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Consented

I asked him at breakfast if he ever had them. He said no, he didn’t. They are not really voices, at least not how they portray them in films. They are more like conversations that are playing in my head that I’m not really a part of but just overhear, or perhaps I am just the means through which they are spoken, a kind of mouthpiece, I suppose. They come just before rising. I’ve woken to the alarm and I just lie there awhile trying to psych myself up for the day and giving thanks for all that I have (and a quick blessing – for her and for him and for the little ones) and its then that they come. This morning it was like I was seeing the words written down as well as hearing them. The first word was spoken by a voice that was either not practised in English or had only just learnt to read. It was slow and laboured in its delivery. The second part of the statement was more joyous and ended with the flourish of an exclamation mark. (Where does it all come from, for I am not fashioning it?) Anyway, the voice or voices said: ‘Consented. It’s us!’

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.