Fading Voices 1. The hand It's a fall Saturday morning in 1944, the leaves blowing harshly slapping against my face. You may as well call me a freak for that's what everyone else thinks . To me if someone says it, it's official. I walk out the door into the cool afternoon and sit down on our front porch enjoying the peace until mom comes out. She's carrying a wine bottle like always stumbling down the steps, looking freakishly paronoid. " Look who's back from her own little world, I say just as she sits down next to me. "It's not my fault I'm drunk" she says, taking a few more sips of her licore. While she starts talking about some trash I can't hear her for I've learned to block out her high pitched Voice I hear a whisper out in the distance. The reason I don't have any friends, why I've never had a real conversation with anyone is because I'm a spirit whisperer. "Alicia" my mom says watching me carefully as I stare out into the world. "Yes" I say looking back towards her. " you've been acting strange lately" she says "staring at nothing but well.. The air." I don't answer because we've had this conversation a million times, knowing the same words are going to come out of her mouth, wasting my precious time. As mom walks up the steps back inside, I feel a cold hand suddenly rest carefully on my shoulder.
