The Three Voices of Richard.

Reads: 152  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
my first story. please comment on what i can do better in the future.

Submitted: March 22, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 22, 2017



Richard Dane was not a rich man. Every day was a non-stop grind of waking up, going to work, then returning home. He did not have a social life, nor did he have friends. He didn’t come from a wealthy family, or a sob story. Richard Dane was your average man... almost. Everyone has their problems, but then there was Richard’s. Richard had three voices. One he spoke with, and two that he prayed no one else would ever hear. Richard had tried for months to force those voices quiet. Somehow, they always had something to say. Whether it be screeching, begging for help, or meticulous insults, the voices were there. Richard only ever heard them at home. There was something about being in public that seemed to calm him, but he dared never venture too far from home. He took frequent walks to the local park, watching the children play, the parents chat, the animals roam free. He loved to feed the birds. Richard had once wished to be a bird, able to fly away from all responsibility and problem... but unfortunately, that was not a reality in which he lived. The children had gotten to know him. Each day they would greet him. This made life a little more bearable. Regardless of what the voices would try to say to him, he could always come here to relax. One of the children was always out of place. Richard took it upon himself to become that boy’s friend. The mother was concerned at first, but eventually warmed up to him. Richard loved to take pictures. Each walk he would find a new angle to display his visit.

Richard was a man of schedule. He knew when he needed to be home, and when he needed to work. He had it down to the minute. Anyone who knew Richard would be able to tell you that. Every morning, leaving at exactly 8:15, returning at 3:45, then leaving again for his walk at 5:00. Every night, Richard would pray for everyone he had met that day, before going off to bed.. but the voices never stopped. Richard would shake in his bed at night, knocking things from his night stand. He looked over at the mess on his floor. Dirty socks, a shirt, various papers, small scriptures of writing, and lying perfectly on top... his emptied pill bottle labelled Citalopram. That bottle had been full this morning. Saliva built up in his mouth as he rolled around in his bed, finally shutting his eyes. Richard lay there, void of emotion, void of pain, and most importantly... void of the voices. He drifted off.

Richard awoke to the screeching of a buzzer. “Damn alarm.” he thought to himself. Hauling himself out of bed, his foot land square on the bottle, as he tumbled to the ground. Getting back to his feet, only to grab the bottle and launch it at his mirror. The bottle hit a crack from a previous day. Many pill, and broken whisky bottles lay at the foot of his mirror. His mirror had shattered in the center, almost as if he had his very own personal bulls-eye. This was clearly not the first time, nor would it be his last. He slapped his alarm clock. After a sigh, he trudged to his closet, grabbed the first white dress shirt he could find, paired with his dress pants. The scars on his wrist finally being covered again. He began to walk away, only to stop himself to grab his bow tie. “Can’t break our old traditions” He thought to himself. He walked eagerly down the stairs, trying to begin his feign sense of joy. He picked up the morning paper, and read it to himself as he usually did. The local hockey team’s fundraiser, the police made a big bust on a local drug dealer, but most disturbing of all, two local girls filed missing. The parents released a quote stating “It is believed that a young Rose Amber, and her friend Danae Wilkinson we’re kidnapped on their walk hope from school. “Disgusting” he thought to himself. “How can someone do that.” He continued his morning routine. As he began to cook his eggs, he could just faintly hear the voices returning. “No!” he screamed. “You will be quiet! I control you, you don’t control me!” The voices died down.

He fixed his tie, and continued cooking his eggs. After breakfast, he looked to the clock. 8:00. He pleasantly locked every door in the house before leaving. Richard waved to his neighbour as he began to his car. “Little early for you, isn’t it?” The neighbour said. “Just a tad.” Richard responded with a smile. Richard did not break his routines. He sat in his car until his watch read “8:15”, then took off on his way to work. Richard was a human resources representative. Richard’s job was to ensure all of his employees knew their job, knew their fellow workers, and always felt safe when working. He worked in an accounting firm. In Richard’s office, employees would stop by from time to time to inform him of how the office was making them feel. Only when he was sure no one was dropping by, would he open the top drawer in his desk. Inside this drawer were tens of PlayBoy magazines. This was Richard’s guilty pleasure. He loves photography, and tasteful nude modelling was his favourite. He would admire the works of art he had stashed away for hours on end. Richard was a man of simple tastes. He loved the finer things, but could not afford to live that life style.

Richard was grossly underpaid for his work. On his trips home, he would pass the park, looking for new things to photograph. In his small amount of time before his walks, he would unlock the basement, and develop pictures in his make-shift darkroom. Richard had a very large basement. Three rooms, but he only visited this one for extended periods of time. He loved his work. For some odd reason, the voices never seemed to bother Richard when he walked down those stairs, but sure enough, as soon as he headed back upstairs the relentless screaming started again. Perhaps that’s why he enjoyed his walks at that time. Another escape from his harsh reality. Richard’s darkroom was very well developed for what it was. Nothing was professional in any sense, but it all served its purpose, and it did its job well. The entire room was tinted red. This allowed him to view the film without distorting the image. Richard was a man of film. He didn’t believe in digital photography. Digital didn’t have the character or small imperfections that Richard loved so much. Richard had learned to try and see the beauty of imperfection. After all, he thought himself to be an imperfection. In a way, he almost saw himself in his pictures. Not all his pictures were the same. Some of children playing, others of birds, some of women, but most importantly, some of his bedroom. These pictures he dared not show anyone. Pill bottles lying on the ground, broken whisky bottles, and his personal favourite... his own reflection in the cracked mirror. He had managed to set up a timer with just the right angle to hide the camera. You wouldn't even know that Richard himself had taken this photo. It was one of his prized possessions. As Richard went to bed that night, he decided to pick up one of his scribbled down notes on the ground. It read:


“Dear Whoever reads this.


I’m sorry i cannot be the person I need to be. There is so much wrong with me that i can’t talk about. The voices are driving me crazy. I can’t take this anymore. The pain, The Drugs, The Voices, It’s all too much. If you have found this, it means that I am gone. I could no longer handle the suffering. I am truly sorry that you would have to find me like this. I acquired the revolver from a source i chose to remain anonymous. He sold it for very cheap in the west end. A man peddling anything you could want out the back of a U-Haul. Don’t search for the owner, because it has no serial number, or perhaps it did, but doesn't anymore. I bought the ammo myself. Only one box, told the worker it was for recreational use. I didn’t need more than the six that were loaded. Hell, I would've bought singles if i could’ve. I never thought i could go on doing this forever, but i wanted to ride it out for as long as possible. For everyone I've ever hurt in my lifetime, I’m sorry. Please don’t hold anything against me. I only wish to share my passions with others... but for some reason I’m always the odd one out. Even my pictures downstairs. Not a single person would ever see the true beauty behind them. I am truly sorry.


Yours Truly

Richard Dane



He folded the note up neatly, then placed it in his shirt pocket. He opened the drawer of it. The silver of the revolver’s barrel shined in his room’s dim light. He opened the chamber of his gun. Slowly spinning it in place, revealing each of the six bullets loaded. He snapped the chamber back into place. Tears fell down Richard’s cheek. He began to sob as he moved the barrel to his forehead, his finger slowly finding its way to the trigger. His thumb pulled back the hammer. He had never gotten this far before. The voices echoed all throughout the house. Richard’s attention turned to it. “Shit.” he thought. He ran to the basement, revolver still in hand. He ran past his dark room, taking a moment to look over to the disturbing pictures devolving. Teenage girls chained to a wall, stripped of their clothing. Richard kicked open the door to one of the remaining rooms. “I said not to make a noise.” He said calmly. Rose Amber was laying, defenceless, naked, and alone on the tile floor. The only cloth on her body hanging from her neck. A gag that had been removed. Her hands were handcuffed behind a nearby pipe. “Please sir! I won’t tell anyone. I promise!” She screamed out. “Do. Not. Say. Another. Word,” Richard said. He lowered the barrel to her head. “No. Please. No!” she yelled. A loud BANG, accompanied by a flash of light originated from Richard’s basement. His neighbours would be sure to call the police. All of his work, useless. He fired into her head again. BANG. Richard made his way to the final room. An unconscious girl lie there, gagged. Richard slapped her awake. Her muffled screams echoed in her room. The cold metal pressed against her forehead. “Look darling, We don’t have a lot of time. I only have Four bullets left. Two for you, One for me, and one for an emergency. I love you Danae. I know you love me too. I can tell by the way you posed. You always were my favourite. I don’t want to hurt you, but i have no choice. I’ll see you again in heaven where our love can be.” Richard said in a soft tone. Her muffled screams got louder as her face was stained in tears. “I love you” said Richard. BANG. BANG. Just like that, the girls were gone, and so were the voices. Richard walked to his darkroom. He stood, admiring his previous works. The smell of gun powder lingering in the air. He pinned up his favourite two. One of him holding hands with Danae, who was unconscious, the other of Rose, lying in pain. Her face badly beaten. Richard could hear the sirens off in the distance. He removed the note from his shirt, and pinned it beside the pictures. He walked back to Danae’s room. He moved the revolver’s barrel to his temple. “I’ll see you again Danae.” he said. A tear fell down his face as he looked over her lifeless body. The last thing Richard heard was a simple, BANG.





-Aiden Atkinson

© Copyright 2018 Aiden Atkinson. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Thrillers Short Stories