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La Belle Voix

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[Jan. 2nd, 2006|02:31 am]
La Belle Voix


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You know, I completely forgot about January Novel Writing Month. I remembered this morning as I scanned my friends list. I didn't think I would bother with it, as I had no plot and many fanfic100 and au100 stories to write. But then, as I was playing on the internet before bed, I came up with this story and voila! 1200-some words for the first day. Not too bad, I think.


When Amos was small, he had imaginary friends. All children do. Friends that will be with them when Mummy and Daddy argue or Big Brother is mean to them. Most children grow out of their imaginary friends. Whether they're told by their parents that they aren't real, they're teased by friends for it or they simply stop believing. All children have imaginary friends.

But Amos is not a child. Amos is twenty-three.

He had had a very normal childhood. Growing up as an only child to middle class parents in a small town in England, he had his own imaginary friend called Greg. Greg was short and Scottish, with a sharp tongue and a constant craving for choice Scottish ale. He was balding a bit and had a crooked smile. When Amso was very small, Greg was very kind and funny. As Amso grew, so did Greg's anger. When Amos was nine, he found out about sex from Greg. His parents had been quite appalled when he said something about fucking. He'd been punished accordingly and Greg merely snorted, promising to keep Amos company while he was alone in his room. He made jokes and talked badly of Amos' parents, but it made him laugh and it was nice to have someone else tell him he had not been wrong. Once Amos began to hit puberty, Greg became angry and cynical. Nothing was good or bright or happy anymore and he made sure Amos felt the same.

During his twelfth birthday, as he was washing his hands in the bathroom, Greg wandered in and began describing his death in great detail. He spoke of how many drinks he'd had and how his friends had only laughed as he made his way to his car. Of how he had thought he had such control over the situation until the car began skidding and fishtailed. Greg had forgotten his seatbelt and, as he hit the wall of an old brick building in his hometown in Scotland, he'd flown through the windshield, the broken glass ripping into his stomach and holding him there. He told of how he had been in so much pain as he died. How it felt to have the glass rip into his stomach and tear his organs open. He made sure Amos knew how it felt to feel your breath stop and your mouth fill with blood.

Amos had vomited all over himself and spent the remainder of his birthday curled into a tight ball behind the toilet. When his parents tried to coax him out, he would not speak, heavy sobs wracking his body. When his father finally became fed up and reached for him, Amos screamed at the top of his lungs, his tiny body heaving.

He never was the same.

His parents sent him to a psychiatrist who diagnosed him with schizophrenia. They said he was dellusional and quickly prescribed a heavy dosage of some sort of medication that made Amos feel very odd. He lashed out quite often as a teenager and Greg became worse and worse. Amos began to hear voices in his head and sometimes, at night, he would see people near his bed or wandering the hallway outside of his room. Once, when he was sixteen, he woke up in the middle of the night, screaming louder than he thought was possible. To this day, he couldn't remember what had terrified him so, but his parents had been so terrified, they rushed him to hospital where the doctor immediately took him off of all of his medication and made him stay overnight in a special part of the hospital where a guard came and checked on him every few hours to make sure he was still alright and still in his own bed. Afterwards, a different psychiatrist that had been recommended by the doctor, prescribed Amos anti-depressants and they helped to a point.

When Amos was nineteen, he gave a report on his condition and the maltreatment of his first psychiatrist. He even gave brief mention of his imaginary friend, Greg, one of the manifestations of his wounded psyche (while Greg stood behind him making ridiculous comments). Afterwards, one of his classmates stopped him outside of university and told him that he reminded him of someone he had read about. A medium. Someone who could connect with the dead. From what he had heard and what he knew of mediums, Amos seemed to fit the profile. Amos had scoffed and walked off without a word, but some of it hit a chord. After all, how many children could create imaginary friends with such a vast and complicated past and think up the friend's death when they're only twelve?

He dropped out of university not long after and found himself searching for answers. There were more people now and he could not get rid of them. Once, he even went so far as to cut himself with a razor to try and focus on something else. But Greg was there, telling him that people who commit suicide are stupid fucking sods who probably deserve it anyway.

His mother died shortly before his twentieth birthday. She began making frequent visits not long after.

It was then that he began reading everything he could on mediums and the paranormal. His mother and Greg did not leave his side once and he felt himself slowly going mad.

Many of the books he read often spoke of how this was a priviledge and those who have "the gift" should try and use it for good. Try and make the best of it. Amos could only think of how badly he wanted it all to stop. He did not know how much longer he could stand all of the intruding voices in his head.

Amos was a virgin. It was ridiculous, he knew. At twenty-three, he should have at least kissed a girl. Hell, at this point he would even settle for a boy. But he could not get along with other human beings, not with Greg and his mother constantly there to tell him what he's doing wrong. He also could not find the right girl. It was not that he felt he was above settling, but most girls didn't tickle his fancy. At least, not to the point where he would willingly grab them, throw them down and fuck them senseless. In fact, he found himself revolted by most of humanity.

He supposed this was the way it would always be. He would always be the odd one out, the one no one talked to and the one no one would ever want to talk to. Not that he blamed them. He had scars on his arms, he didn't even dress nicely, he muttered things under his breath, his eyes would wander during a conversation and, sometimes, he would involuntarily shout something at Greg or his mother. He despised his life.

When he was twenty-two, nearly twenty-three, he finally got a decent job at a local grocery store. It was not the best of jobs, but it paid his bills and he began trying to ignore his two visitors as best he could. He was never particularly pleasant to the customers, but he got on well with his boss.

It was there that he met Megan. She was quiet and she never spoke to anyone, really. He had to ask around to find out her name because she always found a way to avoid him. She was pretty in a very normal sort of way and he found himself intrigued by her silence. He wondered if anyone felt the same about him. He never felt the urge to throw her against a counter and fuck her senseless, but shedidn't revolt him, either. This he counted as a personal victory.

His mother despised her. Greg spoke of disgusting ways to have her. And Amos struggled to find a way to get her to speak to him.

Then, one night, he awoke to find someone standing over him. And he screamed.