Motel

I have a gift. Well, that's what I call it anyway. I guess I wouldn't really describe it as a gift but there's not many words you could use to describe a circumstance like this. Ability, maybe. And it's not like nobody else has an ability like this, I mean, I think not, at least. That must be true because I certainly don't offer quarter to all of them. Just those within city limits. Offer is another poor word choice. It suggests that I give them an invitation to reside in my head. I don't. It is they who take residence there, whether I want them to or not. Like a run down motel. I guess I don't mind that much, but I used to. Well, then I didn't really understand what they meant to do there. It wasn't until I was thumbing through the newspaper and stumbled across the obituaries that I realized that John Lattermore, age 65, had died the night before by means of a heart attack. I had never met him before. I had never heard of the man. But the fact that he had been living in my head was what kept me on that page. I learned of 17 other deaths that day, 17 of which also lived in my head. That's all of them for those keeping track. They don't seem to cause any trouble, apparently they are waiting for something. I don't know for what, they won't tell me...they say I'll find out soon enough. They simply occupy their time by describing the stories of their lives to each other in vivid detail, leaving nothing to imagination. They, after all, have all the time in the world to provide such minute detail. I don't. There is where the problem lies. All they do is talk and talk and talk. All I want to do is to not listen anymore. I go to work listening to their stories. I eat listening to their stories. I go on dates and to movies...listening to their stories. There's never a shortage of tenants either. Once, the queue had diminished to 0 and I had around 3 minutes and 36 seconds of peace. After that, though, a 96 year old woman died of natural causes 17 miles to the north in her bed. Ninety six years old. Do you have any idea how long it takes to sit through the brutal details of ninety six years of existence?
Naturally, I thought I was crazy. I would shout at them, telling them to please be quiet. Especially at night, when I'm trying to sleep. The dead never sleep. But they do talk. Sometimes more than one talk at once. Often, in fact. I long for those moments. They may be louder but there get to be so many that it creates a kind of buzz, rather than words. Similar to a cafeteria or crowded mall. That way, at least, I'm not forced to listen to one set of words. That gets distracting.
One day at work, it got especially frustrating. As I shuffled through the hallway, delivering a very important document to my supervisor, they all began laughing at once. ALL of them. It was the last straw. "WOULD YOU BE QUIET?!" I yelled at them all. I sat straight up and two very burly orderlies burst into my room to ensure my safety.