In The Mind's Eye

He looked around to see who had said it, but there was nobody. And the voice, it had sounded like his own. How could that be? He was sure that he hadn't spoken aloud. It must have been in his head, an aural hallucination. Recently he'd sometimes heard sounds or indistinct voices that weren't there in the real world. Also, he felt tired all the time as though he'd been getting half the amount of sleep he actually had. Upping his coffee intake hadn't helped. Surprisingly, he hadn't been yawning more than usual. Something was wrong and now he wondered if he needed to see a doctor. But he couldn't afford to. The job didn't provide any medical insurance, and his meager savings were to be left untouched in case of a real emergency like losing his job.

The other packers clapped and whooped when he returned to the packing station. “How was it in dispatch?” someone shouted.

Slumped shoulders signalled Blake's unconscious admission of defeat. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. Even quitting the job and finding another one was unlikely to help. It was as though there was a sign on him telling everyone that he would be easy pickings, that he was one of life's losers.

He put the earbuds back in and resumed work. Overlaid over the musical tones a voice added a sporadic commentary: “Get rid of 'em. Shoot the scumbags.” The words, stark and cruel if spoken aloud, gradually softened almost into melody and became pleasurable to listen to. Blake's grip on reality weakened. Lightheadedness set in. Like floating in an out-of-body experience, he felt detached from what was happening. His hands worked their rote pattern and packed as they should while he observed as if someone else was doing it.

The voice grew insistent and extreme in what it ordered him to do. He warmed to the idea. In his aloof state it was easier to justify shooting them – all of them. What had they ever done for him except make his working life even more miserable than it had to be. Yes, they had to be executed; it was the punishment they deserved. What did it matter if a few dickheads were killed. It would probably make the news for a few minutes then the world would continue not giving a shit about them.

By lunchtime he'd decided what to do. While the others sat around the break room eating their lunch he drove home.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)