THE VOICE THAT IS NOT HEARD; CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Part I

by

Hossca Harrison

2011

A couple of days after I announced the above title, strange experiences began to happen. It started one afternoon while I was home alone, beginning to work on my blog, the doorbell rang. I was expecting a package from UPS, so I went upstairs to answer the door. No one was there, which is not unusual as UPS will leave a package sitting on our doorstep, ring the doorbell, and leave. No package, no UPS, no truck in the driveway. When I closed the door, I could feel a strong electric energy in the air. From my experiences, I knew this was a sign of some non-physical person standing close by. I walked into the living room, and there stood a young man looking at the age of sixteen or seventeen. He had Middle Eastern features, but what was most striking was his neck. It was black and blue, stretched twice its average length, and the right side of his head almost touched his shoulder. My guess was he died from being hung by a rope. He tried to talk to me, but his words were extremely garbled. I felt to put my hand on his neck’s left side to see if I could send energy into him. As I put my hand on his neck, I could hear a sizzling sound from his ice-cold skin. As the heat was moving into the left side of his neck, I used my other hand to straighten his neck. I could hear loud popping sounds, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head; he closed his eyes, opened them wide, and looked straight at me with bright, brown eyes.

“I can talk now,” he said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Aban, and I am from Iran.”

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I was sent to come and talk to you for all of us.”

“Who is us, and who sent you?” I asked.

“I don’t know who sent me. I just hear a voice, but I cannot see who it is.

My friends and I want to talk to you.”

“Who are your friends?” I asked.

“Doug, Justin, Giovanna, Adimar, and Peter.”

“Where are they?” I asked.

“Doug and Justin are from your country. Giovanna is from Italy. Adimar is from Germany, and Peter is from England.”

“Did you know them before you died?” I asked.

“No, we met wandering the streets of Rome.”

“Rome? Why Rome?” I asked.

“We don’t know. We just ended up there. We don’t even know how we got there. Different people like us kept trying to hurt us. So we kept together to protect ourselves from these people.”

“This voice sent you to talk to me. Why?” I asked.

“The voice said if we tell you how and why we died, these people will stop chasing us, and we could be in peace.”

“You are telling me this voice knew I was about to write an article on teens who are bullied and committing suicide? Is this what you are telling me?”

“I don’t know about your writing. I just know what the voice said.”

“When can I meet your friends?” I asked.

“I will go tell them what you did to my neck. Maybe you can help my friends; they also have injuries.”

“Then I will wait to write after I meet with all of you.”

“Mamnoon am.”

“What?”

“Oh, I mean, thank you,” he said.

When he left, I felt as if I was standing in a vacuum. Well, I guess I will put my blog on hold, I thought to myself. I had encountered many dead people over the years since my own death experience (Tide of Change), but this was a little strange. OK, very strange.

A couple of days passed without hearing anything from Aban or his friends. The next day I had a personal Jonah session scheduled over the phone. As usual, as Jonah comes through me during a scheduled Jonah session, I can briefly talk with Jonah as I leave my body, and Jonah is coming into my body. On this occasion, I was able to ask Jonah about this young man with the broken neck and his message to me.

Jonah replied, “The voice he hears is one of his guides, but because of his mental and emotional state, he cannot hear all his guide tells him. He is trapped in the mental and emotional plane of despair. He and his friends are all trapped in this plane. They all carry such sorrow, fear, and anger; they cannot see beyond their plane of existence, so the emotional plane of despair is their only reality. Aban, speaking with you, is his strongest movement yet. They do seek to heal, but they must release the energy that keeps them trapped in the plane of dispair. Through sharing with you, the terror they experienced in their physical existence and non-physical experiences will help them release those traumas, thus allowing them to move into a higher plane of experience. They will not harm you. Allow them to visit and share with you. They are waiting for you to invite them to share. That is all.”

In what seemed like a few seconds, my session with Jonah was over.
I spent the rest of the day preparing myself and inviting them to visit. I knew this next blog would change and perhaps be my most unusual one yet. But then rarely has my life experience been ordinary.

The next day I was in my office when our Chow Chow, Honey Bear II, started sniffing the wall, growling and then letting out loud barking. I knew it was them; I put Honey Bear outside in the back yard and invited all six in.

The first to come in was Aban; then, he introduced the others as they followed Aban into my office, Giovanna, Justin, Doug, Adimar, and Peter. Giovanna had a wide knife wound in the middle of her stomach, her clothes still soaked in blood. Justin did not appear to have any injuries. Doug had a hole in his head’s right side, his hair still matted with blood, his left ear partly missing. Adimar had slits across his wrists, his hands still bloody. Peter, his body was pale white and extremely bloated.

I asked them where they lived when they died. I already knew Aban was from Iran.

Doug spoke first and said, “I lived in Long Beach, California,” Then, the others felt a little more relaxed in speaking with me.

Justin then spoke up and said, “I lived in Taylorville, Utah.”

Giovanna shared, “I lived in Bologna, Italy.”

Peter, who stated in a very formal voice, “Portsmouth, England.”

The last to speak was Adimar, who said in a hushed voice, “Hamburg, Germany.”

Doug looked to be about eighteen. He was very tall, about six feet four. He has blond hair and blue eyes, and his face is extremely pockmarked from severe acne.

Justin was about five feet, ten inches tall. He had light brown hair and blue eyes. Justin was the only one not dressed in ordinary street clothes, but instead was wearing pajamas. He continued to stand behind the others with his hands covering his crotch area.

Giovanna was the smallest, standing about five feet two inches tall. She had long dark brown hair flowing down to her waist. She kept holding her hands across the knife wound in her stomach area with a look on her face of immense pain.

Adimar was small for his age of seventeen, about five feet six inches tall. He had unusually delicate features. He weighed at the most, a hundred and ten pounds when he was alive.

Peter was so bloated it was hard to see what he looked like before he died. His clothes were wet, and he was shaking, feeling the coldness of his damp body.

All six of them carried such fear I had to move extremely slow, or they would all cower in the corner of my office. They did not trust me but still wanted to express their anger and bitterness about their lives.

Aban walked forward and asked, “Could you put your hand on their wounds as you did on my neck? I told them what you did to my neck, and they want you to help them.”

I said, “I could try, but they must be willing to accept assistance.”

I looked at the other five and said to them, “I can help you, but you must be willing to heal.”

They all looked at each other with confused faces. “Do you know what I mean by heal?” I asked.

Doug spoke up and asked, “How can we heal? We are already dead?”

“You are talking to me,” I said.

“So you are not dead, just your physical body is dead. You still feel pain, sorrow, and anger, don’t you?”

They all looked at me, nodding, their heads in agreement.

Doug spoke up and said, “Yes, I still have the pain. I wrote a letter to my dad the day I used his gun to blow my brains out. I told him I am not killing myself because I want my life to end; I am killing myself because I want the pain to end. After I had shot myself in the head, I woke up lying on the floor next to my bedroom door. I could see across the room, my legs lying on the bed with my upper body lying over the edge of the bed with my head touching the floor in a pool of blood. My brains were scattered across the wall. I had locked the door, so I could not leave the room. I had more pain than ever. I kept trying to pick up the gun so that I could kill myself again, but I could not pick it up. The pain has been getting worse ever since.”

“When did you kill yourself?” I asked.

“1962,” he said.

“62?” I asked. “Do you know what year it is?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“It is 2011 in my time.”

“No f–king shit,” he replied. “I have been f—king dead for what, 49 years?”

I looked at him and then all of them and said, “You experience time with your emotions, not your mind, so time does not have the same meaning to you in your condition.”

“It has meaning to me,” said Justin. “I am counting the days until I can get that bastard who hurt my dick.”

“Tell me about it, Justin. What happened? Why are you so angry?”

“The mother f—ker stuck an electric wire up my dick and burned it.”

“OK, Justin, calm down and start at the beginning,” I asked.

He began to cry as he explained how he realized that he liked other boys when he was eight years old, not understanding what it meant. “I asked my mom once what does it mean when a boy likes another boy. She told me it was evil to allow those thoughts in our minds. So I kept quiet about my feelings until I was sixteen when I met another guy at school, and we hit it off. Soon we realized we liked each other a lot. One day at the mall, we saw a photo booth, so we decided to take our picture together. Just before our picture was taken, my friend Jared turned my head and kissed me on the lips as the flash went off. I had never been kissed on the lips by anyone. But when Jared kissed me, I honestly liked it, but I thought it was evil because of what my mom said. When the photo booth printed out the pictures, we each took one, put it in our school books, and went to our homes. We lived about a mile apart from each other. That night I was in my bedroom studying, and I needed my school history book I had left on the dining room table. I asked my little sister to get it for me, so she picked up the book and threw it down the hallway as my mother was coming out of her bedroom, the book landed on the floor in front of her feet. She picked it up to give it to me when the picture fell out of the book. I had forgotten I had placed it in my history book. She saw the picture lying on the floor and picked it up. She gasped, covered her mouth, and looked at me with tears coming down her face. I just froze, sitting there at my desk. It seemed like an eternity watching her expression turn from shock to anger, to rage.”

She removed her hand from her face and, in a rage, said, “You evil bastard.”

“She picked up the book, came into my room, and started hitting me on the head.”

“You are no different than a murderer, you filthy evil creature. Wait until your father comes home. We are calling the ward bishop.”

Justin then stopped talking and just stood there crying. After a few minutes, he looked at me and asked, “Why did no one help me. I kept asking for help when they tortured me, but no one came. Why Hossca, why did no one hear me?”

I knew I needed to give him an answer that would help him in the long term, not just the short term, but I also felt he was ready to hear this. I answered him, saying, “Some people are active, some people are passive, some people are active-passive, and some are passively active. Each cannot be judged, for you have not walked in their footsteps. For, in the end, each will be known by their choices, for it is their combination of decisions they make in life that determines the next reality of their experience when their physical body turns to dust. Your parents, Justin, were homophobic.”

“What is that?” he asked.

“It is a fear of gays, of homosexuals. The homophobic mind believes being gay is evil, or mental illness, or both. I am here to tell you, Justin, it is the homophobic mind that is mentally ill. It is the homophobic religions of this world that teach and support mental illness.”

“Shit!” Blurted out Justin, “That is what the church guy said to me.”

“What?” I asked.

“He said, ‘I am going to cure your mental illness,’ and then he stuck the electric wire up my dick as I was strapped in a chair. Then he turned on the power. After I stopped screaming, he said, ’Now every time you piss, you will feel the pain; it will remind you how evil you are.’”

“Justin, you told me about your mother finding out, and then you jumped to being tortured. What happened in between? How did you end up being tortured? Who did it?”

“I can’t remember,” he said.

“You must remember Justin; this pain is what is keeping you in pain.”

To be continued;