The Whispers

The voices in my head are getting worse. The whispers that constantly flit about my mind are driving me mad. They tell me things, you know—about the future... The past... The present.
My husband is cheating on me, they say. They say that he screwed his pretty little secretary on his desk while I was at home, asleep.
“Honey?” his voice reverberates throughout the empty kitchen. “Are you alright?”
I give him a fake smile as I continue to wash the dishes.
“I’m fine dear.” I sigh as I place the clean plates on the rack.
He walked over to me and wrapped his arm around my waist. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, and tells me he loves me before going to take a shower.
They’re whispering again... They say... He’s lying... But... He... He’s my husband — he would never do anything like that.
"Really?" They ask. "Then why was he so quick to take a shower?"
Even after 4 years with him, something in me snaps. I open the drawer with all of our wonderful cutlery, and grab a knife. I smile as I walk into our bedroom.
“H-honey? What are you doing? Don’t do this. We can talk—we can talk!”
“Don’t worry darling—I know all about Claire—“
“Claire? Sheila, who are you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that you lying pack of dog shit—you’ve been screwing her behind my back for the past two years.”
He reaches for the phone.
“H-hello? I need the cops and an ambulance. My wife is having a side-effect from the pills. I live on 782 Jeffrey Lane—“
I stab him before he could say anymore.
I don’t exactly remember what happened after that, but...
All I know is that I’m in this white room with all my friends.
And Claire is one of them.
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Micropasta