𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫.

Moving to a new town to start college, where I can try to be normal. Or at least pretend I am.

I’m willing to fake it, because I’m tired of trying to get better. Tired of spilling my guts to doctors and therapists to understand why I’ve heard voices since I was a child.

The meds are working… for now, but if they stop, I’ll never tell. I just want to live my life, and if that means ignoring why so many people think I’m crazy, so be it.

𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝.

Waylynn is as pretty as a picture, curvy, with hazel eyes that always seem to evade everyone’s gaze.

She’s been avoiding me since our first encounter, but fate intervenes and brings her right back to me… and my brother.

Now I need to know more.

𝑺𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝑹𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔.

*****Excerpt*****

This novel is a work of fiction and contains content intended for a mature audience only. Due to explicit language, mental heath issues, medical misdiagnoses, drug and alcohol use/abuse, graphic depictions of sex in the series, and other triggers it may not be suitable for all readers.

Thank you,

Albany

 Chapter 1

©Albanywalker2022 

The sound of rain.

Without a doubt, I’ve grown accustomed to sterile walls and soft edges—a result of spending too much time in treatment centers and therapists’ offices—but watching the rain trail down the pane of the large, thick glass window, I can almost forget I’m locked in my room for the last night.

I’m tired of trying to get better, it’s much more exhausting than pretending I’m well, so even if this next round of medicine stops working like all the others have, then I’ll never tell.

“Hey, Way,” Alexis rasps, her voice still hoarse from yelling at group earlier.

“Mm-hmm.” I don’t look away from the window. I’m afraid she’ll see the sympathy I feel for her if I do. I know from experience that’s the last thing she’d want. Rooming with her always makes my heart heavy.

“Do you think we would be friends if we weren’t in here?”

No. I don’t have a lot of real friends. I pretend to fit in, and nobody really pushes it beyond that surface level friendship. “Yeah, we would have bonded the first time we met. I wouldn’t have been able to resist your killer bunny shirt.” The lie slips off my tongue with ease.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Alexis plucking at her light green uniform shirt. Her parents are going to be pissed. She drew all over her clothes again, and we’re not permitted anything that’s individual, so she’ll need a new set, which isn’t cheap. You’d think they’d have a designer label or at least be comfortable for the price, but nope.

“How long before you think you’ll be back?” The longing in her tone is only amplified by the sadness emanating from her. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m leaving or because she’s locked in the same rinse and repeat pattern I have been for the past few years and doesn’t see any hope for herself.

“These new meds have been working really well,” I answer noncommittally.

“That’s really awesome.” She tosses herself back on the bed with a huff. “I wish they could find a cure for my fucked-up parents.”

“It won’t be long until you age out. You’ll be eighteen soon.” I try to sound encouraging.

“They are already talking about a conservatorship.” She rolls over on her side, facing the wall. Well, damn.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I keep my mouth shut. While my parents have put me into facilities a few times, their intentions are always to help me get better. Not so much with Alexis’ parents, if I can believe what she says at group. They think she’s “unbalanced” because she draws dark shit and likes to accessorize with sharp pointy things, and that’s not acceptable to most UHNW families.

I think about telling her that maybe if she just toned it down for a little while and let her parents think they converted her into the perfect scion, she could be herself when she moved out, but I keep my lips sealed. I can’t risk her wondering if I took my own advice and then telling someone.

When Alexis’ breaths even out, and I know she either cried herself to sleep again or ran out of tears for the night, I slip down from the wide windowsill. My butt is numb from sitting for so long, but the ache fades fast as I crawl into my bed and pull the covers up to my chin.

It’s hard to will my eyes closed. I have so much crap running through my mind. I wish I could have music to help with the silence, but that’s not permitted. I squeeze my eyes shut and begin one of the few useful techniques Dr. Tobin has taught me. Locking my lips, I inhale for four seconds, then hold my breath while counting to seven. Exhaling, I count to eight before I repeat it over and over until I lose track of the numbers and fall asleep.

***

3 months later

“Are you sure you’ll be comfortable here, Waylynn?” My mom rests her hand on the granite island, trying to look casual in her Chanel pantsuit and loafers.

I want to tell her I knew this house was mine the moment I saw it, that it spoke to me, but I’m afraid she will think I mean something else, so I sigh out an indulgent, “Yes, Mom.”

“You don’t think it’s too…” She doesn’t finish her sentence as she glances around, but I can fill in the blanks—too small to have a separate wing for staff, not in a gated community, and, the most important, far from home.

My dad enters from the sunroom off the kitchen and wraps his arm around my mom’s waist before tugging her in close to his body. “Do you remember our first place, Cordy?”

My mom tries to fight a smile when she mutters, “I try not to.”

“Oh, you loved it,” he taunts.

Her eyes go a little unfocused when she defends softly, “I thought it was charming.”

“It was just a little bigger than this.” Dad sends me a wink to show his support.

“Yeah,” Mom agrees faintly. “The garden is lovely, even if it is a little small.”

I glance out one of the lead glass windows to the meticulously manicured backyard, seeing the hedges creating a tiny labyrinth that’s only as high as my hip. The house and grounds look like a perfect English cottage, while the interior is a mix of old and new.

“And it’s within walking distance to campus,” I offer.

Mom gasps. “I don’t want you walking, Waylynn Graff. If you don’t want to drive, then hire someone.” I bet she doesn’t even know how snooty she sounds. My dad rolls his eyes but quickly wipes the look off his face when Mom turns her head like she senses he’s mocking her.

I’m actually going to miss them. The realization hits me hard and fast. My face must register my thought, because Dad asks, “Is everything okay?”

I’m able to mask the emotion on my face just as quickly as he did, and instead I smear a wince on my features. “Just thinking about my orientation tomorrow.” It works as a good cover. I am a little nervous about spending the day on campus tomorrow. I should have taken Mom up on the offer to request a private tour, but I was feeling brave at the time and wanted to mix with all the other freshmen. Now all I can think about is how the huge group of us are going to stand out clear as day as incoming freshmen.

“You’ll fit right in,” Dad soothes, trying to make me feel better. The problem is, I don’t know if I want to fit in. I think I’d rather not get noticed at all.

“What can I help you with? Have you unpacked the things we brought today? Do you have something picked out to wear?” Mom brings her hands together in a clap under her chin, so she looks like she’s praying.

“Umm…”

“Waylynn,” she chastises. She hates stammering. “Come on, let’s go find something nearly as fabulous as you. We want to make a good first impression.” Her annoyance is short-lived, like always.

***

I stand in the open rear doorway, waving to my parents as they back out the brick driveway separating the house from the garden. There are tears shimmering in my mom’s eyes, but she’s smiling so broadly, I bet her face hurts. I flick a tear off my own cheek as the red glow of their taillights disappear down the street. I’m only a few blocks away from sorority row, but I’m not surprised by how lonely the street feels. With my house situated on a corner, it feels entirely separate from the neighborhood, especially considering how large the lots are and the nature park across the street. I doubt I’ll ever interact with my neighbors, but that’s fine with me—the couple I saw next door looked older than my parents.

Fucking hell, whispers through my mind the moment I engage the deadbolt. My breath catches before I moan out a weak sounding, “No.” That was too clear, and it’s too quiet to pretend that was something other than it was.

My hands shake when I pull the zipper on my bag open and fist the orange bottle of pills. It has been a busy few days, so maybe I forgot to take my medicine this morning. I know I’m lying to myself. I never forget to take my pills, but I dump the bottle out in my palm and start counting them just in case.

Seventeen, sixteen… I pop one in my mouth and swallow it down, dry as a bone. There are exactly how many there should be in this bottle, damn it. I stand at the island, listening for the deep voice again, but nothing comes.

It’s a relief to hear silence, but a small part of me missed the voices. They have been with me for as long as I can remember, up until a few months ago that is. This is the longest I’ve gone without hearing them.

Maybe Dr. Tobin can up the dose of my current medication. I shake the bottle. Maybe I can up the dose myself, but I already feel a little fuzzy some days and I don’t want to walk around like a zombie. It’s better than being crazy, I think to myself.

“Give it a few days.” I’m trying to calm my nerves. There’s been a lot going on the past few weeks, and starting college is stressful for everyone, but none of it makes me feel better.

After setting the house alarm, I tote my purse upstairs to my bedroom and leave it on my nightstand, pretending it’s normal for me to haul it around, when really, having my pills closer is my true motivation. Even though I have no intention of taking more, it’s just comforting having them nearby.

I power on the television, then turn on a favorite movie, something I’ve seen twenty times but could never get sick of.

A snort leaves my lips when I walk past the chair, artfully draped with the clothes my mother picked out for me to wear. There’s nothing wrong with the jeans and Gucci cropped cardigan. It came from my closet, after all, but it screams trying too hard, not to mention it’s going to be almost ninety degrees tomorrow. I would be a red-faced sweat hog just from walking across campus.

When I enter the bathroom, I hit the music icon on my phone and select an album before turning on the shower. I’ve become so used to using background noise to drown out the voices, it’s become more of a habit than anything else, but it feels important now.

By the time I’m climbing into bed, Keanu is picking up his new car and I’ve successfully avoided the only part of the film I don’t like, but in truth, I’m not really paying much attention to it anyway.

I glance around the room, surprised at how comfortable I am, considering it’s my first night here. Being in a new place isn’t all that unusual for me, since my parents moved us around our fair share, but being alone is new. Even when I was in Netherwood, I always had a roommate, so this may take some getting used to.

As I settle against my pillow, it gets really hard not to think about all the what-ifs. What if I hate it here? What if I can’t handle my class load? What if I eat alone every day like a loser? What if I hear something in my head and respond to it? Now I’m really just giving myself anxiety, because that hasn’t happened in years. Even then, it was just the abrupt nature that would have me quickly responding to things only I could hear. The voices never interacted with me. It’s more like I’m hearing random snippets of someone else’s conversation, but when I was younger, I would try to talk back to them to see if maybe they could hear me too. I got very familiar with a few of the voices, like the one I heard tonight. Even though it’s changed so much over the years, I know it’s one of the same boys I grew up hearing all the time.

When I close my eyes, I see the image of him I created in my head. He’s vague and faceless, but still familiar to me somehow. He feels big in a sense, as if there’s so much inside him, it would be hard to contain in a small package—if he were real, that is. I’ve never given the voices a name, because that would make them too real, when they already feel more solid than the world around me.

One of the theories my parents have, or that my therapist implanted in their minds, is that I created these identities as a coping mechanism when my brother died, but I don’t even remember my brother. Still, they tell me I changed after the accident.

I don’t have theories as to why, and I gave up trying to figure out what goes on in my head a long time ago. It’s easier that way.

With my eyes still closed, I pick up the eerie music from the movie, and something about it seems to fit with the surreality of the moment. Does that mean I think the voice is like the boogeyman?

Purchase and read Seeing Sound tomorrow, and pre-order book 2 in the series: Touching Oblivion.
Amazon: ➔https://amzn.to/3QBWo58

Albany Walker lives in Michigan where she’s happily married to her high school sweetheart. She spends most of her time juggling her four children’s extracurricular activities, with her nose stuck in a book. When not reading you can find her writing her very own book boyfriends. Albany’s passion is writing romance with real characters that are far from perfect, but always seem to find their own happily ever afters.

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