First came the whispering.
Damian wasn’t even sure at first, whether they were his, the tiny whispered voices like a distant cocktail party or, sometimes, he thought, like a radio with the volume turned down to almost zero. Soon, however, as the voices started to grow louder and more insistent, he came to recognize them, to wait for them almost, in the quiet moments as he drifted off to sleep beside Fay, and in the early hours of the morning when he woke from restless dreams.

And what were they saying, these voices? At first, Damian could make nothing of the faint chittering and the tinkling chatter, but he trained himself to focus on the voices, to tune out background noise, to blank out everything but this mysterious internal channel. Then fragments started to come to him, swirling around in his head as they emerged from the whispering mist – his name, repeated over and over, and one other word.
 

Damian, Damian, Damian, chosen, Damian, Damian, chosen ….

Damian found pleasure in this; it was like a promise of better things to come. For the first time in a long while he started to believe that he had importance in the world; he had wondered before of course, what was he here for, what would his life amount to, what legacy would he leave behind? Surely not just an obscure fire-fighter living an obscure life in an obscure town. As the voices repeated their promise over the coming weeks, Damian truly started to believe that he was special, ‘chosen’. For what purpose was still unclear, but he knew that would be revealed to him. For now, he decided his best course was to prepare himself, physically and mentally for the challenges he was sure lay ahead. The voices, now with him for several hours each day,  agreed.
 

Prepare, get ready, prepare, Damian, chosen, get ready, prepare..

Already fit from his job as a fireman, Damian became obsessive in his exercise regime. Every night he ran, pounding the streets for an hour or more until the sweat coursed in rivulets down his body. After the run came the sit-ups and the weight training in the mini-gym he had set up in the spare room, pushing his body past previous limits until he was a lean as a finely tuned athlete, his stomach rock-hard and his arms and chest rippling with muscle. As weeks turned into months, he trained into the night, the voices keeping him company, pushing him to go further, lift more, train longer. They were never satisfied:
 

More, one more block, prepare, get ready, Damian, chosen, harder, heavier, more…

People started to notice the change in him, now. Fay was first of course; they had been together for eighteen months now and knew each other well. The change in his routine bothered her, and she complained that he was neglecting her, spending more time on his training than with her. He couldn’t tell her about the voices of course. He had tried once at the very beginning, before he was aware of their real importance, before he knew he was chosen. She had laughed it off at the time with a crack about nutty firemen and he had never mentioned it again. How could she possibly understand that the voices had something special in mind for him and not for her? He grew defensive now when she asked him about the extra hours training and the growing stacks of weights and equipment in his gym; it was for his job, he told her; he had to be fit; the job was important; it could save so many lives. He came to realise that the voices didn’t like Fay. Each time she berated for leaving her alone in the evenings or for not sharing in her social life, they grew more shrill in their ceaseless chatter.
 

She doesn’t understand, understand, understand, Damian, chosen, get ready, doesn’t understand, she’s like your mother, like your mother, your mother, mother…

Damian had been nine when his mother had left, abandoning him and his father, to run off with another man. He had watched as the cruel blow had crippled and slowly killed his father. Once a confident and proud man, he had turned to the bottle for solace and soon became bitter and lonely. Before long the drinking had affected his job and he was shown the door from his long-time accountancy position. From there it was a rapid descent into bankruptcy, all-day drinking sessions, depression, liver-failure and death before the age of forty. Damian had been farmed off to the care of a distant aunt, a grim, solitary woman who rarely smiled and who had no idea how to provide the mixture of nurture and discipline needed by an orphaned teenage boy. As soon as he was old enough he left school and worked on a succession of labouring jobs, until finally he had stumbled into fire-fighting. He had never heard from his mother again, and never wanted to. As far as he was concerned she was gone from his life. Perhaps she was dead. Damian rather hoped so, and, once again, his voices agreed.
 

Mother, gone, died, dead, Fay’s like your mother, she’ll leave you, betray you, she’s dead, dead, dead, dead, dead…

At work too, his crew noticed Damian changing; ‘growing, preparing’ the voices would have called it. They were a good crew, mainly young and fit men, many of whom Damian counted as his friends. When he had first come to this job, the company of these men had saved him from the downward path that he had embarked upon since his mother’s betrayal, the untimely death of his father and the embittered teen years with his uncaring aunt. Now he shrugged off their offers of a drink after work or a team bonding session in the weekends. ‘Training,’ he would grunt when they asked, and something about the deeply hooded eyes and the increasingly haggard face made the offers stop coming as the months passed. He found he didn’t miss the company and the easy camaraderie of a worthwhile job well-done, which had been so much a part of the seven years he had spent on the job. He had his voices for company and they didn’t want him getting too close to his crew anyway.
 

Don’t trust, don’t trust, don’t trust, they don’t understand, only you are chosen, chosen, chosen, only you, only you…

Fay was growing more distant, Damian realised. Quite often now she was not at home when he got back from work and hurried to change for his evening run.
“Spending time with a few friends”, she explained when he asked where she’d been. “Carol mostly.”
 Damian remembered Carol as a long-standing friend of Fay’s. There had been a time when Carol was a frequent visitor, a time of dinner parties and group outings to the movies or even a football game. His voices didn’t allow that kind of socialising any more. How long had it been, he wondered since he and Fay had gone anywhere together or had spent time with her friends. At least a year, he realised with a start, a year of preparing, of getting ready, of doing the voices’ bidding without question. They were more urgent now, more frequent, invading all parts of his life except for work and the occasional minutes of deep sleep he still enjoyed.
 

Soon, soon, get ready, great event, don’t trust, Carol, Fay, like your mother, don’t trust, betrayal, she’ll leave, leave, leave, dead…

‘Great event’ was a new item in the voices’ malevolent chant. That and the word ‘Soon’ excited Damian and kept him pounding away remorselessly at his routine. He was ready now; he could feel it; the great event that was his undisputed fate was surely close at hand and he had become powerful enough to accomplish whatever the voices demanded of him. Soon the world would realise his greatness and appreciate that he had been chosen for this special task. A shudder of anticipation ran through his body as he contemplated the future event for which his voices had prepared him, its details still shrouded in mystery, but an event so momentous and earth-shattering that it would obliterate everything in his life that had gone before; childhood trauma, maternal betrayal, tragedy, emotional abuse, mother, father, Fay, Carol, work; all would be swept aside by the remorseless destiny which was his right.
 

Soon now, soon, you are ready, ready, ready, betrayal, it’s coming, suspicion, suspect you, be ready, suspect you, she’ll leave you, leave you, betray you, be careful, be ready….

                                                                *********************

The ‘great event’ when it happened arrived with brutal swiftness. Damian had been at work, till now the only place where the voices did not intrude. A call to an apartment fire had just come in and the crew were suiting up and hurrying for the trucks when his voices burst in, sharp and clear and over-riding everything else. With strident urgency they burst into his head, stopping him in his tracks with a call so fierce and undeniable that he had no choice but to abandon his crew and obey.
 

Now, now, now, it’s time, the bitch is leaving, just like your mother, betraying, betraying, leaving you now, do it now, the great event is here, do it now, now, now…

Damian’s crew could only stare in amazement as he changed direction in mid-stride. Instead of taking his place in the front of the fire-truck he sprinted for his own car in the parking lot and gunned the engine towards the exit. His crew had no time to ask questions or try to stop him. Years of training dictated that they do their duty and deal with the call-out one man short. Whatever Damian’s problem was could be dealt with later. Meanwhile Damian was threading his way through heavy traffic, speeding towards his home, ignoring traffic lights and on-coming vehicles, using all his experience gained as an emergency vehicle driver as he raced towards his chosen destiny, the chorus of devilish voices in his head spurring him on.
 

Faster, faster, she’s doing it now, they’re doing it now, betraying you, the two bitches, Fay, Carol, betraying, you have the power, stop her now, stop her, stop them, stop them….

As the 4-wheel drive roared down his own street, Damian was not surprised to see Carol’s car parked in the driveway of the house he shared with Fay. His voices were right, they were always right, the two bitches were in this together. Yanking the emergency brake fiercely, he brought his vehicle to a screeching, tyre-burning stop across the driveway, blocking the exit. He didn’t need to rush now, he thought; they had no way to escape. Though the screeching voices were still fuelling his massive rage, he felt calm and in control as he retrieved a sharpened knife from its hiding-place under the driver’s seat and strode towards the front door, shouldering his way through it with ease. The kitchen was empty and he quickly made his way up the hallway towards the bedroom. He didn’t need the voices any more; he knew what had to be done, although it was hard to ignore the swelling crescendo of evil that was echoing through his brain, reaching a fever pitch of maniacal frenzy as he reached the bedroom door and casually swung it open.
 

Kill the bitches, kill them now, stab them, slash them, bitches, bitches, bitches, betraying, like your mother, kill your mother, kill her now, now, now, shed her blood, make her pay, make her pay, make her pay, hear her scream, cut her, slash her, kill them….

Damian exulted in the power that electrified his body as Fay and Carol, the two bitches, cowered away from his physical presence in the doorway, fear evident in their eyes. On the bed lay an open suitcase half-filled with a collection of Fay’s clothes. The voices were right, as they always were. She was leaving and this other bitch was helping her.
“D-Damian,” stammered Fay, “Wh-what…..,” but her voice trailed off at the sight of the ugly weapon in his hand and her eyes widened in real terror. Almost casually Damian stepped towards the two women. No words were necessary; they knew the betrayal they had been planning and they sensed the penalty they must now pay. He could read it in their faces and the way they shrank back against the wall, willing it not to be happening. He reached Fay first. Without a word he struck upward with the knife, feeling a jolt of power run through his body as the sharpened edge sliced through her clothing and the skin and flesh of her abdomen in one smooth stroke. Fay gave an eerie wail as her flesh parted and a fountain of blood spurted out, spraying the pastel coloured bedspread and the contents of the suitcase. Moving with the controlled grace of a ballet dancer, Damian reversed his stroke and struck again, downwards this time, peeling through the skin and bone of her cheek and ricocheting down across her chest while the voices chorused out their approval and savagely cried for more.
 

Slice her up, kill the bitch, again, more, more, spill her blood, make her pay, you have the power, you are the master, the master, the master, remember the betrayal, your mother, your mother, kill, kill, kill….

In time to the cacophony of voices in his head, Damian struck again and again in a frenzied assault. After the first few blows Fay was unrecognizable as the woman with whom he had shared his life and his bed. She was just a blood-covered object who slumped to the floor uttering strange guttural noises as her life-blood poured from a dozen wounds. In the paroxysm of power vested in him by his voices he was so single-minded in his attack that he took no notice of the third person in the room. Carol had screamed and screamed at first, sheer terror bursting forth in a shrill high-pitched wail. Then, in a moment of desperation, she made an attempt to escape, scrambling across the bed and diving headlong into the hall. Damian barely noticed her go as he continued lashing out at the lifeless lump at his feet, but his voices had no intention of letting the fun end there.
 

The other bitch, she’s getting away, kill her too, you are the master, the master, make her pay, pay, pay, she’ll call, she’ll stop you, kill her, kill her, kill her…

Damian had no difficulty catching up with Carol, who, terror-stricken, had taken a wrong turn in the hallway and found herself trapped in the bathroom. Damian had taken his time, enjoying the power, the complete mastery over another human being, the fulfilment of the grand plan his voices had been hatching all these months. He stood in the doorway for long minutes while his hapless victim sobbed and squirmed in abject terror in the corner of the room. She had stopped screaming now, knowing herself to be doomed, unable to look him in the face and see her terrible fate written there in his haunted eyes. Slowly he stripped off his blood-soaked shirt, exposing the corded muscles of his arms and the broad muscular power of his chest. Then he had paced slowly and deliberately towards her with the pride of a bridegroom approaching his bride on their wedding night or a conquering warrior about to accept the abject surrender of an opposing prince. The knife was dulled now, having drunk its fill of Fay’s blood, but it was still sharp enough to slice through the vain defence of Carol’s upraised, pleading hands, to sever her carotid and jugular in one murderous stroke, and to send fresh blood gushing over bath and tiles and walls and floor. Damian paused now to revel in this new accomplishment and to receive the accolades due to him as a master.
 

You’ve done it, you have the power, you are the master, the master, the master, you spilled their blood, avenged the wrong, the betrayal, you have power now, no-one can touch you, no-one can hurt you, the power is yours, the power, the power…

Damian stared without shock at the image that gazed back with level grey eyes from the bathroom mirror. The face that appeared was streaked and spattered with blood, the hair matted with gore which still oozed and seeped down his neck and trickled across his powerful bare chest. In his right hand he still held the knife that had caused the carnage around him. Beyond his own reflection he could just see Carol’s contorted body sprawled lifelessly across the rim of the bath, one leg thrust up at an impossible angle, head and face thrown back to reveal a gaping wound to the throat where the knife had sliced through skin and flesh and sinew and grated harshly against bone. One part of his mind became aware of outside noises now, sirens and screeching tyres and a booming amplified voice that echoed and reverberated but carried no meaning. His own voices were what he needed and he found comfort there.
 

You’ve done it, you have the power, you are the master, show them the power, show them what you’ve done, show them, show them, show them, no-one can touch you now….

Police marksman Garrett Bergen squinted down the barrel of his sniper’s rifle. From his position at the upstairs window of the house opposite, he had a clear view of Damian’s front door. As the door opened and Damian strode out, the crosshairs of the telescopic sight wavered for a moment and then settled unerringly on the middle of Damian’s chest. Garrett knew instantly that this was going to end badly. The suspect was breaking all the rules: he was moving much too quickly towards the police lines, he was still carrying his weapon, a large kitchen knife, confidently out in front of his body and he was showing no signs of surrender. Once, twice, three times the office in charge bellowed out his command to stand still, to drop the weapon, to place his hands behind his head, but still Damian strode forward, a confident smile on his face. There was nothing to fear his voices lied.
 

Power, you have the power, you are the master, show them the power, show them what you’ve done, great event, show them, control them, show them, show them, no-one can touch you now….

Garrett waited for the command he knew must come, “Take the shot!” Instantly his finger squeezed the trigger and the heavy lead projectile hurtled through the brief intervening space and cannoned into Damian’s chest, ripping the flesh apart, tearing though vital organs, severing the spine and finally erupting though his back and coming to rest lodged in the front steps of his house. As Damian’s body pirouetted and, almost in slow motion, collapsed in a lifeless heap on the pavement, Garrett was already engaging the safety on his rifle and waiting for the stand-down command to come though his earpiece. Strangely there was nothing but static in his ear, interference perhaps from an electrical appliance nearby. Garrett cocked his head slightly as the noise warped and shifted softly. It sounded like tiny whispering voices from a distant cocktail party or, he thought, like a radio with the volume turned down to almost zero. Garrett frowned with concentration as he tried to make sense of the muffled whispers. What were they saying?
 

Garrett, Garrett, Garrett, chosen, Garrett, chosen, chosen chosen