She’d always welcomed the voices.
Though Greta knew not to let on she was hearing people speak inside her head, she didn’t think it was a bad thing. They were her angels. Guides.
Despite her family’s worry that she would end up alone, Greta was far from it. She had friends, a job, and her books. Admittedly, she was by herself quite a bit of the time but she liked it that way. And, with her guides, she never felt lonely.
She didn’t have a boyfriend, as her brother predicted. They were teenagers when he had teased her about it. It had hurt then but it was a distant memory now, like looking back at an old friend and feeling a remote sense of pity. Greta wasn’t a pretty girl and she didn’t “grow into her looks”, as her mum used to say. But friends often described her as having a “Mona Lisa smile”.
It was the voices that formed her knowing grin. They moved with her in a steady rhythm, galloping alongside her own thoughts.
Until the day her father died.
The voices began growing urgent, aggressive. They became a stampede that trampled her mind.
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Week 59 Prompt: Voice
This is a piece I extended from a 99 word flash I wrote in February.