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  “I guess so,” Wyatt confessed.

  “Interesting,” the doctor said, writing again in his notebook. “Tell me about the woman’s voice. Is it still repeating the same question?”

  “At least twice a day. But, lately, it’s getting more, I don’t know, annoyed. Like it’s mad that I’m not talking back.”

  “So,” the therapist asked, looking up from his paper and into Wyatt’s eyes. “It wants to know, ‘where are you?’ Does it mean emotionally? Where you’re at in your treatment? Is it asking if you think you’re getting any better? Worse?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And you ignore it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think ignoring the voice is angering it?”

  “I really couldn’t tell you, doc. It’s definitely pissed off about something. The last week, it’s been so loud, I can’t hear anything around me. It’s like I’m on the truck with my ear pressed against the siren. It’s getting to be unbearable.”

  The doctor sat quietly for a moment, tapping his pen on the rings of the notebook. After some thought, he leaned forward and looked Wyatt dead in the face.

  “Next time it happens,” he told the patient. “Answer it.”

  Wyatt’s eyes grew wide. The doctor’s advice was the opposite of everything he’d ever been told about how to deal with his hallucinations.

  “Answer it?” he questioned. “That’s not at all what any of you shrinks have ever told me to do. Wouldn’t that make it worse?”

  The doctor shrugged. “It could. Or not. The thing you have to remember about the voices in your head is that they’re you. They’re a manifestation of some part of your subconscious, as intrusive and bewildering to you as they may be. Maybe telling the voice what it wants to know, i. e. admitting to yourself where you believe you are emotionally and psychologically, is the first step to real improvement. I have to be honest with you, Wyatt, I’m increasing the dosage of your anti psychotics and mood stabilizers, but I don’t have high hopes of them being magic bullets. While you’ve learned how to cope with some of the deep-seated issues stemming from your childhood, you’ve made very little, if any, progress in managing the symptoms of your schizophrenia. I want you to take these,” he handed Wyatt the prescriptions. “Come back in three days and let me know if they’re working any better. We’ll go from there, but if you’re still having episodes that you can’t control, like not recognizing yourself in the mirror, after a month of the new dosages, we may have to consider other options.”

  “Other options,” Wyatt stated. “Like Clear View.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend that particular facility, but, yes, somewhere like it.”

  “For the record, doc, I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Wyatt said, standing up to leave and reaching out to shake the doctor’s hand.

  “Neither do I, Mr. Sinclair.” He took his patient’s hand, jumping back a little at the static shock he felt.

  “Sorry,” Wyatt said.

  The doctor smiled. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now. See you in a few days.” He patted him on the shoulder and watched him leave. He could see him through the window of the small brick office as he got into his car and drove off. He genuinely felt bad for Wyatt Sinclair. Most of his patients were easily treated with antidepressants or anti anxiety medication. But, Wyatt was the real deal. He needed real help that the doctor was worried he wasn’t capable of providing. Recommending in patient treatment was the last thing he wanted to do, but he feared that, in this case, it might be the only viable option.

  Wyatt was anxious to start his new prescriptions. Luckily for him, the pharmacy was just a few blocks away from the therapist’s office. As he stood at the counter waiting, impatiently, for his scrips to be filled, he noticed how empty the store felt. There were a couple of employees milling around, but otherwise, the building was quiet. He took his phone from his back pocket, hoping for a text or missed call from Annie, but unsurprisingly, there was nothing. He sighed a little as he returned the phone and let his eyes wander, first to the pharmacist and then to the bottles and boxes on the shelves behind her.

  Prepopik. Suprep. Moviprep. As he read, he was somewhat amused by just how bored he had to be that he was occupying himself by examining colonoscopy preparation kits from twelve feet away.

  “It’ll just be a few more minutes, sir,” the pharmacist told him from behind the counter.

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  Where are you? he suddenly heard. He looked around, hoping that it was the pharmacist speaking to him again. But, he knew better. It was ‘her’, the voice in his head. It sounded testy and Wyatt grew nervous. First of all, he wasn’t stoked about the idea of losing it in public. Secondly, the doctor had told him that the next time the voice asked the question, he should answer it, but was that smart? Would that give it more power over his mind? Make it more real?

  Wyatt was startled by the sound of the door opening to three men arguing about how much beer they needed for the night’s festivities. They were throwing a ‘rager’ and needed enough for everyone to get ‘lit’ and still have enough money to get tacos later. Wyatt rolled his eyes at how immature they seemed and how petty their problems, or even possibly their entire lives, must be. He remembered his own college days, getting wasted most nights, his friends thinking he was the life of the party. In reality, he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to drown out the noise of people that weren’t there.

  “Here you are, sir,” the pharmacist said, handing him the bag containing his medication. “You have a good day.”

  “Thanks, you too,” he said, unable to return her bright smile.

  Where are you?! the voice insisted, louder and sounding more frustrated than before. Wyatt left the store quickly and fumbled with his keys as he crossed the parking lot. Tell me where the fuck you are, the voice demanded. I’m sick of this shit. It was angry now, the angriest he’d ever heard it. It was so loud, it completely drowned out the noise of the busy street in front of him. He made it to his car and tried to get the key in the door, but his hands were shaking too violently. He looked around. The parking lot was empty aside from a few uninhabited cars and a truck he assumed belonged to the frat guys inside, based on how badly it was parked. This was it, he decided. He would answer the voice as the doctor had suggested. He had to. Nothing could be as bad as how he felt right now.

  “I’m a wreck!” he admitted. “I’m completely fucked up and I have no idea how to get better. As far as I can tell, there’s not a way. You want to know where I am?! I’m at the corner of Miserable Avenue and Mad as a Hatter Boulevard!”

  What the fuck? The voice asked. Listen, we don’t have time for you to have a meltdown right now. Tell me where you are, physically. I need a location so I can come get you. Freak.

  Wyatt dropped his keys. He was having a full conversation with a voice in his head and, not only that, it wanted to ‘come get him’. Did he have multiple personalities on top of everything else? What was going on? He could barely breathe. He reached into the bag and retrieved one of the pill bottles, but he was trembling so hard, he couldn’t get it opened.

  WHERE ARE YOU?! TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE! The volume of it was painful. It boomed in his head with such resonance, he thought he might have a stroke. He squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands to his head. His heart was racing and he couldn’t think straight. What was happening?!

  TELL ME!

  “I’m at a pharmacy on Nine in Howell!” he yelled and as he did, a lightning bolt hit a lamppost, spewing sparks and filling the air with thunder and blinding white light. Wyatt fell to the ground, shaking, trying to catch his breath. His heart was pounding in his ears, but that was all he heard. The voice was gone. The parking lot was silent.

  He picked up the medicine and got in his car, finally able to unlock the door. He hurriedly opened the bottles, taking a pill from each one and dry swallowing them. He sat there, breathing heavily, trying to collect himself. Through his mirror he could see th
e frat guys leave the store, piling several cases of light beer in the bed of their truck before taking off. At least no one saw me freak out, he thought.

  As he calmed down, he watched car after car speed by. The traffic reminded him of when he had moved there; of why he had moved there. Annie’s mother lived in Howell and after graduation, she wanted to move back there to be close to them. So, they packed up their studio apartment and left the city. Manhattan had always been Wyatt’s home, but after law school, what did he have to stay for? He wasn’t interested in becoming a lawyer like his father had always insisted. What he wanted was to save lives, so he bulked up and became a firefighter. His father was enraged. He remembered thinking that he’d never seen John so furious. After that, their relationship was strained, to say the least. They hadn’t spoken since not long after the wedding; almost ten years. Wyatt wondered what his father would say when he found out that Annie had left him. He wondered how he was, if he was in good health. After all, he was getting older. Mostly, he wondered if he had forgiven him for leaving or come to terms with his son being ‘different’. He sighed heavily. He was more relaxed, but still a little shaken. He decided to go home, take some Xanax and go to bed.

  Three days had gone by and he hadn’t heard the voice once. It was gone, just like that, and all he had to do was tell it what it wanted to know. It felt insane. He’d always thought he should never do what ‘the voices’ told him to. That that was how you end up becoming a mass shooter or a man that dresses like his dead mother and hoards cats. But, it worked. The voice was gone and Wyatt was starting to feel like he might be making some progress. For once, he was excited to see his therapist. He was feeling hopeful and as he sat down on the brown leather sofa in the doctor’s office, Dr. Stratford could see the change in him. He looked healthier, stronger and more relaxed than usual. He couldn’t believe it. The new dosages must have done the job.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” the doctor began. “You look, dare I say, almost happy.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “But, I think I’m doing a little better.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “A miracle, I think,” Wyatt joked. “After I left here a few days ago, I heard the woman’s voice again. I told it where I was, just like it wanted. I immediately started taking the new pills and I also took a Xanax that night.” He sat back, feeling more comfortable there than he ever had. “I haven’t heard the voice since.”

  The doctor looked at him with amazement. “Really?” he asked. “That’s incredible. And what about your other symptoms? Hallucinations? Nightmares?”

  “Still there,” Wyatt told him. “But, if I can get rid of one voice, maybe I can eventually get rid of all of them.”

  “So, what your subconscious wanted was for you to address your own emotions after all.” the doctor stated, proud that he had been able to finally help his patient have a breakthrough.

  “No,” Wyatt said. “It wanted me to tell it where I was. Like, the cross streets or something.”

  The doctor was baffled. “What?” he wondered. “It just wanted to know your physical location?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And it gave you no more information? Why do you think that is?”

  “Because,” a woman explained as she burst through the office door. “I should really tell him what he needs to know in person.” She sat next to Wyatt on the couch, a mischievous grin lighting up her face. She was beautiful with big brown eyes, high cheekbones and dark hair.

  “Excuse me, who are you?” the doctor asked sharply.

  “Name’s Taran Murphy, but I don’t really go by that. My parents were Irish and I feel like it’s a little unfair to claim an ethnicity when I’m not really from here, you know?” She looked at Wyatt and smiled. “You can call me Gabriel.”

  He felt sick. Her voice. It was the woman’s voice in his head. The incessant yelling, asking where he was nearly every day since he was eighteen. It was her, he was sure of it.

  “You can see her?” he questioned the therapist.

  “Of course,” he answered matter of factly. “We are in session, Miss. You need to leave.”

  She leaned forward to more directly look at the doctor. “What are his issues, doc?” she taunted. “Let me guess. Sees things no one else can see. Hears things no one else can hear. Bad dreams. Maybe an issue with electricity, like, static shocks? Maybe,” She looked back at Wyatt who had gone pale and felt like his heart would explode in his chest. “Lightning?”

  “How do you know that?” Wyatt breathed. He had been convinced that the lightning in the parking lot was just another hallucination.

  “I know everything,” she replied nonchalantly. “For instance,” She looked back at the doctor. “You were meant to be a concert pianist, but you never thought you were good enough, so you do this instead. All the joy you could have brought to people’s lives, all that God given talent, wasted. But, hey, a lot more stability in medicating the crazies, am I right?”

  The doctor was stunned. “How could you possibly…”

  “Did you not hear me when I just said I know everything?” She stood up, grabbing Wyatt’s hand and pulling him up with the strength of a linebacker. “Come on, B, we gotta bounce.”

  She dragged him through the lobby and out to the parking lot like he weighed nothing. As the shock wore off, Wyatt, with much effort, yanked his hand away and stopped.

  “Who are you?” he asked, not quite believing this person was made of flesh and blood and not just a figment of his imagination. “What do you want?”

  “Short answer,” she responded. “I’m your sister… kinda. We’ll discuss it later. Right now, what I want is for you to call your dad before he calls you. It’ll make him feel like you give a shit and he’ll be less of a dick when you go see him. I’ll meet up with you when you’re done.” She got into a tiny black sports car that Wyatt guessed cost more than what he made in two years at the department and looked up at him through the still opened door. “Listen, I get it,” she told him. “You thought you were out of your mind, so you ignored me. I’ll get over it eventually, but as of now, I haven’t forgiven you for making me schlep out to Jersey, so you owe me.” She took the sunglasses from her dashboard and put them on. “Call your dad.” With that, she slammed the car door shut and peeled out like a stunt driver.

  Wyatt stood there, motionless, not sure what to do next. Behind him, he could hear the quick footsteps of someone approaching. He turned to see Dr. Stratford hurrying toward him.

  “Are you all right?” the doctor asked.

  “I’m fine,” he lied.

  “Who was that woman?”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Wyatt told his doctor. “But, you could see her? She wasn’t in my head?”

  “I can assure you, she was very real. I have half a mind to call the police and report her as a stalker.”

  “You think she’s a stalker?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” the doctor surmised. “How else could she know about my past?”

  How else indeed? A stalker. That was the only rational explanation. But, what about her voice? It was too curious of a coincidence for Wyatt to ignore.

  “I’m going to have to reschedule our appointment, if you don’t mind,” he told the doctor. “I need to handle some things.”

  “Of course. Just set it up with Marjorie.”

  The men nodded goodbye to one another as Wyatt headed toward his car. He sat in the driver’s side seat and closed the door, looking at himself in the mirror.

  “What the fuck?” he whispered to himself. “Okay, let’s think about this logically. The receptionist saw her. Stratford saw and talked to her and confirmed she’s a real person. Whoever that was is real, not a hallucination. So, she can’t be the voice in my head.” But, he was sure that the voices matched. He knew it in his bones. “But, how did she know about the lightning?” he asked himself. “How did she know about the dreams and the doctor? How--” he stopped
, suddenly realizing what he was doing. “And I’m talking to myself. Awesome.” He shook his head and turned the key in the ignition.

  His head was swimming with thoughts as he drove home. Who was the woman, really? How was she connected to the voice in his head, if she was at all? Was he just projecting? And did she say she was his sister? Did his father have another kid he didn’t know about? It was possible, he guessed. His mother had been dead for decades, and while he had never seen his father date, it was entirely in the realm of possibility that he just kept his girlfriends hidden from his son. As a child, Wyatt’s father had all but worshiped his dead wife’s memory. There were pictures of her everywhere, though he never spoke about her. To this day, Wyatt still had no idea how she died. All he was ever told was that she had died when he was a baby. He had always assumed it must have been during childbirth by the distance his father put between them his whole life. But, who knows? Could have been a car crash, suicide, rogue meteorite. Anything was possible.

  At his apartment, Wyatt sat at his kitchen table, spinning his cell phone on the black lacquered wood as he procrastinated. He took note of the take out bags that had piled up on the counters and the dishes that sat unwashed in the sink. Since his wife left, he’d really let the place go to shit. He could picture Annie at the sink, hands covered in suds, laughing while she scolded him about the mess. We’ll get ants. She would have said. He’d just smile in agreement and throw the garbage in trash bags, tie them up, then kiss her cheek before taking them out to the community dumpster. Later, they’d have dinner and talk about their days, make weekend plans and watch television before heading to bed where they’d have boring but satisfying sex , read a little and go to sleep. Get it together. Wyatt thought, rubbing his eyes as he brought himself back to reality.

  He took the phone in his hand and pulled up his father’s number. He had been thinking about his dad recently and had wanted to reach out, but it never seemed like the right time. Maybe the woman was a stalker, nothing more. Either way, it probably was a good idea to check in with his dad, if for no other reason than to rip off the band aid of telling him about Annie.