She Spoke to the Wind

When I first met Calliope, I thought she was an angel. It took no effort for her to be happy and she smiled all the same, whether the day brought sadness or a hope of newfound joy. She never needed an assurance that things would get better. Things were fine, no matter what they were, to her. Her happiness came from a natural, freak phenomenon in her mind that made her bright and bubbly and, more importantly, permanently overwhelmed by her sense of wonderment.

Our friendship began, when I heard her passing by my house. She made a great deal of noise wherever she went. She was talking to herself (or so I thought), when she passed my window. She turned back and saw me. I tried to hide and she came to my door. She demanded that I join her on her walk to the park. She promised that she’d pay more attention to me than her other friends. In all honesty, I was a ten year old boy who was terrified of everyone, including girls, so I did my best to refuse. When it became abundantly clear she wouldn’t leave me alone, I agreed to her terms.

These friends, so I learned, were all in her head. I would be the one friend that was real (so I assumed). We went to the park and she would go from topic to topic on her own. I thought she was listening to my opinions, which she did, but there were others who I couldn’t hear discussing the same stories. She would wait for their approval and then go to me, as I was the outsider. When I would say something, her eyes would turn upward. She’d nod along, hearing conflicting reports in her mind, before acknowledging me.

I think she preferred my opinion to some of the voices, because she came around more often after that day. She’d invite me into some of her discussions and I noticed more of her attention drifting to me. I wonder still if the voices hated me, if maybe I was taking her away from them and, maybe that’s why they allowed her to be led into danger. She never spoke of the voices, but I knew they were there. It was in her eyes, her facial twitch, which made her cheeks go rosy and soft against her face, as her beautiful blue eyes rolled as far back into her skull as they could. I could see the irises rolling at the top of her eyelids, bouncing and pulsing, as she listened to the arguments in her mind. She always seemed to have control. I do, however, remember a few days in school where Calliope would throw a tantrum and be sent to the principal. She hated sitting down for too long and on long days she’d get bored listening to the teacher and would rather sit on the windowsill, no matter the weather.

A crick ran down the side of our school. Children played by the crick all the time, but during our recesses at school, they made it a point to avoid the crick. Calliope never listened. She claimed she had to. It was such a fun show of ‘civil disobedience’ that all the children joined her. She was so happy. I couldn’t understand why. I think it was because all of the voices had told her to do it and now, having done it and been validated by an entire school, it was as if everyone was in agreement.

I

On the night she disappeared, she came to my window and asked me to go with her. I was ten years old at the time, listening to the radio, when I heard her knocking on my window. She asked me to go on an adventure. I told her it was too late and my parents wouldn’t let me. She told me I needed to be a part of this adventure. She said all of her friends wanted me to join her and claimed I was too important not to go. I still refused and have held onto the regret of it for my entire life.

Her words made me uneasy, because I knew the only friends she had were the voices and me. I asked her who would be waiting for us, but she refused to answer. I felt uneasy about it, yet I had no way of convincing her that she shouldn’t go on this one adventure. I’ve never told anyone the truth about that night.

The next day, everyone was looking for her. Everyone banded together in search parties and went out into the woods, but they would never find her. My parents asked me about her and I told them I didn’t know. I told them I hadn’t seen her since the end of the school day.

Calliope had several friends in her head. I thought nothing of it, because we were both young and it was fun to make things up. She’d make something up and I’d do my best to match her insanity. I never had a chance. Her mind operated on levels of perception that, even as an adult, I’ll never comprehend. It’s easier to assume that her mind had some ‘faulty wiring’ and that’s what made her hear voices. I don’t buy that, because I knew her. She was smart, but she wouldn’t perform in anything she perceived as infringing on her ability to live freely. Her body was always ready to move, dance and play and be removed from this world.

There was never a need to add to her insanity. She did a good enough job of that all by herself. If I interrupted her ‘train of thought’ it would ruin her moods. Calliope didn’t get mad, but she did go quiet. Being quiet was a punishment from the voices. They’d stop talking and make her do the same. I hated when she went quiet and I never figured out how to keep her from doing it. After a while, once she deemed it a suitable time, she’d come back with the same story or discussion. One thing she would say was that there were voices deeper inside her. She claimed these were the voices of monsters. On the surface of her mind, she spoke to angels, but deep down, she only spoke with the angels, so that the monsters wouldn’t try to reach her.

II

Calliope chose to ignore the monsters and I guess so did the rest of us. Her parents wanted them out of her, but three psychologists couldn’t do the trick. Calliope went to three different psychiatrists, each offering their expertise at the time, which amounted to prescriptions and several sessions a week. It all became costly to the family, but they only wanted the best for her. The medications did nothing to slow her mind and the same incessant ranting continued. It seemed that nothing could stop the voices. I don’t like to think in such a way, but… well… could they have gone into some defensive mode… or maybe thought up a way to take her hostage?

I know there has to be someone out there whose mind has taken them hostage.

Calliope fought back against her parents’ insistence that she get help. I wish I hadn’t been around, but I think she sabotaged me. She told me to come over and after a few hours of playing in her room, we went down in her living room and she told them she no longer wanted to go to therapy. She told her parents that what she was seeing is real and she knew the future and that she had to do things to save us all. She held my hand so tight and looked into my eyes. She wanted me to hold on too, but I was too young to understand the significance. I didn’t want to hold on. I wanted her to get better. I thought that maybe the adults and doctors were right and that they could help her, if she was sick. One of the greatest problems for someone who’s sick is that they have a trouble acknowledging that something is wrong.

She spoke to several voices that wanted her to continue with the therapy, except for one. His name was Grzuul and he only spoke to children. She didn’t like Grzuul, because he lied to her upon their first meeting and claimed to be an angel. When she called him out on the obvious lie, he respected her for it and kept his distance. It got to a point where she was seeing him more than her therapist. She’d find me after their meetings or before and tell me all about him. She claimed he was a wizard who lived in a box outside of town. When I asked ‘what kind of box?’ she claimed it to be an empty television box that read ‘40” Razor Addition. She said he’d pop out of the box with a handful of flowers. She said he’d take her for walks along the crick and promised that when the preparations were complete he’d show her the truth about her destiny.

What is destiny? Back then, I had no idea. Even as an adult, I can’t think… like, what is destiny? They never found her body. What was her destiny?

One day, Calliope’s parents came to my door. My mother let them in after they asked to talk about their daughter. They were always talking about her and never in a flattering way. I think that, for the most part, they loved her, but her abilities were too confusing for anyone to understand. They didn’t know how to care for her. They didn’t want her to have to deal with therapy or medication her entire life, which brought them to my home. It seemed that they noticed a few bruises going up her legs and one well-pronounced purple bruise on her skin beneath her right shoulder. They asked my parents if I had done it and my parents even brought me down to ask. I told them no and I hadn’t touched her. I would never do such a thing. I didn’t have many friends, but she was one of my favorite people at the time. I never would’ve done anything to hurt her.

After that, I told them about her friend ‘Grzuul’, which they already knew about. They thought he was imaginary too, but now they didn’t know what to make of the story. They assumed their daughter was entering some dangerous psychological experience, for which they couldn’t help and thought about having her committed. I told them they couldn’t do that, because I believed with all my heart that would kill her. Although, I still stand by that position, I understand it. They were out of ideas and we all wanted the best for her, although none of us were willing to do what it took to actually help.

It was difficult at the time to understand that Grzuul might’ve been real, because Calliope claimed that all of her friends were real. She believed it with all her heart. When I asked her to introduce me to some of her friends, she would get quiet. The first time I asked, she stopped walking and took a moment to consider her decision. All she said was ‘no… that can’t happen’, with the utmost sincerity in her glance.

Curiosity wouldn’t allow me to forget and when things appeared to be more serious than I thought, I asked… ‘Who are your friends, Calliope?’ The way she turned, as if relative motion ceased, craned her neck and turned her eyes, it was as if the girl I’d known had disappeared.

“You can’t do that, you know?” she said. “It just doesn’t work that way.”

I couldn’t dare ask any more. The look in her eyes was blank, empty, missing that crucial element that made her the girl I’d known. I worried more that she’d been kidnapped in her own body, as if a desperate, parasitic soul had invaded her and pushed her deep into some abysmal nightmare for which she’d never escape. I avoided everyone, including her the rest of the day. My parents came to my room and asked if I needed anything. I told them I was fine and I needed to be left alone. They seemed to understand, but reappeared every few hours with a drink or some food or just to ask if I needed anything.

III

The question I asked myself was not a question, but a summation of her personality. It seemed impossible, after all, that a person could be so nice, sincere and caring. Not that people aren’t nice, but just her… all the time! There were very few lulls in the joy of it all. Even at such a young age, I knew that being happy all the time wasn’t possible. About two years before, my grandmother died and, until Calliope’s disappearance, this would be the saddest day ever. I knew of sadness, even at such a young age. She had to know, but she couldn’t acknowledge it, because the voices wouldn’t let her.

The day passed into night. I don’t remember coming to any deeper understandings of the situation, when I heard her knocking at the window. She always came when the darkness was first settling, as if to be certain that the light wouldn’t be making any surprise appearances. I doubt she understood the significance, but something inside her did. Her smile seemed twisted, although I assume it was more my perception than anything. She was still the young, innocent and beautiful girl I’d known. There was just a little darkness, something for her to escape.

I let her into my room. She took my glass of orange soda without asking, and then took a big bite of the grilled cheese sandwich my mother made. She didn’t speak, as she ate the entire thing and swallowed down the full glass of orange soda.

“The voices aren’t my friends after all,” she said. “It’s the wind. I spoke to the wind.”

“What are you talking about?”

She gave me a kiss. It was my first kiss. It hurts, because I can look back on my first kiss without shame, because I know I loved her, but am overwhelmed by a complex sense of joy, confusion and regret. I guess that’s how it should be. She climbed out of the window and disappeared. I wanted to tell her not to go wherever she would be going. I didn’t. She wasn’t the type of person that listened or cared about other’s opinions. She spoke to the wind. That was the only opinion that mattered.

IV

I’m always amazed by the stories of people missing, especially when they never find their bodies. It’s amazing that a person can be here one day and then, as if from some miracle close to the divine, they’re gone. They’re just gone. You have no clear avenue to follow, where you’d find their body and know exactly what happened. You have clues. You have impressions and ideas based on facts, but the truth you need, something her parents would need to support them into a future without their beautiful daughter… simply put, is never, ever there.

I was far too young to learn about regret. At any age, you don’t know what to do with it, so you carry it around for a while and see how it feels. It’s terrible, especially at the age of ten. I was ten years old, regretting not saying something about this beautiful, unique angel in human form. She wasn’t meant to exist in this world. That’s how I get through the day. You deal with regrets of moments from your youth by, not lying, but making up fanciful stories to help the narrative along. I deal with what I perceive as allowing Calliope to believe her stories, because I tell myself there was nothing I could do. I don’t believe that, but it gets me through.

After her disappearance, it took several weeks before the police were done talking to everyone in our small town. The police and all their questions were frightening and, although I know they meant for the best, I was young and terrified. I don’t blame them, as I look back, but when it was happening I was too young to handle it. I was dealing with the loss of someone I loved very dearly. I think that maybe I was their only link to anything concrete that might’ve led to finding her.

It wasn’t long after her disappearance that the police found the box. Someone had been living in a box by a crick in the woods. It was full of empty cans, old soiled blankets and loose articles of clothing, some of which belonged to children. None of the clothing appeared to belong to Calliope.

After that, I couldn’t keep her secrets. I told the police everything I knew. I told them about her voices and about Grzuul and about the box, which she’d described exactly as they’d found it. I was so optimistic. I thought this would be the moment that changed everything. I could feel the shifting of time and fate toward something terrific and inspiring that never came. Nothing came of it, really. I was such a stupid kid… I didn’t realize until years later that the police already understood that she had been kidnapped and none of these ‘voices’ had been responsible.

When I tried to explain that ‘Grzuul’ was one of the voices, well, they didn’t care. I was a kid. They were operating on what little facts they had. I understand that now, but I didn’t as a young boy, so I ran home and cried for about a week.

V

A few days after my thirteenth birthday, I asked my parents if we could move. My aunt and uncle lived in the city, which was a few hours away, so I asked if we could maybe look for a house or an apartment. I needed to be far from this place. Clues to Calliope’s disappearance were all around me, yet after a few years of trying I wanted closure. I wanted to give up, but really, I wanted her. I wanted my friend back and, in knowing that would never happen I wanted to be somewhere else. It exhausted me to devote all my time to her, but it was all I could do. I wouldn’t give up until it killed me, so I had to get away.

It took almost an entire year for them to be able to sell our house and get everything in order, but we did it. We moved to the city and I thought everything would be fine. I had trouble fitting in, but I found a group of friends who welcomed me. I was getting better at focusing during class. Our grade had its own newspaper and I loved to write, especially about current events, so I joined that. People really seemed to enjoy what I did, so I continued it into high school. I went to college and got a degree in journalism and in no time got a job writing for a local paper. It was mostly fluff about ‘whose cat is the fattest?’ or ‘which city bakes the best cherry pies?’ but I didn’t care.

One day, as I’m walking alone down the street, I see her and all of those memories hit me over the head. The woman I saw was fully grown, but the girl I remember is still ten years old. I know I saw a woman. Her hair was dry, straggly, no longer bright and blonde as I remembered. Her eyes were crazed, twitching by this or that roaming wave of thought. Her fingers were long and thin, like talons. Her index finger pointed right at me. A heavy brown blanket rested over her shoulders.

“Calliope!” I screamed. I must have startled her, because she ran. I couldn’t chase for long, before I lost her. I hated myself for losing her again, but continued to look around for an hour, until I had to give up on finding her all over again!

That night hurt, because I thought I was over her and now I realized I had only been hiding. My mind wouldn’t stop. I tried to think of some way that I could figure out what happened to her, when I heard a knock on my window. I went to the window. There wasn’t anyone there. I opened the window and looked out to the city. It was always busy, no matter the time. The darkness settled, when I heard a whisper from below,

“I spoke to angels… you know?”

Calliope was sitting on my fire escape with her head down, eyes staring through the metal grates. I thought she was going to jump, so I wrapped my arms around her. It felt good to hug her, something I never got to do as a boy. I lost myself in that moment and cried like a baby. She was still whispering, but I wasn’t listening, even as she smeared blood all over my clean, white button-up shirt. I saw the blood and panic seized my entire body. I’d never felt such loss of control, as I pushed away from the window. I saw everything in slow motion, as my body pushed away from her. She crawled into the open window, like some nightmarish figure from a horror movie. Her limbs were long and crooked, arched at impossible angles and void of almost all muscle. She could barely walk, as her small, bony feet bent along the carpet, before she crept down on her knees. She brought out one hand from beneath her blanket, as the other moved her along the carpet. She made this noise, as if breathing, wheezing from her throat, until the air escaped to make the sound of a wounded animal that still possessed enough fight to be a threat.

A little blood decorated the free hand, which she kept out in front of her. She moved within a few feet of me, before throwing off the blanket. She wore several layers of clothes, but the surface layer was painted in crimson. Blood spattered over her clothes. She presented me with her other hand, bringing it together with the other. There was far more blood in this hand, but I couldn’t see it, as she held something that appeared like a large balloon that lost all of its air. It was a human heart.

“Calliope,” I whispered. “What happened to you?”

“Grzuul promised me…” she said. “He promised… he was a promiser…” She cried. I never got the answers I needed. I called the police and she got the care she deserved. Her parents… I can’t explain… I won’t explain the overwhelming wonder of that day. They moved to the city so that they would be around, while their daughter got the care she so desperately needed. I see her every week, but I never ask her about the voices. She doesn’t really talk about them (or to them) anymore.

Mostly, it’s just nice to be around the person I loved. She knows that she’s somehow ill and wants nothing more than to get better. She talks to everyone at the center and tells me all of their stories. She points them out to me when I visit and laughs at what she thinks are ‘quirks’. I go along with it, like I always did, because there’s little you can do when Calliope gets to talking. She seems to be herself, but every so often, I notice the nose angled slightly upward, as her eyes make that ascent. She’ll be more careful, having made far too many mistakes in the past. She’ll look around to see if anyone notices, as they often do, as she’s under twenty-four hour supervision. Still, I know she’ll wait, until she’s cleared to return to her parents and then… who knows.