Aphasia

Part 3

A year passed before Tamara could return to school, an interpreter in tow. In that year, much had happened, and little did the girl recall. A funeral. Court. Custody. Therapy. Learning to speak without sound. Unlearning speaking with sound. And finally, after a year of regrowing her hair, attending therapy sessions, and learning sign language with much difficulty, Tamara returned to school.

She had been permitted to continue living in the apartment her father owned, granted she could pay rent. A difficult task for a young girl. However, she made the money quickly. Tamara sold the pistol her father once owned, and all of the ammunition needed for the firearm.

Her interpreter, who had been all but living with the girl since she left the comfort of the hospital, inquired as to why she sold the pistol, but did not sell the rifle. Tamara could not recall why, or even reason why. Her memories since the incident had been scattered, coming and going in fragmented waves of knowledge, only to recede with the tide.

Still, it was enough to pay the rent for a few months, and the money her father had left in the bank would suffice until the girl could legally acquire a job. For the moment, she was sitting in the cafeteria, the first few classes embarrassing and quiet. The static had not left her alone that morning, and only now did it ebb so that she could hear the bustle of the lunchroom.

Tamara sat alone, with the exception of her interpreter across the table from her. The girl picked at her food, the twisted knot of embarrassment from class still heavy in her stomach. The pieces of sound she caught were not helping that embarrassment. She only caught a few words from reading their lips and the snippets of voice.

"Father...dead...beat..." This angered her, and although she knew why, Tamara could not understand that burning rage. "She...messed up....head...crazy..." The girl felt tears well in her eyes and her fists tightened.

"They're talking about me," She signed to her interpreter. The older woman, with furrowed brow and nervous hands, told Tamara otherwise. "Yes, they are," The girl affirmed, her hands moving deliberately and slowly. "They're making fun of my dad, and me," She added, her hands falling to the table as the bustle of the lunchroom lost its charm.

The people were surging around her, foul words about Tamara and her father spilling from their mouths as they ate. They spat her name in disgust, and cursed her father. They mocked her mother, whom she scarcely knew, and poked fun at her hair that had grown back with even tighter curls.

At least, this is what Tamara interpreted from the crowd of hungry teenagers. The girl looked down at her clenched fists, recalling at some point being ashamed of her long fingers. Now, she saw them as tools against those who tried to remove what little joy she retained in life.

Her right hand grasped around the lunch tray, and she stole a glance at the girl behind her. Tamara had caught snippets of her snarky voice, a New Jersey accent vaguely familiar in the twisted vowels and annunciation. And so, she threw the tray.

It was a plastic tray, but there was still evidence of it in the bruise that the girl now adorned on her temple. Tamara's interpreter quickly rushed to the scene, holding the girl back from farther exerting her vengeance on the other children.

Tamara would not stop fighting until the on grounds police officer arrived. She was overwhelmed with anger and ire, the urge to bring harm to someone or something was stronger than her fear of the repercussions. She did not want to stop, she wanted to use something more sturdy to smash into a living creature. She wanted to kill something.