Why I Write

1: Because I'm Doomed

"Miss Keller, you may want to sit down."

Sweeping my ginger hair out of my face, I took a seat in front of the doctor's desk. The desk was littered with paper, letters and medicine prescriptions with names that looked like another language, possibly Russian, although I couldn't really count on my judgement. I was alone in the office, awaiting my fate; my mother was sat outside. I wasn't prepared for her to dote on me when we found out the news.

"The endoscopy results have come back, and they aren't good," began Dr Lynch, a young, good looking man with a smooth voice that probably just got out of med school.

I nodded for him to continue. Seriously - I wished he would just hurry up and tell me!

"Rowan, the throat infection severely damaged your voice box, to the point that you'll never be able to speak again. I'm so sorry," he explained. He didn't look sorry, not one bit. But he was cute, though, so I pretended I believed him.

Grabbing the results paper and my small bag, I held in the tears and fled from the office, taking one last glance at the book-shelved walls and the tacky carpet. I never wanted to see that place again, not now, not ever. My saddened face was enough to tell my mum what the results were, and she grasped my hand and led me out of the hospital.

The rest of the day, an eerie silence enveloped the house, apart from a quiet TV in the background. Mum could hardly speak. The pain on her face, in her eyes, her furrowed brows and bitten lip pained me so much. I felt the guilt spreading through my veins like a poison, destroying my mind and body. I hated my life so much.

Why me? Why did I have to be the mute one? Lose my personality and my voice? I was no one now; I used to be sarcastic; I used to tell jokes; I used to be witty and I used to have the craziest laugh in the school. Now all that was gone. It was all for nothing.

Not being able to bare the ignorant silence, I grabbed my phone and sat in my bedroom. About a thousand thoughts whizzed through my brain, circulating and taunting me. My mind landed on school.

What if I was bullied? 'Rowan Keller: freaky mute girl'. I could see the gossip now. Even if I told just my best friend, Becky, the rumour mill would escalate. It would be around Facebook, Twitter and Blackberry Messenger by tomorrow morning. The popular girls would be the worst. God only knows what they would tell everyone.

"Rowan! Dinner is ready!" yelled Mum. Silently groaning, I cursed her in my head for still being able to yell. Lucky thing.

That night I didn't sleep. The rumble of engines as cars passed by couldn't calm me like they usually did. The stars on my ceiling couldn't make me think of everything I'd ever hoped to be. I had wanted to be a lawyer for crime cases. Arguing was fun, and I was good at it, but it was one of the many things that required a voice.

I didn't have a voice. Not anymore.

By the time morning rolled round, I had bags under my green eyes and a red spot on my head, fortunately being easily hid by my fringe. I washed and put spot cream on, then slipped on my hideous school uniform. Who makes a red head wear a burgundy blazer and blue tie? Clearly my school.

As usual, I began to yell down to my mum that I was almost ready, but a croaking sound came out and I remembered. I was mute. Great one, Rowan.

Mum came into school with me to explain my situation to the head, proving it with the endoscopy results. I took them off my mum so I could show the other teachers. I had a notepad in my pocket so I could tell people stuff and I had practised basic charade-type actions in case I couldn't use my notebook. You could say I was well prepared.

Saying my farewells, I hugged Mum and smiled at the head teacher, giving her a questioning look.

"You can go to morning registration, Rowan. If you need anything, you know where my office is," she smiled. I nodded and headed through the double doors into the main corridor, of which my tutor room was at the end of.

As I couldn't speak, I spent my time analysing the corridor, something I had never gotten to do. We always ran down it, trying not to be late for lessons, you see. Me and my friends were always late. I took in the pale blue walls, the scraggly carpet, the stain where a year seven was sick last week. I took in the photos of my class on the R.E. trip last year.

Suddenly I stopped, staring at my grinning face in the Gudwara. I was so carefree and happy. When it was taken, I remember Becky had just cracked a really rude joke about some guys on a roller coaster. She had got battered by the teacher when we got back to school. I had just laughed.

I got to registration and handed my letter and results to my tutor, Mr Caldwell. He nodded and told me to sit down. I whipped out my notebook and wrote a note to Becky.

'Hey, Bex. Look, I'm mute. Don't judge me. It's not like I could come up with a decent retort anyways. Love, Ro.'

I quickly crumpled it up and chucked it at Becky's blonde head. She picked it up and read it, her brows arching. She turned to look at me, a what-the-fudge look written all over her face. Tears welling up in my eyes, I shrugged and got out my phone under the table, being nosy at people's statuses on Blackberry Messenger. There was nothing interesting. A sharp voice interrupted my stalker-ish habit.

"Some people don't even know where Jack Wills is. Isn't that right, Rowan?" sniggered Angelina Akers, the snottiest girl to brace the planet.

I simply rolled my eyes.

"No retort, Keller?" smirked her best friend, Felicity Harris.

I stuck out my tongue, and turned back to my phone.

"Going to say something, or are you trying to curb that gob of yours?" cackled Angelina. Instinctively, I stood up, my fists clenched.

In reply, I got out my notebook and wrote four words, "I'm mute, you bitch!"

"Freak," she hissed, to which I stuck up my middle finger.

The next lessons went well. I wasn't required to talk in our weekly Maths test, and I didn't have to in Drama, because our scheme of work was mime. But when we got to English, everything changed.

I walked in and sat down, completely forgetting to show Miss Roberts my endoscopy results. We had to write a speech about why we wrote, how it made us feel and other rubbish things to do with English. Everyone had to read out their speech. No exceptions. I wrote one, don't get me wrong and I did (kind of) say what I wrote.

"Rowan, why don't you go first today?" Miss Roberts suggested, my face breaking out in horror. I handed her my book.

"The other day, I got told that my voice was gone forever. I didn't know what to do. I was worried. Then my mum told me to use a pad and pen to communicate. I thought, and still think, it was a stupid idea. I hate writing. It's boring. It's like telling lies for a living. So why do I still write? Well, that's easy. I write because I'm doomed."