Free Life's Golden Ticket by Brendon Burchard

GO!”
    â€œMARY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”
    â€œSTUPID, UGLY BRACE-FACE!”
    â€œI’M SEEING SOMEONE ELSE!”
    â€œYOUR PARENTS DON’T LIKE YOU ANYWAY!”
    Mary screamed, “Stop it! Please stop it! No more . . . no more! ”
    The walkway fell silent. I looked into the booths and saw that they were empty. I looked back to Mary. She was curled up on the ground, crying and rocking back and forth.
    â€œOh, Mary,” I said, and kneeled down beside her. “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” I reached out to touch her face, but my hand passed through her again and touched only gravel. I crumpled to the ground beside her.

    M ary wiped the tears from her face and stood up. She looked at the booths, clearly surprised that they were empty.
    I opened my mouth to speak to her, but the sound of whispers behind us interrupted me.
    Mary and I both turned around.
    In the booths behind us were more carnies. This time they all looked exactly like Mary, and instead of screaming, they were whispering.
    Mary stepped forward, and I followed. As we neared one of the booths, the whispers amplified.
    â€œMary,” one carnie said softly, “it was your fault. You should’ve held on to Todd tighter.”
    Another said, “You shouldn’t have let him kneel on the Ferris wheel. That was dumb. . . . You killed your brother, Mary. You killed him.”
    Another looked at Mary compassionately and said, “You can’t help it, Mary; you’re just an ugly girl. Might as well accept it—you are ugly.”
    Another frowned. “You’re boring, honey. You’ve never had much of a personality. . . . No one is ever going to love you.”
    Another murmured, “Yep, you’re going to be alone forever.”
    Another Mary hissed, “They’re right. You’re ugly and you’re boring and you killed your own brother and no one is ever going to love you because of it.”
    Mary’s lower lip quivered, and she shook her head violently, as if this might make them all disappear. Then she put her hands over her ears and turned and ran.
    I chased after her, but as she reentered the stream of people on the walkway, Henry once again took my shoulder.
    â€œIt’s just an image, son,” he said. “And I’m sorry, but she’s gone.”

    I sat cross-legged on a patch of grass next to a lemonade stand, waiting for Henry. The voices of the carnies still echoed; the image of Mary crumpled on the walkway lingered in my mind.
    â€œHere you go,” Henry said, handing me a cold lemonade.
    He sat down next to me, and we watched the crowd of people walking by.
    Minutes passed.
    The noise of the crowd had faded, and I could hear only the scolding, taunting, blaming voices of the carnies in my mind.
    Finally, Henry spoke. “D’you know she’s heard those voices in her head nearly every day of her life?”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYes, pretty much every day. Maybe the voices didn’t always say those exact words, but they still got the message across. Those voices have been playing in her head over and over, and she’s suffered guilt and inadequacy and fear of being alone her whole life because of them.”
    I shook my head. “I just didn’t know. . . . Are they always that loud?”
    â€œNot always. As you heard, sometimes it’s a scream, other times a whisper. But for Mary, those voices are always playing, like a tape loop somewhere in the back of her mind.”
    â€œBut . . . can’t she stop them?”
    Henry gave me a smile that was at once kind and uncompromising. “No more than you can.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou hear voices too—voices that scream negative comments to you, voices that whisper, ‘You’re not good enough.’ Have you been able to shut them off?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œReally? Do