Voiceless

Chapter Two

 The monotonous ringing of my alarm clock woke me up just as I had finally allowed my sleep-deprived eyelids to flutter shut. I rolled over, slammed my fist down over the clock, and sat straight up in bed. Then I mentally cursed. I hate Mondays, I thought. Mondays meant school, and school meant people.

I casually strolled downstairs and into the kitchen. Then I froze. Grandmother stood there with her back turned to me, dicing up carrots. Uh oh, I thought, Gram's cross with me for sure. Most people were stress eaters or shoppers; my grandmother was a stress cooker. When I moved in with her after the accident, this confused me greatly. If I broke something or misbehaved, Grandmother would storm out of the room. Pleasant aromas would waft around in the air, and a short time later she'd come stomping back in with a fancy dish and command me to eat it. I'd take one look at her sour expression and become convinced she was trying to poison me for whatever misdemeanor I had committed.

Gradually I had come to understand her quirky habits and facial expressions. For a long time, though, I refused to look her in the eyes; when I did, it was my mother's ocean-blue ones staring back at me. Her hair was gray, and she always kept it in the same loose bun.  She usually wore a shawl of neutral tones with a splash of color here and there. That was all to be said of my little old grandmother's humble appearance.

Suddenly she turned around and spotted me. Her hands continued to chop at the carrots eerily, as if they had minds of their own. She spoke quietly, her mouth barely moving. "You can't do this to me, Vera."

I knew exactly what she meant, but refused to admit it. I signed at a normal pace.

I don't know what you're talking about.

The muscles in her neck contracted slightly, but that was the only sign of her mounting irritation. I pretended all was well, and dragged back the chair loudly to sit and eat cereal for breakfast. There was a short silence, and the only sound audible was the consistent chopping of carrots acting as a metronome. Finally Grandmother broke the quiet and spoke.

"You know what you're doing when you sneak out at night. The problem is that I don't. If you would just tell me, we wouldn't have a problem." She watched me closely.

I stared out of the window, where the bleak landscape of Varence, my hometown, was visible. It was snowing, just like it did most days in Maine. I wished for sunshine, but I had about as much control over the weather as I did my life. Drawing in the woods was all I had to myself, and I wasn't going to give it up just yet.

I still don't know what you're talking about.

The chopping grew faster, more agitated. Grandmother opened her mouth to say something, but I was gone before she could.

 Knowing it was only a matter of time before Grandmother ran out of vegetables to annihilate, I dashed to my room to change into my typical school clothes: a long-sleeved conservative shirt with a gray sweater over top of it, and jeans.

 I laced up my sneakers and, upon hearing my grandmother's restless search for more chopping material, darted outside after grabbing my backpack. School was within walking distance, so walk I did.