Kyle Muntz - Voices

"Do you hear the voices?" he asked, as though confirmation were enough to resolve the whispers away. They hid everywhere, in cupboards, in ceilings, in the walls, nothing we could understand, an undertone to humanity. Silent flickerings in the very domestic safe. They followed us.

"Yeah," I said, "I hear them."

Silent flickerings in the very domestic safe.

They repeated themselves.

"What are we going to do?" he asked. He enjoyed repeating himself. Like

everyone, he was entirely a product of his time and place, understanding nothing of

self-awareness. The world is fond of making us answer questions, all at once, so the

static can get going. Paradoxical, the answers never come through.

"I think it’s your camera," he said.

"We’ve talked about this before," I said. "You know it isn’t."

" You say it isn’t," he said. "That doesn’t change anything."

"It isn’t," I said, "because I said it isn’t. And most of the time, I’m always right"

::::::::::::::::::::

"You know," Markus said. "Sometimes I really don’t like you."

I didn’t care enough to ask him why, but he kept going.

"You’re half a person. You’ve always been half a person. You’re barely even

here."

He didn’t notice that (sometimes) I have two shadows.

::::::::::::::::::::

Trey came to me in my dreams- not a phantom. I’d fallen asleep in the park, on a bench. Way in the distance, the tops of buildings were an irregular range of mountains. My side hurt, under assault by firmness. Trey seemed excited, but Trey was always excited. He had more energy than a nuclear reactor, despite the strangeness. I hate when people wake me up.

"Are you going tonight?" he asked.

"If I can," I said, "I will."

::::::::::::::::::::

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"You could do something ," Markus said, "instead of just standing there. You do

that too much." One hand fell on a table. As though he wanted to throw it at me.

"You never do anything," he repeated. "You’re barely even there."

"I don’t even understand what you want me to do," I said. "You know no one

listens to artists. No one understands them."

"What?"

(No one listens to artists.) "I can’t hear you."

::::::::::::::::::::

— Maybe like, speak a little louder, he said. (I am, I said. You just can’t hear me.

)

— What?

(You just can’t hear me.)

::::::::::::::::::::

"Are you scared?" I asked.

"Of course I’m scared," Markus said. "Aren’t you?"

"I’m not sure. Maybe. If I know how to be."

"You’re just too fond of pretending," he said. "You don’t even understand fear." "I do," I said. "You just don’t understand the way I understand things."

::::::::::::::::::::

— See? Markus said. You can’t stop speaking in riddles, even when it matters. It’s like you’ve fallen out of touch with the real

(You’re imagining things, I said.)

He paused.

— What…?

(You’re imagining—)

Maybe it was just the vacuum, but he still couldn't hear.

::::::::::::::::::::

"Are you going to the hill tonight?" I asked. "To watch the fireworks?"

Ashley laid her head on my shoulder. Supine, the Grecian smoothness of her skin, her elegance and elements of posture: she did. With one hand, she played with a ring of keys. This was her car. We were in the wrong seats.

"Maybe," she said. "If you are."

"I am."

Then so am I.

We breathed. I heard her breathing. It surprised me, she always did. To see her chest move. She had a pulse, barely, all up and down her, inside.

"Do you remember Markus?" I asked.

"I do."

(He really likes you.)

"Don’t worry," she said. "I’ll be nice."

"You don’t have to be," I said, "if you don’t want to. Unless you feel like it."

"Why do you even talk to him?" she said. "You guys don’t match. It’s obvious. He follows you, and when you feel like it, you drag him."

"I think he’s just more real than I am." She knew. "He does things a real person does."

"He makes you feel better about yourself."

"Absolutely."

"You parasite."

"I am."

We breathed slowly, unsure. The light shone through us, the wind blew through. We filtered dimension. We felt for sure.

She picked up my camera.

"Why do you still have this?" she asked. "It comes between things."

"Yeah," I said. "It does that."

"You don’t mind?"

"That’s what I have it for."

"But then…" she asked. "Where do you fit in here?"

"I don’t," I said. "That’s part of the idea."

"Some girls might find that strange."

"Do you?"

"Yes." She touched me. "But I've never been good at finding things"

"I’ve never been good at seeing."

"It's because sometimes you only have one eye."

"Not quite." I sat up little. "I have three. Just one of them is just better with memory, and it keeps secrets."

She traced a finger over me. She traced elegantly: chest, stomach, thigh. She traced unbelievable. I don’t think I knew her very well. However we got here. Wherever we went.

"How many other girls are you with?" she asked.

"Just one," I said. "But she doesn’t count. She cancels herself."

"I’ve heard of her," she said. "Everyone has."

"Are you jealous?"

"Yes."

"Girls scare me," I said. "Especially you."

"I scare everyone," she said. "It’s because I’m scary."

I ran a hand down her spine, in its glorious effeminate curvature, wondering that I could be here, that I could be.

::::::::::::::::::::

Markus stood up. He punched the wall. I’d never seem him this angry before.

Whispers surrounded us, whispers became us, all around, in the walls, a spidery undertone to being, gone unheard. But we heard it, we knew… accumulated

dead, a baroque display of memory. Our society, in being so electric, numbs those

silent voices- static, flaring noise- but we heard them. They were all of those thing

(they were none), I knew, more than Markus. All he knew was how to get angry.

That was very

human

of him. Apparently he heard them more than ever.

In another room, his mother was still vacuuming, as she watched TV. He

went to her. His house was shit, with strange colors on the walls, and dusty curtains.

His mom never did do a very good job keeping it clean. I stepped

over

stains, the maimed remnants of place. Markus

raged. She watched television so loud it consumed her. Television had a stifled,

fluorescent embrace, like tiredness. His mother got very little sleep. When she did,

she slept on the couch, still watching.

Markus stepped into the front room. Next door, the neighbors were pulling into

their garage, in a very old, very rusted car. There was a domesticated species of bird

perched on the bird feeder. Markus pushed her away from the vacuum. Without

turning it off, he lifted it (wobbling) from the ground, and flung it towards the

screen. With physics to blame, he fell. The vacuum crashed

t h r o u g h

the television, sparking, as a whole radioactive generation came to an end (with

the shredding of wires, undoing internal projection). In silence, to the echo of

cracking glass, he landed, gently, on the couch.

::::::::::::::::::::

“This

is all your fault,” he said.

(I felt better about myself.

)

::::::::::::::::::::

“Are they telling us something?” Markus asked.

“They want us to go.” Into the dark.

So we went into the dark. We became familiar with dark places. Markus's

basement was very old. Destruction laced pathways to either side. Astringent powder fell from above. Dankness and dampness, the welcomers of memory, were, in their remarkably clammy presence, very prominent. Metal beams, irregular, kept the ceiling up. The naked underbelly of the residence (water heater, sewage pipes, bulbous, rusted tanks of metal) bared itself explicatively, and we saw. It was remarkably disturbing. Like being dumped in a bucket of cold water.