The Intermediates

This is the place where all the important things happen.

So they told me at least.

I didn't argue.

I've been coming here for years, but it didn't get any easier with time.

We were given a space to be and a seat to sit. Next to each other and still invisible to all but ourselves.

The Leader of this place appears often and yells words at us, while we all listen in fearful silence. The one thing which is mentioned again and again during his incoherent speeches is something simply called The System.

The System's fluctuations in elevation seem to be closely connected to our Leader's sentimental well-being, so we all try to please him with our best performance.

We are to connect, to enlighten and to answer in the most pleasant of tones to the voices of the Strangers. That's how I've named everyone who's not one of us.

I've named us: the Intermediates.

They day starts with the perpetually repeating sounds ringing throughout the beehival juxtaposition of the Intermediates. A sound so unnerving that takes all my thoughts and empties my mind apart from its disturbing echo.

I can't help it.

My mission is to make the sound stop, otherwise I will be punished by the Leader.

I know what I must do, yet I hesitate.

Because I know.

I know what will happen when I try to put an end to my sonic martyrdom.

Then, the voices of the Strangers will come.

Artificial, angry, ignorant, flattering, asking, wanting, shouting, desperate voices.

They've drowned me in their insignificant cosmos.

The never ending cycle between the unbearable sound and the insufferable voices. It has consumed all my waking life and troubled my sleep. It has torn down my creativity and turned bathroom endeavors into an unfulfilling quest.

The pills didn't help either.

But still, I try.

Through the chaotic chatter of the other Intermediates and the maniacal grieving of the Strangers, I try to communicate. To answer.

I have never succeeded.

When I go home, my wife waits for me and we both sit at the table to take our dinner. We eat and she talks. She always talks a lot, but my mind is so burdened from the day that I can never remember anything she says.

Except for one particular thing.

She will always ask me, with a curious look on her face:

“Is it ok for a mute guy to work at a telephone center?”

But still, I cannot answer.