Musings by The Poet Loriet

The Voice

She said the voice
was a male one.
He told her to hurt others,
to hurt herself.
He told her once
when she was in trouble
to take a kitchen knife
and cut her head off,
slice her throat.

"But it's okay, Mommy.
I didn't listen to him."
She hallucinated, her eyes
wide with panicky fear
as she saw black cats
walking over the bloody knives
that lined our hallway,
the ones she alone could see
because "the voice" showed her.

She was so frightened,
hiding under the coffee table,
curled in a ball,
screaming when we approached,
"Get away from me!
Get away from me!,"
panic in her wild eyes.

"We just want to talk, honey
We just want to talk...
We believe you. We have to
take you to the hospital now.
They will believe you too.
They'll help you, sweetheart.
It is going to be okay."

We carried her to the car,
left the emergency room
with an armed guard and
left her crying behind
a locked door. I'd never
even taken her to an
overnight camp before.

I just had to trust
that they'd make the voice
leave her alone, that they
would bring my baby back.

That was the hardest goodbye
I ever had to say.



Lori Beal


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The Voice

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