Voice’s of the Broken (Passage from The Lie or the Lamplight)

Harper awoke to destruction. His twin bed looked ravaged, stuffing spilling from jagged mattress tears, springs jutting out like skeletal fingers. He carefully swung his legs over the side, avoiding the sharp points, and stumbled into the dingy bathroom.

     Another night of thrashing. Another night of the voices.

     He stared at his reflection in the grimy mirror, then turned on the faucet and splashed lukewarm water onto his face. As he reached for the threadbare towel, his blood ran cold. In the mirror’s reflection, the man in the faded Phillies cap stood silently behind him.

     “How did you find me?” Harper asked, his voice flat.

     “I’m always with you,” the man replied, his gaze blank yet accusatory.

     “I told you to leave me alone.” Harper turned away, trying to ignore the familiar presence. “I know what happened that day, and I don’t need you telling me different.”

     “You’re wrong,” the man told. “You know what you did.”

     Harper pressed his hands to his throbbing head. Not this again. He moved into the kitchen, wrestling open the broken refrigerator. As he reached for yesterday’s leftover sandwich, the Phillies cap man materialized beside him.

     “You killed your family that day.”

     “No!” Harper screamed, his control snapping. “I don’t need your lies! I told you before the trial, in prison—I did not kill my family! I wouldn’t, and I couldn’t!”

     “Your mom and dad would still be alive if it weren’t for you. Not to mention Rebecca.”

     “Don’t ever say her name!” Harper roared, hurling the sandwich at the figure. He watched in detached horror as the food passed through the man like he was made of smoke.

     Harper stormed onto the dilapidated porch, pacing frantically. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he muttered to the empty air.

     Three weeks of this. Three weeks of him following me, trying to convince me I’m a killer.

     Before long, another figure materialized—the biker in tight leather, slicked-back hair gleaming like oil. Thin sunglasses reflected Harper’s anguished face.

     “You know what you need to do,” the biker said, his voice smooth as poison. “Find the one who killed your family. You know you didn’t do this.”

     “I know who did,” Harper exclaimed, his fingers trembling. “Rebecca’s death will not be in vain. I will seek vengeance, and my family’s killer will not die fast.”

     The biker’s smile revealed unnaturally sharp canine teeth.

     “Phillies cap is back.” Harper paused, “He keeps following me.”

     “Don’t worry about him,” the biker said, his sunglasses sliding down to reveal hypnotic red eyes. “His lies won’t prevail. You have a duty—not just to Rebecca, your parents, and your unborn child, but to the one who helped you escape that hellhole.”

     Harper turned toward the open field, instinctively touching the back of his head where the mysterious injury had been. “What if I’m wrong? What if I did kill my family?”

     When he turned back, the biker was gone. Only the whispered words remained: “The killer is close.”

     In the distance, something caught his eye—a little girl with long brown hair, sitting peacefully in the field, playing with a doll. She looked no older than five, her Hispanic features delicate in the morning light.

     Why does she seem familiar?

     Harper picked up his navy-blue duffle bag and approached cautiously. “Hello,” he called out gently. “Are you lost?”

     The girl looked up with blank expression, watching him approach.

     “I’m not going to hurt you,” Harper continued, moving slowly. “I just want to make sure you’re alright. Where are your parents?”

     She remained silent, her gaze fixed on him. When he was about twenty feet away, she suddenly stood, her doll falling to the ground with a soft thud. A tear welled in her big brown eyes.

     “Are you alright?” he asked, kneeling down and placing his bag beside him. “Do you know where your parents are?”

     Wiping the tear away, the girl pointed at his duffle bag. Harper shook his head in confusion. “I don’t have anything in here you’d want.” More tears welled as she continued pointing.

     “I don’t understand,” Harper said, looking down at the bag. “Where are your parents?” When he looked up, the girl was gone.

     Sitting in the empty field, Harper stared at the space where she had been. His hands trembled as he unzipped the bag. What did she want me to see?

     Inside lay his hunting knife, his cocaine stash, and the orange prescription bottle labeled Risperidone. The prison doctor’s words echoed: “For the schizophrenia, Harper. These episodes you’re having—they’re not real.”

     He stared at the medication, then at the empty field where a five-year-old girl had just vanished into thin air.

     The voices. The girl. None of it’s real.

     But the knife was real. The blood on his finger from testing its edge was real. And somewhere out there, his family’s real killer was still breathing while he ran from crimes, he swore he didn’t commit.

     “This is for crazy people,” he whispered, holding the bottle. “I’m not crazy. I’m broken.”

     Harper confused by the effects of the medication hurled the pills as far as he could into the field and shouldered his bag. The medication makes everything foggy. I need to think clearly if I’m going to find the truth.