Siren

You’re out for a walk. You happen to find what appears to be a lost journal. It is bound in leather. Curious, you decide to open it, wondering what secrets it holds. Most of it doesn’t interest you until you come to a page written in what looks to be a frenzied fashion.

I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I swear I didn’t. Anyone who knew my taste in literature would probably say otherwise, but just because I enjoyed murder mysteries and horror didn’t mean I wanted to kill. I never wanted to kill. This journal is my only source of vent. This is the only way I can hold on to what remains of my humanity. I know if I open my mouth to anyone, they’ll have my head, or frankly, I’ll take theirs. The only kind of man who can tell no secrets is a dead one.

I’d graduated from high school in May and collected my diploma. From then on, I was switched from temporary job to temporary job, working my ass off just to make ends meet. It was difficult, sure, but just that I could afford to pay my own rent was enough to make me feel accomplished. I was 19, and I finally moved away from my parents. They weren’t bad parents, but still, eventually, everybody wants to move out of their folks’ home and have their own. It felt good. As I was finally switched to another job in September, shortly after I turned 21, I started working with people I really didn’t enjoy the company of.

I took on the role of the errand-running office girl, or “the gopher”, as some would call it. I’d make the coffee, I’d order the pizza or subs, and I’d also end up taking all kinds of phone calls. They didn’t pay me NEARLY enough. I especially wasn’t paid enough to deal with harassment from my boss, Rodney Wilson. It was bad enough that I felt him ogling me whenever I was working, but eventually, I started getting unwelcome smacks on the ass and occasional gropes. I threatened to report his advances, but he noted that he would see to it that I never worked again if I did so.

The threats began growing more and more constant. Every now and then I could’ve sworn he was following me home. I was scared. I found myself taking multiple scenic routes, hoping to lose him. I couldn’t drive, so I had to take all kinds of buses just to get home and avoid him.

Being non-confrontational hard did anything for me. I used to be so meek and quiet. In February, that part of me seemed to break. But see, let me explain something. On Valentine’s Day I came to work to a huge box of chocolates and a bouquet of roses on my desk. I was hoping that it would be from someone I had some interest in. For some reason, I thought Jeremy was pretty cute. He was off in the accounting department, so I didn’t really run into him much, but lo and behold, it was from my boss. I plucked the card off. I read it, only to find myself disgusted. “Roses are red, violets are blue. I have a hard on because of you.” That filthy pig…  I tossed the card aside. I felt a scowl forming on my face, only to turn my head to the direction of that shit-eating grin.

“So what do you think?”

“I’d tell you if it wouldn’t get me fired.”

“Atta girl.”

I was left alone for the rest of the day after that. I really wanted to find a way to get back at him. I wanted to ruin his life, even if it DID mean I would never work again. I’d rather be homeless than deal with that prick for however long I was stuck working here. I left the flowers on my desk but I took the chocolates home. I was going to need some kind of pick-me-up. The bus ride seemed to take forever, but when I reached the door to my apartment, I froze in my tracks at the red heart taped to my door. Did that bastard find out where I lived? I snatched the paper off my door, only to look at the back. I’ll never forget what it said.

“You need some help, don’t you? It’s so easy! Just step into the bathroom, close the door, and turn off the light. Say my name three times, and I’ll change your life forever.” I won’t even note the name on the signature. If anyone reads this, I don’t want them becoming what I am. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

But anyway. I thought it had to be a joke. There had to be someone hiding in my bathroom waiting to either rape me or murder me, or just scare the shit out of me. It was probably one of those three things, if not a combination of two. I wasn’t about to try it. I had a long enough day. I still had to unlock my door, so maybe it was a prank. Maybe I would be safe? I plopped down on my couch and nearly binged on the chocolates, and surely enough, I had to go to the bathroom anyway. I remembered the note. I carried a butcher knife into the bathroom with me, just in case. I flung open the shower curtain. Nothing. I checked the medicine cabinet and everywhere else I could think of. Did I lock the door behind me? Yes, I knew I did that. I took my potty break and then checked the entire house for any hints of another there aside from myself. If I would’ve known then what I do, now, I probably would’ve never done something so foolish.

I had gotten dark and I finally decided to follow through with the ritual. I spoke the name on the card three times in the darkened bathroom, staring into the mirror. The name had such a familiar ring to it. I could’ve sworn I had spoken it before, but at this point, I couldn’t remember.

I just stared at the mirror, my reflection staring back at me. Yeah, this was just a joke, meant to make me feel like an idiot. Maybe the note was supposed to go on a different door? Just as I was reaching for the switch, I heard a voice. “Miranda, dear, look at me.” I froze. I faced the mirror. The surface appeared to ripple and I reached forward in curiosity. It still felt solid, but everything behind it was wavering.

“Dear Miranda, don’t let my world distract you.” I stared at the face replacing mine. I recognized him. I knew who he was, now. He was that imaginary friend I used to have. I remembered clearly. The fedora, the vibrant green eyes, and the rest of him in black and white, I stepped back. This was my imaginary friend from so long ago. I didn’t know what to say, anymore. “I’m pleased to see that you remember me.” He tipped his hat. I smiled a little, I felt it. Just as charming as ever. Always the gentleman. “Though, Miranda, do you remember the cards?” I did, just vaguely. He often had them on hand, idly shuffling them and occasionally doing a magic trick every now and then. I only nodded. The deck was fanned out. “Pick one.” I reached forward towards the mirror again. I placed my finger on one card, the mirrors surface now rippling under my touch.

“Take the card, madam.” I was able to grip the object delicately within two fingers. “See the fate you have chosen.” His words made me pause, but the card was already in my hand. It was too late to turn back now. It looked like an archaic tarot card, the silhouette of what appeared to be an angel on it. “You always did have a beautiful voice, dear Miranda.” Unlike a tarot card, there was no number present, but in the dim light of the lowering sun that just vaguely escaped the skylight, I saw words etching themselves into the card. “The Siren.”

“Please tell me what this means...” I spoke quietly. A faint tingling of fear began to build in my stomach. I had a bad feeling about this.

My friend’s face displayed a twisted grin. “This means… Tomorrow you shall lose your voice. There is only one way to get it back, my dear. Rid the world of your tormentor. Now please, dear, hurry to bed. I’ll be with you from now on, you’ve nothing to fear.”

I don’t know what took ahold of me that moment. “Thank you. I’ll see you in the morning.” I was standing in the darkened bathroom, and then my reflection was back to normal. I flipped the light on. Wait, were my eyes that same vibrant green? No… No. They were brown, as always. My thoughts were racing. A bit of my past came back to me. I remembered when I got older and stopped playing with him as much. The last day I saw him, he made one promise. He’d find me again when I needed him most. Is this what he meant?

That night, I went to bed. I stared at the card. The Siren. Hmm. I placed it on my nightstand. That night I had a dream about when I was a child and when I would play with my imaginary friend, Julian, I’ll call him, just for simplicity’s sake. “Julian, will you push me on the swing?”

“For a song, Miranda, for a song. Now sing from your heart, for me, Miranda.”

I heard my own young voice spill forth a song in a language I couldn’t understand, but it all felt so familiar, until my own voice was interrupted by the buzzing of an alarm clock.

I was rudely awakened by the obnoxious device. I turned it off and opened my mouth for the usual morning cursing bout to commence, but no sound left me. Julian… He wasn’t lying. I went to grab my brush, only seeing the card I had received left on the table. The image of the siren had taken on my appearance. I wanted to laugh. Who had ever heard of a mute siren? Preparing for work, I headed to the bathroom to apply my makeup. I saw the mostly monochrome shape of Julian behind me in the mirror, resting one hand on my shoulder, making me jump for a moment.

“Relax, dear Miranda. You know what you must do today, don’t you?” I only nodded.

“When I give you your voice back, will you sing a song for me?” I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. I nodded again.

I began to pack my purse up before work, with only slight difference. I tucked a hunting knife inside that a former boyfriend had given me for self-defense. I placed the card that I received from Julian in the pocket where I kept my makeup. It seemed as though with every reflective surface I passed, the imaginary friend from my childhood followed closely behind me.

I boarded the bus quickly, hoping that I didn’t look like I was plotting my boss’s demise. A few people tried to speak to me, but I just tried to make gestures suggesting that I had a sore throat and didn’t want to talk.

Arriving at work, I was instantaneously harassed by my boss. He kept making jokes about how his presence made me speechless or took my breath away. I quietly tolerated this. This would be the last time, too. Everyone else was aware that I had lost my voice, so they didn’t really put any stock into his comments. I dealt with this bullshit every day, but this time, I was inwardly smiling. This was the last time that I would have to deal with him. I took a number of bathroom breaks that day, just in order to see Julian’s face and hear some reassuring words about how what I would be doing was justified. After all, I would rather have my voice back and no boss instead of being a mute girl who had the patience of a saint.

It wasn’t too unusual for the remainder of my working day. Rodney asked me to stay after work to help “organize his papers”. That usually meant that he was going to try to put the moves on me, which I always would fuss at him for and end up working a few extra minutes instead of bending to his will. This time would be different, but not quite in the way I expected.

I was simply minding my own and typing out a document when he asked me if I could speak again yet. I tried to, but no words escaped. A menacing grin crept over his lips and he pulled me from my rolling chair. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I heard him unzipping his pants. The fuckhead was about to rape me. He easily could overpower me, but I remembered one cheap little trick that was pretty effective if someone was trying to accost another. I kicked the fucker in the shin, causing him to recoil and temporarily let me go. I grabbed my purse and snatched the knife out from it when he had been distracted, only to open the blade and start haphazardly swinging at him.

“You crazy bitch! I’ll call the police!”

I felt an out of place grin find its way to my face. Revenge felt nice. Revenge felt satisfying. I still couldn’t speak. Not until he was dead. He was able to get up and he started running, or stumbling, I should say. His pants were down around his ankles and he was too terrified to bother pulling them back off. All kinds of sick thoughts of what I should do to him coursed through my mind, but I realized that I shouldn’t enjoy this so much, despite how I wanted to feed him his own testicles.

He grabbed my wrists in the attempt to get me to stop. I played along and dropped the knife. I rose my knee into his genitals. This time, he fell to the ground, buckled over in pain. Retrieving my knife, I simply slashed his throat. The sound of him gurgling on his own blood brought me some sick kind of satisfaction. I looked to my bloody hands my stained blazer and skirt combo. Even my pantyhose had a bit of blood spatter on them. I knew I had my voice back when I let out a yelp from feeling a solid hand on my shoulder.

“Shall you sing, Siren?” That voice…  It belonged to Julian. After what I had done, I wasn’t sure how to feel, but Julian, who I once viewed as a figment of my imagination, was as real as my hand in front of my face. I just rested into his arms and started to sob. He quietly held me, and I peered down to Rodney’s corpse. If hell existed, that bastard was paying Lucifer a visit right now.

Surely enough, I sang. Julian’s fingers combed through my hair as he politely listened to the song that was so full of words that not even I understood.

All that was left in my wake was a dozen wilting roses on my desk and the mangled body of Rodney Wilson. I abandoned my home, as nothing there was worthwhile to me anymore.

Today, I’m a wanted woman. Fortunately for me, my appearance has changed greatly since that day in February. Not only has my appearance changed in such a way, I’m now capable of seeing and feeling things that I previously didn’t even believe in. Spirits, demons, angels… I’ve seen them all, now. I’ve even captured a glimpse or two of what some children may refer to as the boogieman. As for myself?

Miranda is no more. Today, I’m simply “Siren”. The classical diet of a siren describes human flesh as a primary base of the diet, and yes, sometimes I am a man-eater, but that’s only natural for me. I live happily alongside Julian, who granted me the ability to manipulate others through sound. My song can drive those to madness or simply lull them into a peaceful sleep, my choice. I’m afraid I’m growing hungry, though.

I wonder if whoever is reading my journal would like to hear a song?