It started simply enough, there were birds screeching. I covered my ears while running for cover as if a roof or dark room would be enough to drown the grating noise of those birds circling overhead while cawing their skin crawling songs.
The birds screeching started the dogs howling. A discordant symphony of trebles and baritones, longs and shorts, rough and smooth, all beating at different levels. I cowered under my covers, as if the thin blanket would be enough to stifle the cacophony.
The dogs howling started the cats yowling. A song of horrible hisses and kisses between screeching fighter screams. I pulled at my hair and clawed at my clothes, as if viciously ripping myself apart would stop the disharmony of noises stumbling through the streets.
The cats yowling started the cicadas whirring. They bounce from wall to wall, clanging from window to bar and brick to wood, a never stopping symphony of chainsaw buzzing. I bang my ears against the floors, as if I could knock the never ending uproar from my head and straight below where it belongs.
The cicadas whirring started the hunters firing. Bullets zinging, glass shattering, as their frustrations whirl through the sky taking aim at the boundless noise. I dig into the concrete, tearing my fingers, as if I could bury myself away from the discord.
Then the noise is gone.
And I’m on the number 9 headed to nowhere with tears streaming down my cheek and a pistol in my bag. My stomach churns at the memory, as clear as my reflection in the window, with half a face and a dozen other souls hunted by the noise just like me.
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