When I was fresh out of high school, I was in a bit of family drama. I needed a temporary place to stay and had to find a quick job to support myself. I had the ambition to push myself through college and ended up in a bad spot.
I barely slept, I had no social life, and I couldn’t find the time to do the most basic stuff. I didn’t have time to cook, so I basically lived takeout box to takeout box. The only place I could find within my price range was a refurbished storage space.
It was basically just a bed and a couple of shelves with partial access to a bathroom. It wasn’t really meant as a living space, but the landlord didn’t care. There wasn’t even wallpaper, unless you consider some actual vines in the corner to be wallpaper.
But this is where I get to teach y’all something. Storage spaces are built very differently from ordinary living spaces and apartments. They’re not isolated the same way, and this space was lined with something nasty.
My immune system was crashing hard from months of vitamin deficiency and unhealthy habits, and in combination with an awful living situation, I got a bad infection. Like, really bad. My throat got so swollen that it looked like I’d swallowed a whole apple.
I could barely breathe, I got one of the worst fevers of my life, and I had no insurance. I ended up crawling back to my parents. It was humiliating.
We’d had our falling out, but when they could see how bad things’d gotten, they helped me out. I was immediately taken to a doctor and put on antibiotics, but the swelling had gotten so bad that they suspected permanent nerve damage. Once the swelling died down, it turned out the doctor was right.
Trying to speak was like touching a live wire. It was so painful that it could make me black out. It eventually got a bit better.
I could start to make noises without immediate pain, like laughing and coughing, but trying to form words tickled something in my throat. Moving my vocal cords too much caused that pain to flare back up. My doctor said it would probably never heal completely, but in a couple of months, at most a year or two, I’d get my part of my voice back.
Maybe. But yeah, for all intents and purposes – I was mute. It was difficult to cope with at first.
I began to carry a laminated card, basically saying “I’m mute”. It is easy to forget the many ways we use verbal communication in our day-to-day. Ordering at the fast-food place, answering questions in class, turning down salesmen at the door… it’s usually the things you don’t think too much about.
But having that barrier, no matter how small, can really turn the mundane into a chore. It just becomes too bothersome to explain the same thing several times a day. I started to socially isolate myself more.
It was hard to be around other pe/ople. Forget about going to a party; ain’t no one patient enough to wait for you to type stuff out on your phone. My parents helped me find a better place to live in, and I managed to find a job closer to my new home.
Nothing fancy, just stocking groceries at one of the corner shops. A couple of months passed, and I started to get used to a new life and routine. I knew there’d come a day when my voice returned, but for now, even attempting to speak made me nauseous.
A loud yawn could send me spiraling if I wasn’t cautious. Then one morning, I got a phone call. I’d been up late the previous night and didn’t think too much about it.
Out of reflex, I pushed to answer the call, held it up to my ear, and opened my mouth to speak. In the last possible moment I stopped myself, only pushing out a hoarse breath. If I’d tried to actually say something, I’d have ruined the rest of the day.
So imagine my surprise when another voice came out of me. “Good morning,” it said. I dropped my phone and slammed my hands over my mouth in shock.
I saw the call end, and just sat there in silence, trying to calm down. That wasn’t my voice. Those weren’t my words.
What the hell? I took some time to collect myself. Checking my phone, turns out that was just a robocall; some automated crap trying to make me answer a survey.
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror for a good ten minutes, opening and closing my mouth, trying to see if I could make that voice come out again. I thought it might have been some kind of trick, or a sign of recovery. Maybe I just didn’t recognize my own voice?
No matter what I tried, as soon as I even tried to formulate a word, my throat burned like I’d been cut by something sharp. There was just no way I could’ve said anything without noticing it. Even pretending to speak and testing my limits caused a burning sensation, forcing me to put on a bit of eucalyptus balm.
I went on with my day, but that moment kept coming back to me. It wasn’t imagined, but it wasn’t me either. At one point, I thought it might’ve come from the phone, but that didn’t make sense to me.
The simple fact was that it came - from me. Somehow. I got back home from my shift, had a hot shower, and parked myself in front of a Netflix show.
That show about social media people tricking one another – I have a soft spot for reality shows. It was this big dramatical reveal of a member of the team getting kicked off at the end of the episode, and I audibly gasped; almost choking on my takeout ramen. Then, it happened again.
A light tickle at the bottom of my throat, and the voice came back. “Scandalous,” it muttered, all without my lips moving. I felt it much clearer now.
It wasn’t me forming those words; they were coming up from my throat on their own. My mouth was wide open, I wasn’t shaping any vowels or consonants. I just sat there for a moment, my heart skipping a beat.
I was scared to move, as if that might prompt it to reappear. I remember wondering over and over what the hell it was. And finally, I mouthed a silent question; “Are you still there?
” And to that, a vocal answer crept back up, slithering out of me. “Yes. ” I stood up and wandered about the room.
A hundred questions went through my mind, but none of them were answered. My thoughts had to linger on that final ‘yes’, and the implications. There was me, and there was a ‘you’.
Something different from me; using me. Even then and there, in the comfort of my own space, I felt watched. As I went to bed that night, I had trouble relaxing.
I had this recurring thought that whatever was resting inside of me was just waiting for a chance to do something. It felt sinister – a presence forced upon me. I probably scrolled through my socials for at least an hour and a half before I fell asleep with the screen still facing me.
Somewhere in the black of the night, I woke up. It wasn’t sudden; just my eyes slowly opening. The sun hadn’t broken through my window yet, and I could tell I’d only been asleep for a couple hours.
There were no cars going by on the streets outside, and no neighbors stomping around. But there was a noise. It took me a couple of seconds to realize that it was coming from me.
A hushed voice, whispering into the dark. It was barely audible, but it was coming from my mouth. I tried to look down, but all I could see was my shivering upper lip.
“You have been given so many gifts,” I caught it saying. “To spoil and squander and wither. Idle children feasting on crumbs of gold.
Mother, unbirth me, find me unwanting, undeserving, unsullied. ” When I finally realized what was going on, I shot out of bed and sprinted to the bathroom. I was frustrated and scared to the point that I wanted to scream and cry, but all that came out were these weird hulking noises.
And with every awkward breath, I could hear something in the space between. “…no…” “…awful…” “…grim…” Finally, I just snapped. I forced myself to scream.
Even at my greatest effort, it wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Little specks of blood spattered on the wall. The scream triggered such an intense shock of pain that it left me squirming on the bathroom floor, gasping for air.
I have no idea how long it took for me to regain my composure. Wiping my tears, I bent over the toilet seat and spat up a glob of blood and dislodged scar tissue. I stayed in the shower for over half an hour, just waiting for the bleeding to stop.
I’d set back my recovery weeks, maybe months. But hey, at least the voice was gone. Perhaps it needed some part of me to speak – a part that I’d damaged.
I had a few spots of blood on my pillow the next day. I’d barely slept. Still, I dragged myself to work.
I tried my best to keep out of the spotlight, get a quick nap on my lunch hour, and keep to myself. I didn’t want to try and explain what I was experiencing. I had tried to type out a message for my parents, but there was no way they wouldn’t overreact.
They would probably think I was on drugs, or suffering some kind of schizophrenia. They always assumed I was at fault for whatever ailed me – that was their go-to response. They couldn’t accept that sometimes, things were just… out of my control.
I gave up after the sixth draft. I couldn’t find the right words. As my shift ended, I made my way home.
My favorite takeout place was packed with people from some kind of work outing, so I had to shoulder my way forward to the counter. “…maggots. ” The word just fell out of me, whispered into the ear of some random passerby.
I saw them turn around to look my way, but they didn’t say anything. The look he gave me was the first actual proof that this wasn’t just my imagination; this was a real, physical thing. And the look he gave me was nothing short of disgust and confusion.
I forced my mouth shut, but it didn’t help. I could feel the air push out of my nose as another sentence reverberated in my mouth. “…damn them all.
” I stopped a few feet from the counter as I took notice of people turning my way. I tried to hold it back, holding my breath, but little puffs of air made my cheeks expand like a chipmunk. When I finally let go, it was just a non-stop barrage of word salad pouring out of me.
Not loud, but not quiet – just enough to make me look like a blathering madman. I turned to leave. A worried 40-something office worker tried to touch my shoulder and ask if I was okay, but the voice in me snapped back.
“… I’ll suck the skin off your knuckles…” it hissed. As I left, I looked back one final time. About half a dozen worried faces looked back at me.
Faces turned from curious to wide-eyed bewilderment. As I stepped away into the dark, the voice made itself known one last time. “…Yes.
Leave. Make us lonesome. ” Coming back home, I positioned myself in front of my mirror.
I didn’t even take my coat off, I just took out my phone, held it up, and opened my mouth. I wasn’t going to let it use me – I wanted it on camera. I needed something to prove I wasn’t delusional.
I tried to coax it. To ask it questions in my head. I tried to make it come forward, but nothing seemed to work.
I must’ve stood there for a good half hour until my jaw started hurting. Not a single peep or noise. It was just me staring at my own teeth in silence.
I was so frustrated. I wanted to scream and shout, but I couldn’t. I ended up throwing the mug with my toothbrush across the room, shattering it against the hallway wall.
All I managed to get out was a couple of grunts, and even that burned my throat like I was licking a welding torch. Leaving the bathroom, I kneeled to scoop up the mug pieces. As soon as my knees touched the floor, a gleeful little whisper escaped me.
“…I won’t dance to your tune, puppet,” it chuckled. “Stay on your knees. ” I bit my tongue - I was so frustrated I could cry.
That night, as I lay down to sleep, I could feel the voice just inches away. There was a little push in my stomach every time it was about to speak, and I felt that push all night long. It was always just a breath away, but the words didn’t come.
But as I finally closed my eyes and yawned, it returned. “…you need to submit. ” I gently shook my head, rustling my hair against the pillow.
“…you have to. ” And again, I shook my head. The tension in my chest remained, but nothing more came out.
I hugged a pillow, made myself comfortable, and tried not to think about it. Moments later, it came back with a vengeance. My lungs pushed themselves empty and a cramp crept up my spine.
I rolled onto my back and felt my stomach force itself upward. My mouth opened, and I had this dreadful feeling. It felt like being trapped under ice, desperate for air.
For a moment, nothing happened. I just hung there, my body tense and out of control. Then, a scream.
It resembled a woman being murdered. Scream, after scream, after scream. Begging for help, squealing in pain, crying.
I couldn’t stop it. I forced myself to roll over to try and block it with a pillow, but it didn’t help. It was so loud that my ears rung.
I scrambled out of bed, still feeling this constant flow of screams pushing its way out of me. Trying to hold my breath just built up this unbearable pressure, like my lungs were going to explode. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.
I dug through kitchen drawers, spilling forks and knives onto the floor. I tried stuffing a dish towel into my mouth, just to dampen the noise, but it was useless. There was nothing I could do, or say; it was going to continue, no matter what.
Finally, there was a knock on the door. A few final pleas for help escaped me as two police officers burst through the door. In that moment, the voice stopped.
They had a hard time believing that screams came from me. First of all, I’m a man. The voice was clearly female.
Second of all – I couldn’t talk. They found the laminated “I’m mute”-note in the hallway. There was no way they could believe a mute man could make that kind of noise.
Then again, they couldn’t find a victim either. Confused, they had me get dressed and took me down to the station. The process was surprisingly quick.
Rushed, even. They said they were holding me until they could find out what the hell had happened, but they refused to get me something to type on. Not even my phone.
There was no way for me to explain what was going on, and as a result, I just had to wait it out. I spent the night in a holding cell, expecting every breath to taunt me. I shared that cell with another person.
I have no idea what he was in for, but he had the look of someone who wasn’t afraid to get violent. Something about his eyes said he was itching for a fight. He was easily 6’4, and his leg kept twitching.
I tried to avoid eye contact, but as the hours passed, he was getting antsy. When he finally locked eyes on me, I knew it was going down. “Stop staring at me,” he said.
“I’ll rip your eyes out. ” I looked away, but he didn’t care. He was pacing back and forth, trying to provoke me.
Goading me into a reaction. Calling me all kinds of awful names, accusing me of being something I wasn’t, and doing something I didn’t. “Little bitch,” he’d say.
“You like sitting there, checking me out? Think you can take me? ” I couldn’t say anything, and that tingle inside me didn’t either.
I just sat there. But as he escalated, it quickly got physical. As he grabbed me by the collar and pulled me to my feet, I could feel his sour breath on my face.
“Who’s to say I don’t put you down, huh? ” he said. “Get you before you get me?
” Maybe it needed me alive. Maybe it didn’t want to see me beaten and bruised. Maybe it was a matter of control – two alpha creatures clashing, trying to outmaneuver one another.
Either way, as I stared into this man’s eyes, I felt something move. The words flowed out of me like venomous silk. A new voice, but from the same source as every other cursed word that I’d had forced upon me – nestled deep in the core of my stomach.
“…why’d your brother stop crying, Simon? ” He immediately let go, and his eyes went wide. His mouth hung open, like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“…Simon? ” it continued. “Simon, where is your brother?
” He backed away, his lips shivering. His hands retreated to his chest, like he was subconsciously hugging himself. “…Simon, you’re scaring me,” the voice pleaded.
“Simon, please. ” I have never seen a man this terrified before. There was no way to tell what he was going to do as he was forced into this primal flight or fight reaction.
He pushed himself against the door, and just started bawling. Slowly, it escalated into a horrified scream. This shrieking, child-like primate scream.
He was unraveling in front of me, clawing to get away. A chuckle escaped me, and it grew into a laugh. I tried shaking my head, pointing at my throat, but nothing helped.
For all intents and purposes – it was me doing this to him. There was no comfort in saying it wasn’t. Not that I could if I wanted to.
He was taken to another holding cell, and I spent the rest of my night alone, curled up in a corner. Quiet. Somewhere, in the space between sleep and dream, I heard it again.
I can’t remember the exact words, but I remember what it tried to tell me. That it could be a friend. A great ally.
It just needed me to acknowledge my position. I was a vessel. An honored and appreciated vessel, but no less an object.
Something likened to a king’s crown, or a bejeweled scepter. But I was to make no mistake. This thing, this being, could do perfectly fine without me.
It could thrive. And it could make my life a living hell, for as long as it wanted to. For as long as it needed to.
I drifted in and out of sleep, tossing between struggling to keep my eyes closed to deep in a fever-like dream state. At one point, I remember forcing my eyes open to get out of a nightmare, only to see the entire room half-flooded with water. Dead flower petals bobbing up and down beneath the cold black waves; reaching all the way up to the edge of my sleep-paralyzed lips.
On the other side of the room was a person wrapped in black algae. Shivering. It didn’t speak, but I knew what it sounded like.
It knew that I knew. And that made it smile. Early the next morning, I was released.
There was no reason to hold me, as there was no victim. They didn’t have an explanation, and I couldn’t give them one. They concluded that it simply couldn’t have been me, and if it somehow it was, there was no victim.
There was no crime. Walking home, I was in a daze. I was exhausted and broken.
I didn’t even notice the voice still talking to me. The whispers were kinder. Little wishes reaching my ears.
Small, sensible things. To go home and change, to have a proper breakfast, to brush my teeth. Things I would’ve done anyway.
But doing what it asked, well… it felt right. Good, even. I couldn’t be bothered to care anymore.
I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t fight it. There was no strength left in me, and I didn’t want to live in that world of pain and constant conflict.
It was so much easier to just say yes. And for some time, that’s what I did. I barely remember what I did.
I’d do absurd internet searches for obscure articles relating to anything from large investment groups to agricultural practices of growing sunflowers. I’d spend hours scrolling through profiles and pictures, making little notes with numbers that I didn’t know the meaning of. It all felt like an improvisational dance; making little movements just for the sake of a stray thought.
It wasn’t inherently malicious. But every now and then, there’d be something I didn’t want to do. To follow a stranger home and make note of where they lived.
To note which bus someone would take on their way home from work. To ask someone’s name, only to look it up online later. Something in me was forcing me to map out people, their actions, and their routines.
Not just any people, but specific ones. They seemed to have little in common, but the voice was adamant. And every time I hesitated, or said no, I knew I was in for a world of hurt.
It wouldn’t take much for me to change my mind. A little chuckle. A sigh.
A knowing purr. One night, I found myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was wearing a black cap and sunglasses, and I came to the realization that I had no idea what I was doing.
When had I even bought that cap? Did I have a new jacket? Something had snapped me out of my daze, and I didn’t even realize what, or why.
I looked down at my leather-clad gloves. I had some kind of rope in my pocket. I was about to go out and do something, but I didn’t know what.
I’d shaved my head and trimmed my eyebrows. I had these heavy bags under my eyes, as if I hadn’t slept for days. I’d lost a lot of weight, and my cheeks had lost a bit of their rosy vigor.
On the side of the bathroom mirror was a tiny speck of dry blood. It occurred to me that it was from that very first night, when I had challenged the voice. When I had forced it quiet with a scream of my own.
It was a stark reminder of just how much pain it took from me to shut that thing up – even temporary. But looking at myself, as I was, I was starting to come to terms with just what it would take for me to resume a normal life; and to stop whatever the hell I was about to do. “…I can hear your doubt,” it whispered.
“Tools don’t doubt. ” The words brushed against my lips, escaping into the room. It left some condensation on the bathroom mirror.
I wiped away the speck of blood, looking at it on the top of my finger. “…we have work to do,” the voice continued. “Come now.
” I shook my head. I knew I was going to regret it, but I didn’t want to do this anymore. I didn’t know what it was making me do, and the realization that I had no idea where my life even was anymore felt like ice running up my spine.
I’d lost control. I’d handed over the reins. How long had it been?
Weeks? Months? What had it made me do?
I shook my head again, mouthing a quiet “no”. My body tensed as my jaw was forced open. I could hear a laughter bubbling up from inside.
It was pleased. It wanted me in distress, and it made no secret of it. I thought back on that first night.
I’d screamed so bad that I damaged my throat. But no matter how painful it was, it had accomplished one thing. It had made that damn thing shut up.
I grunted. I could feel an uncomfortable poke at the vocal cords, but that was it. I grunted again, louder.
I forced a groan through my throat, and this time, it started to burn; like swallowing boiling water. “…no,” it whispered. “This will not do.
” With a twitch of a neck muscle, it slammed my head into the bathroom mirror. It felt like blinking, but when my eyes opened, I was standing on an unfamiliar street. It had moved me.
Something warm was running down my forehead, partially dry. I was clutching a knife, slowly making my way through an alleyway. This time, I forced myself to growl; rattling my vocal cords.
It felt like being slowly chainsawed, but I could tell it wasn’t just hurting me. My knees buckled and I fell forward, dropping the knife. When I got up, I had moved again.
I was somewhere off the highway, walking towards a car that’d pulled over for me. Maybe they’d mistaken me for a hitchhiker. I turned the other way, trying to wave them off, as I steeled myself for my greatest effort yet.
I knew it was going to be painful. Maybe the most pain I’d felt so far. The thought of it made my eyes tear up, but maybe it’d be enough for that thing to finally shut up for good.
I got down on all fours by the side of the road, and just screamed. I screamed repeatedly, and I could feel the pain tearing through me like a hot knife. A stray thought cried out that maybe this was for nothing – but I couldn’t bear it.
I had to believe that this was going to work. I kept screaming, over and over. The coughs bubbled up, and as I spat my blood on the asphalt, I could feel something tickling my throat.
“…pointless,” it whispered. “…useless. ” It was playing on my doubts, but I could hear that it was weaker.
It was lying. Convincing itself. Finally, I could feel something come loose.
Something tangible and physical. I spat out what looked like a small vine, covered in tiny petals. It was probably blue, but the blood made it look black.
With every cough, I lost more control, but I could feel more and more dislodge. Vines, petals, some kind of shelled seed, and even a blooming flower. Something resembling a twisted, organic sunflower – with little Z-shaped petals.
No bigger than a thumb. It was still moving, raw and bloodied like a newborn mouse. I was just lying there, on the side of the road.
The bleeding wouldn’t stop. I could feel my pulse all the way up to my teeth. I was desperately crying for help, but there were no words.
No screams. Nothing. But at least there was no voice left in the back of my throat.
I only have vague memories of what happened next. The blood loss was pretty severe. They had to perform some kind of surgery.
The next thing I can clearly remember is looking up at the hospital ceiling, feeling a comforting warmth in my left hand. My father, holding my hand, patiently waiting for me to wake up. The doctor explained how I would probably never talk again.
That it would take several screenings and check-ups over the course of several months just to keep my throat from rupturing. That I wouldn’t be able to eat solid food for a long time. There were technical terms, projections, hopes and fears – but the greatest problem, to me, was already solved.
That thing was gone. Whatever had lived in me had been ripped out by the roots, and I was in control. I was finally back in total, actual, control.
Now, this was a couple of years ago, and I don’t like to look back on it. Even mentioning it makes people look at me funny. Most of my immediate family think it was a psychotic episode.
I’ve become that family member that you have to be a bit careful around, it seems. I’m hoping it will fade in time. I’m not sure where that thing came from.
I think it might’ve lived in that storage space as some kind of spore. Maybe it was something I ate. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just this metaphysical manifestation; it was an actual physical obstacle.
I think the longer it had time to dig its roots in, the worse the loss of control got. I think that thing was bad enough to touch nerves that I didn’t even know I had. Thinking back on that night where I finally ripped it out makes me cold.
Yes, it was an amazing relief, but the pain was otherworldly. But as far as things go, I’m me. I may not have a voice anymore, but actions speak louder than words anyway.
I figured that, by writing this down, I could stop myself from forgetting that this really happened. Looking back at it feels almost like another life, like something that happened to someone else. But it was as real as real gets, and I don’t want to imagine what would’ve happened if I hadn’t done as I did.
But sometimes I wonder - if my voice were to fully recover, who’s to say that it won’t come back? What if there is still some kernel of it, living deep in the pit of my stomach? Who’s to say I’m not still whispering things in the dead of night?
