs. I show him the timestamp; September 11th, 2001. 8:00am.

He sees the stamp as soon as i do; 8:00am. The time in which the first plane was scheduled to depart from the airport.

His eyebrow raises again.

He opens his mouth, just as the door opens. And Mikey enters.

“Your hour’s up, Gerard. We need to go.”

I nod, and silently get up to leave, not saying a word to Frank. Not even looking at him.

His voice halts the both of us.

“I believe you. 100 percent.”

Notes

yo!
I uploaded this story to a different account on this website a few months back, but I got locked out of the account.
I promise i'm not stealing anyone's shit.
Anyways, con-crit, as ever, is very much appreciated.

- L.