Voices

I hear a voice in my head. It tells me to take a knife and slice it right through her neck. Slowly. As if I am just touching the surface of butter. Smoothly gliding over it like a paintbrush over a canvas and painting my future.

I love her. I love her so much that I don’t like others to see her, to talk to her, to breathe the same air as her. I cannot bear to think that these filthy humans around us see her with the same eyes as they saw some drunkard on the road last night, or as they saw some cheap comedian. They cannot keep others image, in the same memory as that of her. She is mine, and I am afraid, that even my presence may cause a violation in that pure form of hers.

The headache becomes unbearable sometimes. I shout out loud, but there is no one to listen. Is there? I am left alone with the voice.

 I wake up sweating at nights, with a feeling that someone took her from me. I look for her, find her with her arms wrapped against my shoulder. I see her face. The perfect face, with just the right amount of puffiness of cheeks. The eyes closed.  Just the right color of her face. Her lips. With some small cracks that only I can see. Her aroma in my lungs. Her chest heaving up and down. Her arms, smooth and soft, with her palm on my bare chest, moving up and down with fast breathing.

Sometimes I wake her up in my panic attacks. Her single look calms me down. She looks in my eyes. She sees something. She calls out my name. And the voice is gone. I return into her arms. Cry my heart out. She holds me there, calms me down. Her voice reaches out deeper than my thoughts. She understands my nightmares. I don’t want to share it with her, and she is okay with it. She accepts it, just like a sea accepts even the harshest river.

Last night, I woke up sweating. The voices were louder, and I wanted to do whatever I could to remove them. I had an intense throbbing in my head. I saw her. She didn’t wake up. If only she had, I would have stopped. I took a knife out of the kitchen drawer. I kept it on her neck. I was crying without a voice. She woke up as soon as she felt that cold metal on her skin. She looked into my eyes. She remained calm. Her pupils dilated. She understood. She said nothing, but a gasp escaped from her lips, while I sliced her neck with the knife as they told me to. I cleaned the bed sheets. I cleaned the room. I washed her blood from her body. I kept her on the bed with the same calm she always was. Sleeping. Peaceful. The voices stopped. I sat beside her, crying with her in my arms. And that’s how they found me in the morning — crying without tears, silently.