Unusual Narrators

Chapter Three: Bench

"The ability to only listen was not enough."

I've heard countless of people from different walks of life say that communication served a pivotal role in establishing a good and healthy relationship. However, being mute allowed me to experience and realize something: "The ability to only listen was not enough."

It was exactly two years ago when her family moved in next door as I watched the apparent frustration on her face as she stomped entering the house. I could only assume that she was not in favor of her parents' decision to move from wherever they were originally from.

I didn't see her again until three days later during a windy and chilly Sunday around eight at night when she decided to come outside carrying her guitar. Noticing my lone presence, she walked up to me, staring, and debating whether she should join me or not. I don't know what thoughts entered her mind, but she sat along with me staring into the city miles away from where we were.

Other than the cars that occasionally drove by causing interference, the mysterious silence of our surrounding loomed over us -as if the world stopped everything it was currently doing and anxiously waited for an unprecedented performance from a venerable celebrity- but in this case, it was simply her and me.

If that was certainly the case and everything that was supposed to unfold starting from that moment were scenes from a movie, knowing what I know now, I wish it never began. But how could I know that this is how everything would turn out? I was naïve brought upon by my carefree attitude of life and the world during that time.

Under the alluring and hypnotic beauty of the moon, I stole quick and short glimpses of her filled with thoughts of curiosity, slowly trying to figure out the puzzle of her identity piece by piece. Despite the intense orange pigment of the surrounding brought by the brightly lit streetlights, I was able to slightly figure out what she looked like.

With pitch black hair covering the right side of her face and pitch black eyes to match, she stared at the horizon in the distance tightly holding the neck of her guitar with her right hand. And just like every great actor or actress who had ever lived, she improvised as she disrupted the silence with hushed curses towards the world and muffled cries.

I kept still and silently watched her as tears began to roll down her cheeks to the cemented ground below us.

"I miss my friends. They were always willing to listen to me," she whispered as she struggled to hold back the emotions inside her waiting to be released.

And what did I do? I helplessly stared at her with nothing to say.

There were no words that I could possibly say to make her feel better that haven't already been said. Over the course of many years, I have concluded that spoken words were empty. Meaningless. Vain. One could give a lengthy speech, and no one would ever know if each word uttered meant anything at all. That even the most famous three words, "I love you," was just a statement of barren repetitions with no truth behind it.

All I could do was to serve every bit of my purpose in her life. Listen to her as she expressed every inch of her emotions and thoughts in the form of words. Make her feel that she was not alone in the world to the best of my abilities. Catch every tear she'll ever cry. To act on these was the very purpose of my existence.

Perhaps that's why she was able to easily trust me with her innermost thoughts and the emotions she hid from others. Perhaps that's why she spent countless nights with me no matter what the weather was to tell me the stories of her life because she knew, I'd always listen.

She would complain to me from Monday until Thursday about her daily struggle with the demanding workload brought upon by her college professors especially regarding a fifty-three years old man named Mr. Cowell. She'd sing to me during Friday nights, and I'd listen to her smooth and mesmerizing voice which charmed every inch of my heart and soul without fail. Saturday nights, she'd recount the tales of her adventures since she traveled quite often to various places. Sunday nights, she'd read to me stories she'd written as she aspired to be a writer one day.

Her voice became my lullaby during those nights. The only sound that ever mattered to my ears since then was the sound of her voice. Her voice drowned out the other individuals who also told me of their own problems and struggles. Every bone, muscle, vein, nerve and every other part of my body craved her voice.

My desire to hear her voice was a thirst that could not be quenched. Hunger that could not be quelled. A storm that could not be calmed. A booming thunder that could not be silenced. Her voice became my drug.

Perhaps I was incredibly oblivious during those times that I didn't notice her desire to hear my voice despite the situation. I was too blinded by my very narrow perception of the need for words that I substituted my actions in place of such repetitious and meaningless words. I was too distracted by my purpose in her life that I didn't notice my own actions were become repetitive themselves. That the ability to only listen was not enough.

Was it my fault? Was it my fault to have loved this way? To have loved someone for two years without being able to utter a single word? Was it my fault that I could not fully express everything that has accumulated inside of me? Was it my fault that no matter how many words I either wrote on paper or type, I could not express with my own voice that I loved her?

If so, there's nothing I could do about it. I could not curse the world for being unfair to have allowed someone like me struggle so much. I could not even let out a single sound nor a squeak when she told me that the ability to only listen was not enough for her to continue spending those nights with me but, it was enough for her to realize she needed someone other than me.

No matter how much I tried nor how much effort I exerted, I could not even yell at the top of my lungs that she was the only woman that I ever loved and will always love. Maybe in another lifetime, I'd finally be able to tell her for the first time with everything I have: "I love you."