Whispers in the Moonlight.
I guess I was around five when I first heard them, the Voices. But it wasn't until my tenth birthday that I revealed my secret to anyone else. Since then I'd done my best to hide my secret, my power, my life force. Once it was out it the open I was chastised, bullied, poked, prodded and examined. All to no avail.

Until I started to act on their wishes, the Voices, everyone just assumed I was ill - but manageably so. The first time I acted on their instructions, people laughed. The second, they smiled. The third, they whispered and threw me looks of concern. And every time after that, they wept.

I seemed to scare people. My obsession seemed to tap into their deepest fears. And one time, I did it badly. I did it in the garden, I did it with my excrement and she saw, my beloved sister saw me.

She screamed and ran to tell Mum, who screamed in turn and ran to tell Dad, who picked up the phone purposefully and dialled that three-digit number. When they arrived to collect me I was disappointed, no men in white coats, no blaring sirens, just a dull and unexceptional private car, the only give-away being the lanyard hanging from the driver's neck, an access all areas pass to the dreaded Harplands.

During the ride they hadn't had to sedate me. I'd self-medicated by staring intensely at every tree, door and road sign that we passed, trying desperately to commit to memory everything that I knew I'd never see again. I was leaving my sanctuary, leaving the leafy lanes and aging oaks of my youth. I tried to concentrate on every blade of grass in the rolling fields, knowing full well that where I was headed, nature would be only visible in my mind.

When we pulled up to the dirty grey concrete slab of a building, my driver waved his pass and the gates parted. As slowly as a funeral procession, we cruised down the tarmacked drive to a collection of even larger, even dirtier set of concrete blocks. This was to be my home now. The threat had become my reality, I'd done it too many times, I'd used up too many last warnings, I was responsible for my own actions.

On arrival I was processed. And exactly as I knew they would, they forcibly cleansed me, injected me, shaved my head and threw me naked into a brightly-lit chamber. It was for observation they said. They needed to monitor me to see if I'd do it again. I couldn't have clothes, hair or any outside influences. I was to be sensorily deprived. They had to understand if outside influences were the cause. They had to be clear what the triggers were and that way they would be able to understand.

The first few nights nothing happened. In fact, the first few weeks provided not one episode. It seemed the Voices had departed. This was the longest I'd existed without them. Maybe the experiment had worked. With nothing to stimulate me and therefore the Voices, my mind was quiet. I simply sat for hours a day in a blissful stupor, clear of their noise and their demands. I hoped to God that all had come to pass.

Then they woke me one night, the Voices, and clearer than they'd ever been, they began again with their demands. I knew what I must do, I'd done it a hundred times before. And now I had to do it again.

In my chamber, my cell, my home there was nothing I could use. Padded, wide and high, the room offered no way for me to action their task. But their message, the Voices, was louder than ever. I had to obey, I had to comply, I had to complete.

My body would have to be my tools. Running my tongue around my mouth I felt my teeth, my strong, sturdy teeth. Quick as a flash I bent over and kneed myself in the face as hard a humanly possible. Perfection. My front two teeth came cleanly out of their gummy beds. I kneed myself again and again. I pulled, I yanked and twisted every single one of my beautiful teeth out of their sockets. The Voices would be pleased.

Gathering my bloodstained molars and incisors, I knelt and muttered to myself and I began to build. I knew what to do. I knew the dimensions, I knew the schematics off by heart. And using snot, phlegm and semen as glue, I finished my masterpiece and stood back to bask in its glory, the Voices exalting in my head.

There was a crackle. Then a noise. A voice was coming over the hospital's PA system, the voice was hysterical, not like my Voices, not calm, collected and clear. No, this was another voice entirely, a voice of danger, of fear, of doom.

'Get someone in here now!' It screamed, 'NOW!'
'What's he doing?'
'Can't you see what he's doing?'
'Oh Jesus Christ. Oh Jesus Christ. He's doing it again. He's doing it with his teeth!'
'Oh man...oh no...dear God...no...he's building a cunting pizza oven with his teeth...with his fucking TEETH!'
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 15:17, 14 replies)

Normally if a stranger walked into my station talking this kind of crap, he'd be looking for his teeth two blocks up on Queer Street.

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 15:30, closed)

I thought you were doing a Charles Xavier to start with, then it all went a bit frantic

(Porcupine, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 15:48, closed)

Quite a lot of effort.

(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 15:49, closed)

Mildly amusing.
But I'm a bit disturbed by the effort you seem put into these. It's almost as if you're upset about something.
(Baggenfrock get fucked, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 15:51, closed)

yet more fiction from the unstable mind of an arch-fantasist

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 16:00, closed)

You're putting too much effort into your, um, whatever this is supposed to be.

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 16:09, closed)

Obsession
I think.
(Baggenfrock get fucked, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 16:11, closed)

To be fair, if it's actually an obsession,
then the level of effort is entirely justified.
(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 16:15, closed)

Room to Move
actually
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 21:12, closed)

For the first few lines I thought you were taking the piss out of Dr. Skagra.

( .Yeti., Thu 31 Jul 2014, 16:18, closed)

If you're going to be obsessed with somebody on the internet it may as well be me. I am kind of a big deal.
But I'm afraid Boudicca and Justin Raff Wright have already done this much much better. You're a pale shadow of former stalkers.

Still ... at least it's a change from incoherent property fantasies.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 17:50, closed)

Well, I liked it. Somewhat inevitable, but made me chuckle nonetheless.
( Happy Phantom has been to Hastings, Brighton, and Eastbourne too, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 20:23, closed)

Good post
Have a click.
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Sun 3 Aug 2014, 2:38, closed)

I liked this
have a click
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Wed 6 Aug 2014, 14:22, closed)