The voice inside your head

The voice showed up the day I stopped talking. 

Not metaphorically. I mean I actually stopped. After Mom’s funeral, words felt like betrayal. So I zipped my mouth and let the world spin. That’s when it cleared its throat in my skull and said, _Well, someone has to keep narrating this disaster._

At first I thought grief had given me an audience. The voice was dry, unimpressed, and brutally punctual. 
_She’s staring at the cereal like it personally killed her mother. It didn’t. The diabetes did. Pour the milk, kid._

I didn’t. But I listened. 

StoryMirror announced their contest that winter: _The Voice Inside Your Head_. Grand prize was a publishing deal. I hadn’t written since Mom died. I hadn’t _anything_ since Mom died. The voice scoffed. 
_Oh, come on. You think I showed up to watch you rot? Type._

So I did. Or rather, my fingers did. The voice dictated and I obeyed, because arguing with yourself is a special kind of lonely. We wrote about a girl whose inner voice was the only person who never left her. Cruel, but loyal. The part of her that said _get up_ when _give up_ felt kinder. 

We finished at 3:17 AM. I hit submit. The apartment went silent. 

I waited for the usual commentary. _You misspelled ‘necessary’ again. You’re going to lose._ 

Nothing. 

Panic is quieter than you’d think. I pressed my palms to my temples. “Hey?” 

The voice answered, but not from inside. From the laptop. The submission confirmation screen was blinking. And below it, a new document had opened on its own. 

One line, in my Mom’s typist font: 
_You don’t need me in your head anymore. Put me on the page instead._

I won StoryMirror that spring. First time I spoke at the awards, my voice shook but it was mine. 

People ask where I get my ideas now. I tell them the truth: 
I used to have a voice inside my head. Now I have readers. 

And somewhere, Mom is probably red-penning them both.