Before It's Voiced

Myth

myth

noun

A widely held but false belief or idea

Pete didn't believe he'd made it as an author until he saw his books listed on the New York Times Best Sellers list—  a year for each book.

He didn't believe anybody loved his writing until fans lined up outside bookstore signings and conventions, hardcovers smudged and paperbacks dented from how tightly they grasped them.

He didn't believe he could write a book until he held the finished product in his hands, a glossy cover and his own name staring back up at him.

Belief has always worked in this way. Years before he picked up a pen with the intent of screaming, he tested his beliefs.

Before the fame and people shouting his name, he didn't believe in pain until his mind exposed its own mess and tore him into pits of mania and hurt.

He didn't believe in tears until his own dried on his face each morning.

He didn't believe in death until those pills started dissolving on his tongue, bitter like the life he was trying to escape.

He didn't believe in love until he woke with his mother's arms around him, warmer than the hospital sheets tucked up to his chin.

He didn't believe in wishes until he saw the imprint of stars behind his eyes each time he blinked. The stars that had been present and brighter than those Best Buy lights, the stars he had begged to save him. The stars that blinked at him through the hospital room window.

Pete doesn't believe in anything until he sees it for himself.

So Pete doesn't believe in much.

~

So, it goes without saying, Pete doesn't believe he's actually escaped the chaos and cruelty of city folk and deadlines until the large beach house he bought on a whim is before him.

His bags hit the wooden floor, dust flying a few graceful inches and then sinking back down. He smiles.

"Home," he whispers, the word loud in the open area. "Home."

~

It doesn't feel like home for the first few days, empty as it is with no neighbors for miles. Pete had splurged when he bought the house, finding somewhere isolated and out of the way, somewhere he can write his next book— his last book if his agent's contract is honest— and then retire to for the rest of his life. The thought alone, of being alone, is enough to ease the discomfort of imagining another book. It's not that Pete hates writing. On the contrary, he loves stories and he sees no problem in sharing his plights with the world. What he hates is how these stories sound on someone else's tongue. What he hates is how easily people mold his words to mean something else. Once the art is gone from his lips, his hands, it becomes something else. And he can't live with that kind of out-of-control.

Pete ignores these thoughts as he unpacks, taking his time and taking nearly a week. The house is large— too large for merely one person— but he has enough knickknacks and meaningless junk to fill each room. The master bedroom is on the second floor, with a perfect view of the beach and a walk-in closet, but Pete tosses his bags into the room on the main floor. It's smaller and the adjoining bathroom is a better fit for children, but the window only shows the ocean. If he angles his bed just right, no sand obtrudes his vision and he can pretend he's sleeping on the sea.

On the third day of the second week, each last bag is unpacked and he grins at the set-up. His typewriter is placed on a desk in his room and his notebooks sit along it like soldiers awaiting orders. The backdoor is propped open, allowing the breeze from the ocean in the backyard to clear out the scent of dust and emptiness. He's called all friends and relatives to let them know he'd be hiding away and then he'd locked his phone in a drawer on his bedside. Everything was perfect.