“The human mind is truly the scariest thing of all.”
I quickly scanned my surroundings. The words appeared to float around me, their source unknown. And I could almost imagine the letters hovering in my current space, a space devoid of anything except my own body.
My voice was weak from disuse and I could almost imagine remnants of cobwebs in the slight cough before my vocal cords vibrated, “Could you say that again?”
The silence waited with me for the answer. It more patient than I. I had grown to appreciated the silence, it having been my latest acquisition friendship-wise.
I waited in the echo of my own hallow words for the ones I was sure I had heard. And when they did not repeat the questions came at me:
Could my mind be playing tricks?
Could I finally be cracked like they claimed I had been?
Were the words right?
What had they said exactly?
The letters comprising the words I was still unsure I had actually heard still hung like wisps of smoke. I read them to myself out loud, “The human mind is truly the scariest thing of all.”
In hearing the words in my own voice a new question arose, one I had always had the answer to but would not share:
How can I be scared of the part of me which never lies?
And the unknown source answered, “But I do.”
Honestly Austen 