Artist Arthur - Manifest

I cant hear you. I cant hear you, I repeat, talking to myself. Maybe if I keep saying it the voice will go away. I know people driving by me probably think Im a lunatic.

My feet are moving so fast I barely feel them touch the ground. Cool air slaps my face like its trying to remind me that Im outside. Its almost spring according to the calendar, but it still feels like the dead of winter in Lincoln. Probably because were so close to the water.

Whatever. Im cold and I think its beginning to rain. But I dont care. I just want to get home, inside the house, to the safety of my room. It wont follow me there.

I cant believe it followed me here. I ignored it in New York. Youd think it would have the good sense to stay in the city where theres a little excitement. Why follow me here to the ends of the earth where everyone acts like theyre sleepwalking most of the time?

As I cut through the bushes at the end of the driveway, my book bag sways back and forth, threatening to slide off my shoulder as I run. If it does, my Biology book will fall out and the hastily scribbled notes I took this morning on the project thats due at the end of the month will probably hit the ground and blow away. That might not be such a bad thing.

I hunch my shoulders, pushing the book bag back into place. My feet crush the weeds in the flower bed that Janet will likely replant in a few weeks. And I keep running.

My cheeks puff in and out as I inhale huge gulps of air to keep my heart pumping. Im not a runner. Actually, I hate exercise of any kind and it shows. I take the front steps two at a time because I want to hurry up and get to my room.

Help me.

Damn! There it goes again.

I press the palm of my hand over my ear while I dig in my front pocket for the house key. My fingers are shaking but I finally get the door unlocked, slam it shut behind me and take the stairs in the front hall like a steroid-pumped-up Olympic sprinter.

My room is at the far end of the hall, but I swear it feels like its twenty miles away as I dash toward the door. Once inside, I slam the door, drop my book bag and sink to the floor struggling to breathe.

Safe. All I can think is that Im finally safe.

Help me.

His voice echoes around the room, louder than it was before. Louder than when I was on the school bus or when I was running into the house.

Its been a long time. I thought this creepy stuff was over. I havent heard voices since I was twelve years old, and Im not sure if I really heard them then.

Who am I kidding? I heard them before and now theyre back. But I cover my ears because I want the voice to stop so badly.

Im rocking on the floor now, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, holding myself tightly. My eyes are closed. I wish I could find a way to close my ears, too.

I did it before. I quieted the voices for a long, long time. But now theyre back. Why?

I cant hear you. I cant see you. You are not real.

But I can hear him, thats the freakin problem.

Help me, Krystal.

I cant hear you. I cant see you. You are not

Did he say my name?

Please, he begs.

For some reason the sound of his voice isnt scaring me anymore. I loosen my grip around my legs and I stop rocking. My heart still feels like its going to jump out of my chest and land on the floor, but for some reason Im not scared now.

I open my eyes, not that I mean to, it just happens I guess. I look toward the window seat where all the stupid stuffed animals Janet thought would cheer me up are arrayed like a pastel-colored army.

I dont know what Im looking for. Whatever it is, I hope I dont find it.

But there he isa black boy, kind of tall and skinny. Hes wearing jeans, the baggy kind like all the guys in school wear, and a white T-shirt three sizes too big, hanging to his knees like a nightgown. His boots look new, Timberlands with the laces only halfway up, the huge tongue sticking out from the sagging denim hem of his jeans. Hes wearing a watch on one wrist and a braceletI think its silveron the other. His hair is kind of curly on top, cut low on the sides with some lines or a design or something.

I suppose hes kind of cute.

But hes kind of transparent.

Dinner sucks.

For one, Janet, my mother, cant cook. How do you burn boiled eggs? Janet knows how and the smell is awful. But that was a few weeks ago.

Tonights culinary masterpiece is spaghetti. Again, shouldnt be too hard. Drop some pasta in water, let it boil, open up a jar of sauce and youre done.