The Silent Sound

Time Cannot be Controlled

Chapter Four

Dates are very important. Not only because they mark special occasions, but also because they give us poor, feeble, humans an illusion of power. By crossing off a day in our calendar, by circling a specific date, we believe that we have more control on our lives, but do we?

Buying a calendar, setting up alarm clocks, watching the clock tick––none of these things will allow us to control time because time, in and of itself, is beyond the power of the human hands. It wasn't, isn't, and will not be controlled, but then again, it doesn't hurt to try.

Is someone born today? Great! Let's write the exact time of birth, right down to the specific minute, the day of the month, and the year down on this paper and call it a "Birth Certificate." As if we need a piece of paper to validate our existence.

Things like that irk me and probably always will-unless, of course, death cuts these ties in half-but the day my son was born, the day I met my wife, the day I married her, and many other special days suddenly became much more important. The piece of paper wasn't a piece of paper anymore. No, it had a value, a meaning, and so that made it priceless like a field of diamonds.

I know by now that I'm a strange human being. What can I say? I blame it on my father's side of the family, from whom I seem to have gotten more of my genes from. There is a fact in Biology that a child, the spawn of two adult humans, receives half of his or her genes from one parent and the other half from the other, but I seem to be an exclusion.

My chestnut brown hair, which, I have to say, are now overshadowed by my grey hairs, my thin, almost invisible, upper lip, my dark brown eyes, my yellowish skin color and my lack of skills in the athletic department were all inherited from my father. My mother, on the hand, was everything my dad and his family was not. She was deeply religious, a conservative Christian, and beautiful.

Now most kids, by nature, consider their mothers to be the most beautiful woman to grace the earth, but I am not exaggerating when I say that she was gorgeous. With dark brown, almost black, hair that fell down her face in mesmerizing curls––the kind women spent hours in a salon to achieve––hazel eyes, which twinkled every time she smiled, and a lean body, my mother was the next best thing to an angel.

She was athletic, if her numerous trophies were any proof, she was smart, the master's degree that hung in my childhood living room said so, and she was talented. My most wonderful years were spent listening to her play soft, melodious, music on the piano and the times she sang were simply euphoric for me. I was in heaven during my childhood and when she died, after battling depression and several illnesses, which were harmless by themselves but deadly when combined, I spent the next twenty years of my life searching for a woman just like her.

That was probably foolish of me. Because no matter where I looked, from London to Paris to New York City, I couldn't find a single female who resembled my mother in the least. If she had my mother's smile, then she lacked her generosity. If her cooking had my mother's fragrance and taste, she lacked intelligence and if, by chance, I found a woman who could play the piano in the same manner as her, then, because of Fate, her voice lacked the purity and charm. It had been hopeless, wandering from city to city, searching the globe for a woman just like her.

I hadn't realized that there was simply only one woman who could ever measure up to my mother and that was my mother, herself. She was an entity who couldn't be replaced nor imitated and once that thought settled into my thick skull, I had a much easier time relaxing in the company of women. And that is how I found my wife, Abigail Greyson, who, of course, goes by my last name now.

Her smile is not as bright as my mother's, her words aren't as soothing, and her body isn't as perfectly sculpted, but she is pure, sweet, and generous and that is enough for me...

Today is our wedding anniversary. Twenty second to be exact. For twenty two years, she has lighted my world and for twenty two long years, she has held my hand. But what have I given her? Nothing, nada, zilch.

She gave me my son, I gave her heartache. She held my hand as I cried on my mother's grave, I've unloaded my frustrations onto her. When Abigail, bless her soul, wiped away my tears, I gave her a reason to cry and I have no idea why.

Maybe it was my father's side kicking in, taking over my body like nature, or maybe this was just the way I was born, but either way, I regret the times I made her cry. My mother would've been disappointed in me. She would've, I can only imagine, disowned me on that first day I made Abigail frown in sadness. But it has taken me twenty two years to realize this.

The past two years, the countless trips to Dr. Caulfield, have been lost in a mental fog. I remember nothing of these years, besides the fact that I wanted to murder, I wanted to mock other humans who were more blessed than I was, and I wanted to hurt everyone like I had been hurt. I had been robbed of my happiness two years, twelve hours, thirty minutes, and four seconds ago and after that fateful moment, I wanted nothing more than to rob the light, the happiness, from the eyes of all human beings.

And, let me not lie, I still want to do those things, but perhaps Dr. Caulfield's words are finally settling into my brain. The fog, the steamy, grey, mist, is finally lifting. It fades slowly, but surely and I have no doubt in my mind that with time, with my wife's guidance, I would return to normal, but do I want to return to normalcy?

After all, I am lacking my other half. My heart, my lung, my liver, my breath... It's missing. It's gone. Dead.

Abigail watches me with nervous eyes as I bring out the medium-sized cake and place it on the table before us. She smiles, but it lacks warmth. She picks up the knife and watches as I engulf her small hand with my rather large hand. Her hand trembles, but she keeps her balance.

We blow out the candles together and dig our knife into the ice cream cake together. A perfect slice we make in the middle of the cake. The letters I had specially written on the dessert seem more ominous now and judging by the tears welling in my wife's eyes, I know I have done the wrong thing yet again.

What can I say? Men don't change. We try, I have to admit that, because we aren't savage brutes, but we can't change our nature.

The frosting on the cake reads, "Happy 21st Birthday." A tear leaks from my wife's eye as we both sit in silence watching the cake as it melts.

It is our twenty second wedding anniversary, but it is also my son's, Cody Francis Bryson, twenty first birthday.

Dates are important. Because when all is lost, when death conquers the world, the only we have left are those divine memories of those special days. I know this now because as we both sit alone in our rented apartment, the lack of my son's presence is a dagger into my heart.

For the importance of this day is both overshadowed and made more prominent by his absence. I know he would be here if he could, but I guess it's a little hard to visit when one is trapped under the ground with no soul, no life.

My son, my Cody, is dead and has been for the past two years, thirteen hours, five minutes, and eighteen seconds.