Her section of this story can be read here. The last paragraph of her cryptic writing:
And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears.
Now, my addition to the Splotchy Virus:
So for once in my miserable life, let me repeat aloud what the 'inner voice' says to me:
You can not escape, no matter how hard you try, no matter how far you roam...you can not escape the sound of others inner voices. You will be eating lunch in a fancy restaurant when suddenly your head is filled with someone else's terrified thoughts. Your dining partner looks at you confused as you start muttering to yourself. You are repeating the passages that are filling your head, crowding out the conversation you were just having with your friend over a delicious and very expensive lunch.
You make a hasty retreat to the restroom, sweating profusely at your brow, your hair wet as if you had just walked in a gentle rain. The tiled walls of the room make the voice echo in your head. You stumble into a stall, trying to concentrate on something, anything but the terrified voice inside your head.
You have been sitting in the stall for what seems like only minutes but actually over half an hour. Your lunch companion is banging on the stall door, pleading with you to come out and tell her what is wrong.
You emerge and tell her you have a massive migraine and need to go home. You apologize for screwing up the lunch date and promise to make it up to her. You kiss her forehead and brush your fingers softly against her cheek as you again whisper to her that you are sorry.
You rush from the restroom and fly past your table, grabbing your bag and coat as you hurry out the door. You stumble as you twist and turn, trying to figure out which way to go to get away from the voice. You jog down the street in heels, the dirty snow splashing up on strangers walking a normal pace down the street. You don't notice their looks as you race by, your impervious to their complaining...you just want to get as far away from the voice as possible.
Soon, the voice in your head starts to get fainter and fainter...as the city blocks click off one by one. Your lungs begin to feel as if they will explode so you slow down to a hurried walk. You notice the crowds on the sidewalk have thinned and you stop to get your bearings.
The neighborhood is old and rundown. You have no idea where you are. You turn and look back, trying to figure out where to go next, when an old man suddenly steps from a dark portal and looks you straight in the eyes. He touches your hand and says: "I have been waiting for you m'dear, and it's very cold on this dreary day isn't it?".
Ok....I tag only one person to continue this exercise, since I am unfamiliar with it and do not know too many folks that play along with this type of endeavor....the famed DivaJood.
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