The Sight of Sound

Chapter 5: What Goes On in the Night-Time

Hey guys! Chapter 5. I'm sorry for being a slow child. I wrote something else in the meantime... Also a repeat of what I mentioned in my Please Read happened. Anyway enough about me; enjoy :-)

Joe's perspective

It was only 8 o'clock or so but I was already exhausted, and in my fluffy owl pyjamas. Owls, I know; deal with it. I was completely drained of energy, drained of a lot of blood and had a headache from not seeing. Sleep powerfully beckoned me, but my body pushed its immense comfort away; I definitely hate myself, because I certainly could've had a better day, had my brain and body worked in tandem. I longed to be suffocated by the overwhelming weight, and have sleep flow over me like rushing rapids over an insignificant pebble, but for some reason I resisted. I didn't want to, but I tossed, turned, and remained awake. This was probably my subconscious trying to protect me from my inevitable nightmares to come; protecting me from my dangerous self; the one with the most, unimaginable and immense power to rip down the walls of my world, my sanity from the foundations up. But naturally, when my body was correct, my head ignored it and slept, instead of the other way round. I'm pretty certain that I am humanely incapable of doing the correct thing.

I could faintly hear 'I Sold my Soul to the Devil' playing in my head as my body gave in to the tantalizing temptation of a dead state and I took the plunge into the deep well-known. As I thought about both nothing and everything at the same time, the boat/tunnel scene from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (the old one) played out on the front of my mind, the vibrant colours blending with my mind's standard, dull grey. That film terrified me as a child but was comparatively positive and pleasant in comparison to the torturous hours in stall for my figure, seeking asylum in sleep's grand abode but finding the exact opposite. That awful night was scattered with things like an invigorating laugh from a middle-aged lady and her tying up her luscious, brown hair in a long, offset fishtail plait.

But those good memories of my mother were slathered, drowned even, in bad ones, like what I'd said to Nathan that day but mainly one particular memory, which will be forever be imprinted on my mind. It was the day of my grade 6 singing exam, a hobby which I gave up long ago due to a lack of self-confidence and the fact that it hardly helped push my case. I thought that I'd done quite well (distinction BTW) and was in a good mood, the likes of which I haven't felt in a while, which didn't last long. I ran out the exam room into my mum's arms (being only 11), and we bundled into our small and slightly beat-up (in a good way) 1974 VW Beetle, with the promise of a supersized muffin and super milky latte in our favourite café, a town over, which had been on my mind for 3 weeks. I'd given up dairy you see, because it is supposedly helpful and enhancing for your voice when you give it up. We were about a third of the way on our journey -eight or so minutes in- and we got stuck behind a slow lorry on the way onto the motorway. It was a cold January day and the weather was bleak but Rachael (my mum) seemed to make that go away. She had that unbreakable, jolly expression and manner, which brightened up wherever she was and solved every problem. We pulled on to the unusually quiet road going straight to the fast lane to overtake the HGV. I looked into the cab to spot a man who was laughing uncontrollably at seemingly nothing and resembled Barney from the Simpsons. He was indeed yellow, alarmingly so, from cigarettes, that you could tell from the two hanging lazily from his mouth. He seemed frustrated by the convertible in front of him, going at the limit. Without thinking, he wrenched his steering wheel right. Running us into the barrier separating the road's sides. I screamed 'MUM!', but being the excellent driver and car fanatic she was, she'd been on it, noticed and grabbed my head, pulling me to her, both shielding me and accepting her fate. 'Joe,' she whispered kissing my forehead. It all goes dark there, until the police are investigating the scene and have me sheltered at the side in a blanket, next to the arrested drunkard. I can't actually remember anything until the next week, waking in a hospital bed and being presented with my 'visual aid'. My dad told me the rest.

I saw all this multiple times, towering and casting shadows over all the other bad things in my life: leaving my bright red umbrella on a train; dropping a fiver down a drain; getting beaten up for the first time in year 4, for 'singing like a nerd' in assembly; and all of the multiple times since. All of which I could remember, whether they were kicks, punches, whether they were because I'd beaten some person on a test or just existing. I still remembered, just like I remembered every time I'd dragged a blade across my wrist or stomach or... I basically remember everything. I live in my memories and remember everything so that my life has positivity in it. I can't filter memories, though I wish I could, like I wish I could filter emotions. I was grateful for whatever god, being or deity which caused my father to shout from downstairs, arousing me from my living hell, which was hardly any better than the actual one...

MEANWHILE

Paul's perspective

'It drives me insane', I thought whilst tinkering with Joe's headset, connecting the correct wires, as I'd done before, 'that my own son would feel like he couldn't tell me about his problems and issues.' And it did. I knew about everything, the bullying and self-harming, and this probably makes me a bad father but didn't want to mention it to him as I couldn't manage it. I just wish he'd told me. I was in the dark for a while but guessed after all, I used to and he was hardly subtle. But I don't think that I was ever really in the dark, I just think that I didn't want to turn the light on as I couldn't bear to see the mess that would make itself clear once I did. A shock jolted through my index finger, to my hand and then whole body. I must've connected the wires incorrectly. I clipped the headset on, it connecting to the circuit board I'd had inserted in my head, so I could test products properly. I closed my eyes, letting the image of the dining room seep into my head. But it was different than normal. The walnut drawers and ornate flower arrangement were visible, but also superimposed with a Matrix-like green. This wasn't normal "What?" a red line, the likes of which you see in sound analysis things. I adjusted a dial on the right, allowing me to slow things down and record them. "Hello," I tried this time. I clicked the 'save' button by the dial. The imaginary monitor of my brain showed 'transmitting' bizarrely. I went into Joe's saved memories which had various things but clicked on the most recent. It opened and had the text 'Hello.' Beneath a line representing the wave form. I clicked the text and retyped 'Waffles', my favourite food. Transmitting appeared again but when it disappeared, in my brain, I could remember saying both words despite never saying the latter... This was interesting. I'd heard of manipulation and hypnotising through wave transmission but this was very new for me. I was overcome with this new development. So much so, that I instinctively shouted my question, no doubt waking Joe.

"WHAT?"

Hope you enjoyed. These chapters are just getting longer and longer. I keep on reverting to third person. Also, my keyboard's 'v' is stiff. If you see either of these errors, please point these out and I'll correct them, improving everyone's reading experience. Anyway, enjoy life beautiful readers :-).