like you and me and everybody else

it was surprisingly late in his life when L realised that other people didn't hear the voices that he did.

they had, after all, always been there, as long as he was able to remember, and he had never had any reason to question their existence or validity. the voices  -- there were two of them -- were as self-evident to him as were his arms or legs or the colour of his eyes; something you didn't pay much attention to, something that just was. some of his first memories were to do with these voices; how could he have known, then, that they weren't - he was told - supposed to be there?

so when he learnt, at the age of  23, that other people didn't share his experience (by then he had already figured out that they didn't hear the voices in his head; but somehow he had assumed that they had their own voices, ones that he himself wasn't able to hear), L was somewhat puzzled, and strangely enough, disappointed. why hadn't the voices told him this? shouldn't they have known? or were they as clueless about the improperness of their existence as L had been?

it was no use asking them because that's not the way it worked; the voices in his head were at the other end of a one-way channel. to talk to them would have been like talking to a radio and hoping for a reply; thus he had never even tried, never even thought this to be a possibility. in other words, the constant, unasked presence of the voices had never bothered him before; but now, as he knew that they weren't supposed to be there, it became annoying, almost offensive. his inability to turn them off started to agitate him; he couldn't sleep at night or concentrate on anything during the day. 

something that had been an instrumental part of him had became a nuisance. it was like being bothered by your heart, or reflexes, or rhythm of your breath; being bothered by something that is you and that had always been you.

it was exhausting.

so eventually, partly due to the torment it brought about and partly because he was told he should, L sought help from medication. it worked with an almost frightening accuracy; two pills, twice a day, and suddenly there were no voices any more.

it was completely quiet.

and as he faced the world by himself for the first time in his life, his head occupied only by his own thoughts, he couldn't help but to feel lonely.  there was too much space now and his orphan self wandered in the vast hallways of his mansion of a mind, frightened of the empty rooms.

but at least he was like everybody else now.