\"The Shelf Life of Secrets\" A dark psychologically damaged delivery



Showcasing a dark, brooding and emotionally damaged tone that is believable and conversational storytelling.

Vocal Characteristics



Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)


North American (General)


Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
like a summer thunderstorm. The night visitations began. The torrent of memories they uprooted, left me, spent bewildered. It had been 30 years since my grandfather's death, perhaps half as many years since he last disturbed my sleep, But for 12 consecutive nights he visited me. Not once did he speak. He simply stood at the foot of my bed and beckoned. I had to heed his call. I chose a time when my mother, who still lived in the family home would most likely be out. She and I didn't see eye to eye, but always played nice. After dropping my daughters at daycare, I went to my old neighborhood and drove up one street and down another until my funeral possession pace drew suspicious glances from porch dwellers. It hadn't been that long since I had been to Carolina corner. But on this visit I was acutely aware of changes. Many of the houses that once echoed with Children's laughter were now empty and dilapidated. Some homes were missing, windows and doors giving free access to the elements or an occasional errant and chunky. Still others were shielded from the outside by bricks and plywood, their yards littered with the remnants of a once upon a time existence. As I pulled up to the front of the house where I had spent the 1st 20 years of my life, it seemed as though I were viewing it through scrim, it appeared faded. I backed into the driveway, leaving my car position for a quick getaway, hoping the lock hadn't been changed. I inserted my key, turned it inside at the familiar squeak of the hinges change, it seemed, had only occurred outside the house. I climbed the stairs and paused at the top. My resolve wavered. So I sat and hug my knees and rocked like I did when I was a child and watch the dust motes drifting from the skylight. In the years since I had been up these stairs, been in that room, I had masked my feelings with indifference. The truth is I hated the room. At the top of these stairs. From this room, I had heard accusations of infidelity, followed by retorts of prove it. I was five years old before I learned prove it didn't mean someone was doing something forbidden. Often I would hear an object crashing against a wall or the sound of a hand or fist striking flesh from this room. The whole house seemed to shake. He would stand on newspaper spread in front of the radiator, dressed in a T shirt, naked from the waist down, Wragge in his hand as he cupped his ***** and tried to urinate. His spasms were so violent that it caused the pipes to vibrate throughout the house. The resulting noise sounding as if someone was simultaneously knocking on the ceilings and floors. Sometimes I watched his dance of pain from the doorway, transfixed. Unable to enter. Unable to step away, I would stare, confused, concerned, and sadden because I couldn't make it better. He would return my gaze with embarrassment and humiliation in his eyes unwashed. He would return to his bed, pull up the covers and beg some unseen father to help him please. From this room came confirmation. He would never return from the hospital classmates. Delivery of the news had stunned me on the playground. He was only two years older than my seven. I couldn't believe news, this shattering had been entrusted to him. I pushed him hard in the chest with both my hands And ran the eight blocks home. I tiptoed up the stairs and paused on the landing to catch my breath before entering my grandparents, his bedroom. My grandmother was sorting through papers and my grandfather's wallet was open on her lap. She looked up and with tears swollen eyes confirmed what I had been told. I shook my head to erase the words. She did not and possibly could not say he was dead.