The Sound of Silence

Silent Healing

At first, his hatred was foreign to me, and honestly it remained so for a while on account of his unwillingness to attempt to communicate. I watched the vigorous movement of his lips whenever we were in a room together, wishing I could hear his voice and understand. He didn't see my want to know, my need to hear, my eyes. I couldn't read lips very well anyways, most of what I saw was inaccurately interpreted, I found this out in the first few months.

His purpose was something that I could not find, no matter how deeply I looked. Then one afternoon it was just the two of us. He stared at me, and from the corner of my eye I saw him. He was engrossed, sitting there perched upon the stage alcove as I closed the curtain. When I turned there he was, a frown etched deep in his face and I signed to him, "What?"

The staff at the theatre had learned short conversation pieces. I could either write it down or sign it to them and they may be able to understand.

He grabbed a notepad from beside him and scribbled something. Before I could look he crumpled it up and threw it at me. I frowned as I picked up the ball from the floor and read it.

"I know what you did." It read.

I stared at him, my throat clenching as I remembered everything again, gasping for air I sank to my knees. I would have begged for forgiveness, but I would never know if he understood. I stared back at him pleadingly. I'd done a bunch of things in my lifetime, but there was only one that haunted me.

I used to find the night by the absence of sound, by the darkness, but being without melodies written by Nature left me perpetually in the wake of night, never to be graced by the moon.

He laid back on the wooden stage, staring at the ceiling, and I bashfully plastered my eyes to the rise and fall of his chest. I wanted to touch him, I wanted to feel his breaths with my fingers and love him just that quickly, but I wrote it off in an instance. I was a madwoman, I was sure of it.

I had a deaf wish. One that had no power, could never be heard and could never be sowed. No waves resonated from it, no force came behind it, it died in my mind.

He looked once again at me, and then he began to write it out.

"December 23." It read.

He threw the note at my face, and I saw him grasp the pen again. His hunched back and blanched complexion made me ache. I stood to leave, trembling furiously, but he grabbed my hand before I could do so.

He placed a wad of paper gently in my hand and seemed to drop it suddenly. I kept walking from the theatre, ripping the yellow sheet furiously as I exited the premises. Paint Boy wasn't normal, but neither was I.

Upon reaching my apartment, Sarah seemed to stumble around gleefully. She didn't drink, out of respect for the type of torture the smell inflicted on my psyche, but the red scratch marks up her leg and the glaze over eyes that was embedded in her head told the whole story.

He'd been here again.

Whenever Erin visited I didn't have to ask about anything, not that she'd be competent enough to answer, other than what he left on Sarah. She sat on the couch, aimlessly stuffing junk foods into her mouth. The crop top she wore didn't do much for her, and it was evident by the putrid smell of the apartment that something had been smoked between the two.

The empty grin that sat there on her face was something that left me to believe she was on the verge of mental incapacitation. I pulled her up, and as we reached her room she wrapped her arms around me and cried. I only knew she was crying because I felt the hot, salty tears on my shoulder.

I had found out long ago that Sarah's cries were not those of sorrow, but it was much easier for me to be hard on her without having to hear her pitiful sniffles and drawls beside my ears. At some point in time I stopped feeling bad for Sarah, and when I stopped feeling bad for her, I stopped respecting her as well. She was all but a figment of my drab and colorless imagination. She spoke, but forgot that I could not hear, or maybe I told myself that.

Maybe I said she didn't remember, maybe I didn't want her to remember, maybe it was just easier that way. Her usual incoherent wailing wasn't helpful, but at this moment she stared at me and she dried her tears, then she wandered into the bathroom, not before sighing to me "I'm flushing it, and I'm going to bed." When I raised a brow she responded promptly, "His number and his cannabis."

I simply grinned.

He was probably kidding with me... He probably didn't even know anyone, and just wanted to see me break.

Then I thought of the note.