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|The Voices (standard:other, 1054 words)|
|Author: Jacob Edwards||Added: Dec 24 2006||Views/Reads: 1561/1001||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A girl with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder makes an important life decision. Deals with tradition, sanity, and the nature of human purpose.|
"The Voices" by Jacob Edwards Mornings. Mornings, Maman would make oatmeal and Adèle would take her pills. Maman always left them on the countertop. Ritalin, Luminal, Zoloft, Thorazine, Haldol. Adèle came downstairs while she was dicing strawberries. Take and wash down. Take and wash down. Bitter face. Retching. Take and wash down. Take and wash down. Take and wash down. And then Adèle collapsed in her seat and Maman would serve her oatmeal with raisins and a half-cup of milk. Never talking. Eyes wandering around her sclera. Never talking. Never talking. They never talked. "Maman," Adèle said suddenly. Maman spilled oatmeal on the table. Then: "Y-yes, ma fille?" Adèle's eyes fell to her toes. "Would you mind... if I met someone after school today? For an hour?" Suddenly she was speaking very quickly. Her finger was playing in her hair. "It's a boy. A boy I met at school. Nothing like that, I mean. But a boy. His name is Save. I met him at him at school. I think. At recess. He's a year younger than me, and..." "Adèle," Maman cut in. "Are you sure this boy... are you sure he's....? Are you sure your mind didn't just...?" Adèle's cheeks were a deep shade of red as she stared into her oatmeal. Those orange, white-capped bottles, sitting there. 'I'm sure," she whispered. And it was over. Their matinal ritual had been broken. -------''------- Maman wore a white dress that afternoon. The air was unseasonably hot, almost stifling. She heard the school bus rumbling down the street, and the doves by the intersection scattered on the winds breath. She sipped her tea and cursed God for this burden. Her daughter at the door, wearing a black pleated shirt and a clean white blouse. A boy beside her, twelve years old. Wiping his hands on the flanks of his stripped jeans. Shaking Maman's hand. Greasy hair. Such ruffled, savage hair. "Um," said Adèle, sweating profusely and bowing quite unnecessarily. "This is Save." "Pleasure to meet you, Stan," Maman said, politely. "Pleasure, Ma'am," Save said, twisting his mouth and looking away, then came in. The platter had been prepared. Canapé, cheese, grapefruits, and crackers. As they ate, Maman's suspicions were confirmed. Save swung his legs and chewed with his mouth open. Cap on his head, he planted both of his elbows firmly on the table. He was thanking her, in a very crude, uncivilized, informal way, and smiling at Adèle. Maman had never been so disgusted in her life. How had this churl come into her house? Save cocked his head as she Maman to the medicine cabinet. "What are... those?" He pointed to the forest of bottles. Sitting by the corner with her knees pressed together, Adèle blushed furiously. Maman's heart sang. She fought a smile. "My daughter has a mild disorder," Maman said, Click here to read the rest of this story (98 more lines)
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