Wicked Whispers

There is a scourge afflicting our modern life. It sweeps across people in all levels of society – the rich and the poor, the educated and the unschooled. It has, in fact, become so familiar that it doesn’t seem to scare us anymore.

Randy was only 22. A man at such prime age would hold good promise. He could be a source of honor and good fortune to his family, and be a good example to the whole community.

Randy was anything but promising; he was in complete disarray. The look in his eyes was revealing; you would quickly know that something was wrong. At times his stares were glazed, sometimes they were wild.

There were voices that he heard when people weren’t around. They constantly told him that he was a loser and had no use being around in the world. He soon believed them.

The dark fate started early with Randy. By the time he finished grade school, he was already smoking cigarettes and beginning to drink liquor. Although his family lived in a decent residential community, he was frequently visiting friends in a depressed neighborhood nearby, where most kids were free to try anything.

He learned to smoke marijuana, and then tried drugs. First, it was just medication syrups. But as Randy later associated with more experienced drug dependents, he went into injectibles and shabu.

Many senior drug addicts carried a complete drugstore in their jackets. And, much like the legitimate drug agents, they were always most generous in letting prospects have a taste of something new and “better”, initially for free. They were sure that the new recruits would soon make a steady clientele for their trade.

As the years rolled on, Randy slipped deeper and deeper into the drug world. He tried just about everything. To be able to support his vices, he did every odd job available —peddling stolen items, being a goon for hire, pushing drugs, anything. He even confessed that he sometimes sold his body as a male prostitute, just to be able to buy dope.

After a while, the things that used to be much fun for him no longer worked. Drugs no longer made him happy. Instead, his addiction was beginning to take its toll. He brooded a lot, was often depressed, and occasionally talked about “giving up.”

Then he went away. He drifted around the country for a long time, about two years or so. His family didn’t know exactly where he went and what he did. Randy would later describe it as a “trip”, a psychedelic trip.

But those trips did not make him find what he was looking for. He came back home, to the great joy of his family. His parents and siblings would insist to neighbors that Randy wasn’t an addict, that he was just an occasional drug user and did not pose any risk to the neighborhood.

His mother would say that at home Randy was never high. But as his brother inadvertently divulged, Randy always had this glaze over his eyes. That he had sometimes this dangerous look.

Soon, Randy’s problem got much worse. He began hearing voices in his head. The worst thing, those voices were giving him wicked orders — that he should kill himself!

A younger sister who was working as a nurse abroad told the family to have Randy see a psychiatrist. She was footing the bill on that. Randy agreed.

The psychiatrist sent Randy to a drug rehabilitation center. But the people at the center said that Randy needed more than drug rehabilitation. They suggested he be brought to a mental hospital.

Randy was turned off by what he thought to be an exaggerated professional opinion on his case. He left home again. For weeks he lived on the streets, and wallowed in dope.

One early morning an emaciated Randy just popped up at their house, looking very frightened. The voices in his head were now aggressively jabbering to him, he told his brother, who quickly brought him to the psychiatrist again. The doctor said that Randy was actively hallucinating, and that he could harm himself or others, including members of the family.

His brother explained to Randy the need to commit him to a mental hospital. Randy understood. He was now convinced he needed professional help, and he wanted help.

The family brought Randy to a public mental hospital in the city. The place looked decrepit and smelt rather foul. But it was certainly much better than leaving their patient to wander the streets, talking to himself.

As muscled attendants led Randy down the hall and into the mental ward, his mother wept. She couldn’t bear the thought of her youngest son living among the deranged and the totally insane. She begged with the rest of the family that they take Randy back; they could have him undergo treatment at home, instead.

The family took their troubled Randy home. Their dear one continued to hear wicked whispers and was acting strangely more and more. Someone suggested that Randy’s case could actually be demonic possession, and that a Christian pastor could possibly help. One night an exorcism rite was conducted on Randy.

Randy remained unstable. He peeked outside through every opening in the house for enemies who would come to take him away. He trusted only his mother for his food and drank only sealed bottled water. The voices told him that he could not trust anyone.

After a few weeks, Randy finally heeded the command of the voices in his head. Then he silenced them forever… with a bullet to his head. (E-MAIL: [email protected].)