Episode 6: Voices- Costco? Lists? Plans?

Episode 6: Voices

Grant was not a hypochondriac, but he decided he had cancer. There was an indescribable itch behind his right ear, just below the lobe; he felt it growing over the past weeks. It wasn’t discolored or puffy or noticeable in any way, but he knew the tumor would limit his time above ground, and he didn’t want to spend precious moments in “Horizon Dawn” unless they were in Dr. Jill’s office.

The Voices hadn’t spoken of cancer, and he didn’t want to ask them.

Grant stopped talking.

His stress was overwhelming. He had been biting his fingers to stubs, peeling the nails back ripping layers with teeth. He hugged his knees to his chest, wedged his digits securely in his mouth and attacked his cuticles with fierce squirrel-like precision. Grant didn’t enjoy blood, but brought pain to the surface of his skin as punishment for Hammy’s unfortunate accident.

Closing his eyes brought visions of blood and patches and pirates and garbage cans filled with gelatinous orbs. Agonizing screams bounced and rattled off his mind’s walls. The Voices fled the scene. They refused to provide comfort and their disappearance was palpable. Grant suffered without them.

Grant needed drugs.

He scratched ferociously at his neck and stared deeply into his finger tips before finding a new place to chew and scrape. Concerned faces filled his window every few minutes; their favorite patient suddenly belonged behind thin green robe and heavy locked door.

Grant desperately wanted sleep and escape; he needed to forget. He almost wept openly when the little white paper cup with delicious pink pills was turned into his flaccid mouth. He curled toward the wall letting the waves of fuzzy warmth lick at his temples and soothe his guilt. He laid his head in her velvety lap letting her smooth his hair with soft hands. Thankfully, no kind words were whispered. His mind was bathed in blessed silence.

The Voices were gone.

Grant knew he was dreaming. Jenkins banged fists locked behind the thick glass of Costco’s walk in cooler. Someone pressed the mute button on the remote. Grant tried to decipher muffled lyrical screams, but he wasn’t astute with lip reading and couldn’t stop laughing at Jenkins shaking gallons of milk in his terry cloth bathrobe. Something seemed askew; there was no handle on the door, so Grant smiled and waved and weaved his broken basket away from the dairy aisle.


The wheels jittered and spun as he placed important items in the cart. An enormous list written in magnificently clear black sharpie engulfed the west wall of the wherehouse. He knew what he needed: duct tape, bacon, boxer briefs, 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, bouquet of Gerber daisies, unsalted pecans, gun, 6 pack of toothbrushes, karaoke machine, pair of jeans, non-descript Polo shirt and 12 pack of finger puppets.

The finger puppets were a gift for his daughter’s sixth birthday. It was coming up, and he hadn’t seen her since Carol served divorce papers three months ago. She was starting a new life with a new daddy, but she always loved Grant’s finger puppet plays. She liked the different voices and always wanted more stories. Grant wondered if “New Dad” knew that.

He gathered the items on his list and weaved the gauntlet of faceless cart wielding bodies. He wanted to stop for samples. He wanted a bite of Boca Burger and Lobster ravioli and frozen burrito and microwave chicken sandwich, and tried to fight through the throngs to reach the table. Sharp toothed mouths opened and chomped and slurped in a frenzy to attack what Grant thought was food. He clambered to the front and reached out bleeding fingers grabbing a soft eyeball from a semi-devoured plate.

He screamed agonizing yelps and tried to gulp air as the silent faceless surrounded and buried him in broken bleeding body parts.

You’re going to escape, and you’re taking Jenkins with you.