Stacia Kane - Personal Demons

To my family.

"Welcome back to Personal Demons ," Megan said into the microphone. "Our next caller is Regina. Hi, Regina, how can I slay your personal demons?"

The words tasted like shame. She and Richard had fought over that line, just as they'd fought over the massive publicity campaign he and the station had orchestrated for the show.

Richard signed the paychecks, so Richard won. Never let it be said that good taste and actually helping people outweighed silly gimmicks in the media world.

"Regina? Are you there?"

"I'm scared." The rush of images accompanying the small, almost childish, voice raised goosebumps on Megan's skin and drove all thoughts of Richard and tacky taglines from her mind. The pale, pointed face of a woman, limp blond hair tucked behind her ears. Blood poured over the vision, red and viscous. Gnarled six-toed feet stepped in the blood leaving strange misshapen impressions that fissured the vision like a shattering mirror.

Megan gasped, rocking back in her chair. What the hell was that? She instinctively raised her psychic shields, only to immediately drop them. Regina was her patient now, just like any other. She deserved everything Megan could give to help her.

Bill and Richard gestured at her from the booth, their faces reddening. Dead air was a mortal sin in radio and both her engineer and her boss looked ready to inflict eternal punishment.

"Sorry, sorry. We had a minor technical problem. You said you're scared?"

"Yes." Regina sniffled. "I can't do it anymore. I can't take it anymore."

Now that the initial terrifying flash had passed, Megan received more mundane pictures. A car, a bland pale green office cubicle looking like every other bland pale green office cubicle. An attractive man, smiling down at her—at Regina. A boyfriend, maybe?

Megan forced her muscles to relax. "Why don't you tell me what's happening."

"It's the voices. They talk to me all the time. When I'm awake, when I'm asleep ... I hear them."

"Voices?"

"Evil voices. They tell me to ... to hurt myself. To hurt other people. And I don't do it, but I think I might. I have to make them stop."

"Have you spoken to anyone—"

Regina's sobs shuddered through the phone line, cutting off the question. "They won't go away, they won't leave me alone, and they say horrible things, and they want me to do horrible things, and I think if I were dead I wouldn't hear them anymore. I don't want to die, but I can't listen to them anymore either!"

To Megan, Regina didn't feel organically disturbed, but mentally sound people did not hear voices. And none of this accounted for that scaly, misshapen foot she'd seen or the cold panic it inspired.

"Regina, suicide is never the answer. Listen to me. You can be helped. We can find out why this is happening to you, and we can make those voices go away. Okay? You can be happy again. You're a good person and you deserve to be happy."

"I don't know if I deserve happiness. I don't think I do. They told me I'm not ... they told me they're with me because I'm bad."

"You're not bad." Megan sat up straighter in her chair and leaned forward, staring at the microphone as if Regina could somehow see her through it. "Not at all. Your friends, your family, the people you work with don't think you're bad, do they?" The face of the man in the office flashed again. "Is there anyone you can trust, who you can talk to?"

Regina blew her nose—not, most decidedly, a pleasant on-air sound—then squeaked, "Maybe."

"Then here's what I want you to do. I want you to think of those people, okay? Think about them, and think about your parents, and all the people who care about you. When you hear those voices telling you to hurt yourself, you think about them. My engineer, Bill, is going to give you a different phone number to call. The people who answer are going to help you, too. You don't have to be scared anymore."

"Thank you," Regina said.

"Good," Megan replied, relieved. "Our time is up for this evening, but I want you to call me back next week and tell me how you're doing, Regina. Will you do that?"

"Yes. I'll call you. Thank you. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. You take care of yourself and call me next week." Megan signaled Bill to transfer Regina back. He already had the list in his hands, ready to give her the suicide hotline number. At least Regina had genuinely wanted help, unlike most of Megan's other inaugural show callers. Three lonely hearts, one rebellious teen, a man who thought Elvis lived next door, and one pervert had not made for a stellar beginning.

Thirty seconds to the blessed moment Megan could go home and not come back for another week. "There is always a reason to live, no matter how you might feel right now. There are always people who care about you, people willing to listen and try to help you. If you think you don't have anyone, you're wrong, because you can call me, here on this show. I care and I'll listen. We're out of time for tonight, but I'll be back next week."

Once more the music filled the studio. Bill gave her the thumbs up, but Richard leaned over him and pushed a button. "That was great." Megan smiled, but he continued, "But you didn't use the phrase. Don't ever go to break or end the show without using the phrase. It's the most important thing you'll do on the air."

He continued harping about it all the way through the almost-empty station and into the parking garage. "Your show is a vehicle for advertisers, Megan. You understand that, right?" He didn't even glance at her, which was probably a good thing as she was having difficulty keeping her face blank. "You must identify the show and the station. You must use your tagline. We put a lot of thought into—"

"I understand." Opening herself to so many people, so many problems, over the course of two hours drained her more than she had expected. All she wanted to do was go home, have a glass of wine and a snack, and take a long, hot bath. None of which she could do until she escaped Richard and his evidently unending lecture.

"I'm still new at this, Richard, but I realize the audience needs to be reminded of brand identity, especially when they may have been distracted by something as insignificant as suicide. It won't happen again."

"I hope not," he said, completely missing the sarcasm. In Richard's world, everyone was a consumer. The only help they needed was to be steered toward the right brands.

They walked through the parking garage, their heels echoing on the gritty concrete. Megan shivered. She hated parking garages, with their stale, oil-smelling air. A minor phobia, but one that still bothered her. Even Richard's echoing monologue seemed preferable to silence here.

"I have an interview set up for you," he said. She'd been wrong. It was better when he didn't speak. "Tomorrow evening, a dinner. Seven at Café Neus. It's a reporter for Hot Spot. "

For what felt like the millionth time in the last few weeks, she cursed her decision to take the show. The only reason she accepted was because Richard would have hired Don Tremblay—the male Nurse Ratched of local counselors—if she'd turned it down. Now she wondered if it mattered. Would any of her callers have minded? Maybe the heavy breather; calling a guy might not be fulfill his particular "needs" ... and Regina.

"Richard, I don't want to be in that tabloid."

"You say ‘tabloid', we at the station say ‘invaluable source'. Do you have any idea how many subscribers they have?"

They reached Megan's car, sitting all by itself under one dim fluorescent light. "No, but I bet you're going to tell me."