Into the Voice [working title] Ch 1&2

I

Alistair

My name is Alistair Morgan, and I am dead. Or at least, I was. If you’re reading this now, how can I be dead? Or am I? I don’t really know anymore. I suppose life and death is a general term, for a living being or a non-living being. I guess you could say I’m neither, or maybe you could say I am both. Maybe I am my own special kind of being, a new breed of entity, who is not living, nor dead. I suppose that doesn’t really matter now anyway, does it? Does it? Does it…? I feel myself getting off topic, so now is the time to concentrate. Concentrate, Alistair. Concentrate.

This story, my story, begins around the time of my death. I don’t remember how old I was, or even what day of the week it was. Is that sad? Is it sad to not remember the little details of the last day of your so-called ‘life’? I was somewhere in my teenage years, I think. Isn’t it funny how age is irrelevant when you’re dead? I don’t even know how long I’ve been dead! I’d have to say that if I really thought back, really took time to think and calculated it, I’d probably be in my early twenties now, had I not kicked the proverbial bucket.

Off topic, I’m getting off topic again. It’s hard for me to concentrate on things for any length of time. I have no physical body to tether my thoughts to, so sometimes they just float and flit away as the please, as agile as a cute little birdie, or maybe even a butterfly. Butterflies are nice aren’t they? They go from ugly little worm, to beautiful bug in such a short amount of time. Isn’t that nice? Wait, death! Yes, death, that is what I am supposed to be talking about here, is it not? Lord, if I weren’t already dead, I’d tell you to murder me!

Murder? Was I murdered? Yes, I was murdered. Who murdered me? By whom, was I murdered? I can’t… I can’t recall. Was it a gun? Was it a knife? I simply, I simply can’t remember. Wait, wait… I think I can remember this. It was cold, winter? Was it winter? No, early spring. Still some snow, but the leaves were growing again. Ah yes, yes, yes! It was just about April, not quite yet. March was it? Was it March? It had to be! Not quite April, but not winter. Yes, yes. March it was. It was March.

I was murdered in March. But, by whom? A man, a woman? A woman? Was it a woman? Think Alistair, think! Did they have breasts? Most women do, do they not? I don’t remember bosoms, it must’ve been a man. It was a man. It was a man that I knew, was it not?

Yes, a man that I knew. A man that I trusted with my life… mistake? Mistake? Yes, mistake. I was mistaken to trust someone so, wasn’t I? No, I was supposed to trust them. They were someone I was supposed to trust dearly, someone by whom I could be taken care of. Someone to take care of me, to give me life, to keep me safe. He took my life, and gave me life, did he not? He did, my father murdered me.

Why though? Why? That I do not remember, but he took away my life. I know it. I know he took my life. Did I do something wrong? I don’t seem to recall. I don’t seem to recall much of anything easily, now do I? Even now as I tell you, or try to tell you, my story, I feel foggy. I feel as if I might just disappear. Disappear into nothing, eternal nothing…

And then Alistair fell into the void…

The nothingness of his fragile mind...

What’s wrong Alistair?

What’s wrong?

II

Alexander

My name is Alexander Martin, and I wish I were dead.

“Alex, GET UP!” Ugh, moms are such freaking downers. I knew I was going to be late for school, but did you see me running around with my head cut off? I am the one who was late, why was she flipping out? It was just first period history! History isn’t going to change by tomorrow, short of a cataclysm, was it? And the odds of a cataclysm are slim to none, when you think about it. When you really think about it, how bad is sleeping in compared to a cataclysm? Exactly.

“ALEXANDER!” Dear Lord, kill me. That is all.

“ALRIGHT MOM! Jesus!” I bellowed down to her. “I am up!” Reluctantly I pulled myself from my warm and safe bed, still reeling from the chill of last nights dream. It was so realistic, and not to mention eerie. Who dreams like that? Seriously? If I weren’t already in therapy, I’d have asked for a therapist.

Alistair Morgan... I could have sworn I’d heard that name somewhere. I just couldn't get it out of my head. Alistair Morgan. Alistair Morgan. So familiar... Before I could comb the dredges of my cranium, the ever so sweet trill of my mothers voice graced my ears once again. “Alex, if you’re not out the door in fifteen minutes, you are in deep sh-”

I slammed the door to my room before I let her finish, for the sake of my sanity. I was about ready to pour my Prozac down the woman’s throat and let her nap a while. She was seriously going to have high blood pressure if she got that worked up all the time.

I don’t remember what I threw on for clothes, or even if they were clean or not, but on my list of priorities, appearance was not number one. I ran a quick hand through my chocolate brown mop, and preceded down the stairs, to what was sure to be a charming ‘good morning’ speech from my mother.

In my soon to be nineteen years of existence, I had learned to stay out of the wrath of mumsie. I made a beeline for the keys, swooping up my bag on the way, and was out the door before she could even shape an argument into place.

“Point, set, and match.” New record: Thirty-second deployment. Alright.

The look on her face must have been priceless, if only I could have been there to see it. I unlocked the door to my silver, piece of crap 1985 Volkswagen Jetta, and hopped into the driver’s seat. Before I shut the door I thrust the key into the ignition and turned, settling into my seat. Pleather upholstery, super classy. Closing my eyes for just a second, I seriously considered turning my fail-mobile off, and sleeping in my car. I decided, after a serious moment of pros and cons time, my mother would have a freaking brain aneurism when she found me.

So I opened my eyes, and ‘bout crapped myself.

Out of my windshield, through the onslaught of bird excrement, I saw the thing I had dreamt of last night. At least, for a second I did, or thought I did. I was too tired to comprehend, and my heart was pounding in my throat, so I closed my door, and shifted into reverse… and ‘bout crapped myself again. Through the rear view, I saw, or thought I saw Alistair again. Before my heart gave out, I backed out of my driveway, and with considerable speed, high-tailed it to school. The drive to was a blur, like I had been driving on auto-pilot the entire way, I hardly remembered a thing.

The day passed by rather quickly, considering I slept through all my classes. It’s not like they taught me anything anyway. The wonderful administration thought it would be a good idea to stick me in all the retard classes, because my previous year I had flunked just about every damn class they gave me. Not for nothing though, I wasn’t being challenged. It was a goddamned waste of time, sitting there each day, learning about shit I’d already knew. And on the off chance I had been given a class that was interesting, I had been too distracted to retain a damn thing. It was like I wasn’t allowed to learn. My brain would wander off into different worlds, different lives.

It was like I lived someone else’s life every day while I was at school, dreaming of mediocre and mundane tasks like cleaning and cooking. When I was dreaming these things, these menial and monotonous tasks, I was myself, but I was not. It was me, but wasn’t me at all. In fact, nearly every day in school, I’d fall asleep at some point, usually Ms. Griagan’s fourth period English. What a snore! That was such a dreadful class, and she was such a god-awful teacher.

Her voice alone was enough the make a man contemplate jumping into a vat of bacon grease. Honestly, put nails in a blender and puree for a moment, and then jackhammer on a glass sidewalk, and then rake down a chalkboard, with an actual rake. THAT was her voice, pure nasal evil. The thought of it now turns my stomach. That dreadful woman knew exactly how to bore me to sleep in under ten minutes, flat. That woman, was the anti-christ.

Before I knew what was what, the bell rang, and school was over. It was as if school hadn't even happened, like I had gone through the whole day completly unaware of myself. The thought of being able to unknowingly live your life as normal was terrifying. The last thing that I was able to recall doing was getting in my car that morning, other than that nothing was clear. In fact the only thing I had thought about all day was Alistair, whoever, whatever he was. I couldn't shake him, like he was within me.

I found my way back to my Jetta, and entered the vehicle, bringing the beast to life, and sitting back in my seat, waiting for the stampede of jocks and dumb chicks to back out their fancy cars and drive on home to their mansions and estates. Through out my windshield I saw the typical crowd, the emo chicks in all their studded and stripped glory, the wangster boys, and their boxer selection of the day, the drama kids, the kids who ate their feelings, the kids who hated everyone, and the kids who everyone hated.

Through the moving mass, the living entity of a stampede, an anusual sight caught my eyes. Staring back at me, as if I was the only one in the parking lot, was Alistair. There were no bones about it this time, he was right there. I could make out every detail of his opaque yet sure form. His hair, not unlike mine, billowing in the wind, whipping around his pale face.

Well, what the hell. It was official, Elvis had left the freaking building. Check please, no need to consume any more! Face the facts, kiddo! You've gone bat-shit crazy! Reality had completely shattered. It was one of those moments when you can feel time itself slow down, and the chill creeps up your spine, and your heart itself doesn't know if it should beat again or not. My freaking brain melted, and trickled down my spine. It was the thrid time in one day I'd nearly lost control of my bowels, and shat myself right there.

After what felt like an agonizing eternity, my heart kicked in again, and I was able to breathe. Pulling lever down, and switching the engine gears into reverse, I pulled out, nearly molesting a new shiny Volvo with my bumper. Luckily, I hit the brakes, and in one fell swoop, pushed my car into drive, and hit the gas, rocketing towards the exit of the school. I didn't bother to look back at the bleach blonde bitch flipping me the bird. I heard her horn, I knew she was pissed, but her manicured nails and shiny car meant jack-shit to me at that moment. All I cared about was getting my crazy ass home, and having a stern talking to, with my own damn self.

I let out a shiver, and blasted the heat to eleven. I had suddenly grown cold, as if my body had been plunged into the Atlantic on a nice January night. The turkey's were done, 'twas not a pleasant feeling, I might add. Looking down I could see my own breath. What the fuck? It was the middle of April, and it was nearly seventy degreees outside. How in the hell was I seeing my own breath? Just then something caught my attention to my immidiate right. There, in all his statuesque glory, sat the creature that had haunted me for the last month and a half. The thing that every night in my sleep, came to me, talked to me as if we were old pals. To my right, sat Alistair Morgan, the ghost that would surly be the death of me.

"It'd be in your best interest to keep your eyes on the road, Alex, would it not? We wouldn't want to hurt anybody, would we?"



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That is chapters one and two. Tell me what you think! Its not going to make much sense right now. And, no, I am not a terrible writer, that is how Alistair is supposed to talk.