Soul Jar by Annie Carl

Author:Annie Carl [Carl, Annie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Forest Avenue Press

Suffer the Silence

Ellis Bray

IT CAN’T REALLY BE called a forest; it’s more like a city park gone feral. Not that it matters, I guess. It’s still the only place where my brain goes quiet and the voice vanishes and I can just be. This little creek runs through the middle of the park where I can lose hours in the silence, and so I do.

Even with winter lurking in the shadows of its trees, while I white-knuckle my way through suddenly stopping my psych meds—a big no-no, according to the experts, all of whom have reliable income and decent health insurance—this clearing and its creek have saved me in every conceivable way: body, mind, soul. The only way I know to return the favor is by coming back and existing here. It’s our unspoken pact: I give them a purpose, they give me a place to work through the worst of the fevers and chills and cramps and panic and sudden propagation of hateful, nasty, evil voices.

The relationship is a bit one-sided, I’ll be honest.

Anyway, this small bit of city park offers me the most peace while demanding the least repayment, and I’m not going ask too many questions. I’m just going to sit here at the water’s edge and drink in the isolation.

Or I would, except for some fuckin’ reason, someone brought their kid, a baby, to my creek, and it won’t stop crying. Just that high-pitched, constant wailing, like a siren, going on and on and on and

“Have you seen my baby?” an anxious female voice behind me asks.

The urge to turn around and see who’s talking…God, it makes my skin itch. Instead, I focus on the creek. It’s not my usual voice, but that doesn’t mean it’s real.

Keeping half an ear cocked for footsteps behind me, I glare at the stones beneath the surface of the water and start running through my mental checklist.

One: this spot is in a city park; anyone can come here.

Two: it’s still daylight, so the park is still open.

Three: it’s November and cold; I don’t know much about babies, but if it’s cold enough to hurt me—and it is—a baby probably doesn’t stand a chance.

Four: no one ever comes to this creek

(except whoever brought the baby)

and no one ever bothers me

(except for this lady)

so chances are she’s not real.

Baby’s probably not, either.

“Have you seen him?” she says again. “My baby. I lost my baby.”

It’s weird, though, her continuity. People like her usually vanish once I’m done with my analysis.

I turn around now, scooting awkwardly on my ass, and she’s standing there, looming over me, solid as the trees, wearing a white dress that is way too damn thin for the late autumn air. She doesn’t seem bothered by the cold, doesn’t seem to notice the icy wind rolling dead leaves across the ground.

The same wind that grabs my hair and shoves its frigid fingers under my collar, until my ears are hidden by my shoulders and I look as misshapen as I feel.

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