Words Have Color

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I am not Deaf, HoH, or a part of the Deaf community. I have deaf relatives and have been signing almost my whole life, studying the beautiful language a little more consistently in recent years, but I cannot make 100% true, personal statements about being a part the Deaf Community or personally know what it is like to be Deaf or HoH.

This book is not meant to offend or give anyone the wrong ideas, I am writing it simply to increase awareness and hopefully get more people to realize they need to treat others like they would treat themselves. Ryker's behavior is based purely off of his character and his moods.

Thank you for reading! 🤟

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Four years ago, I probably would've passed out cold if I'd have known I would start stealing supplies from the art room.

But when you're tossed into a public school system geared towards those who can hear, expected to wriggle your way through high school with lipreading, verbal communication, and a whole lot of luck, it's no wonder I grew resentful. No wonder I had to turn to a life of thievery in order to enjoy painting and sketching, the only outlets I had to express myself. No wonder I fell behind in school.

My parents didn't give a damn about the fact that I was deaf and ineligible for cochlear implants, which were too expensive, anyway. They wanted me to be just as successful as my two younger siblings. And, well, let's just say my parents weren't happy with my progress. I wasn't supposed to have fallen behind and gotten held back. Everyone in my class had graduated two years ago. My younger brother was now ahead of me. But that's what my parents got for assuming lipreading was some kind of easy magic trick.

A slight vibration in the floor got my attention, snapping me out of the self-pity I had been wallowing in a moment before. I clenched a tube of unopened paint inside my jacket pocket and held my breath. I'd gone into the supply closet to get another piece of paper and had snatched it up, praying that the art teacher wouldn't notice. She had been seated at her desk and going through some papers with a calm purple color, as usual, and sometimes glancing up at the class that was chattering endlessly away.

I spun around just in time to see the art teacher opening the closet door, giving me a tense smile that said 'get out of my closet, you weirdo.' I hastily grabbed a piece of paper from the shelf and scurried out into the chaos of the students who weren't even trying.

It was hard not to roll my eyes at those amateurs, just trying to get a few extra credits. None of them truly cared about art at the moment, I could tell from their colors. They were sparks of energetic yellow mixed with splatters of restless orange, waiting until the bell would ring with smears of anxious red.

This wasn't my art class, but the teacher let me come in sometimes and do whatever I wanted, so as long as I didn't steal anything. Which meant I was already breaking the one rule. It meant I could leave now, but that would also mean I would draw attention to myself. Hopefully no one could tell I had that fat tube of green paint in the pocket of my old denim jacket.

Holding my breath and ducking my head, I adjusted my headphones and sped walked past the poser-artists, a trail of greenish-yellow curiosity following me as the students glanced over their shoulders at me while I passed. It soon faded back into the red-orange mess.

I don't listen to music through the headphones, obviously. Yes, there are some Deaf people out there who enjoy listening to music, but I'm not one of them. None of the beats make sense to me. I prefer to get my music from the colors. Instead, I wear headphones to avoid people. It's a great tactic, honestly. Everyone I pass thinks I'm listening to music and doesn't bother talking to me, which spares me the aggravation of having to either point to my ears and shake my head, which I do on bad days, or try to struggle along with lipreading and responding verbally.