Muted

THIS BEGINS THE NEW MUTED. Enjoy my friends, enjoy.

        Silence is my escape. Words are my enemies. They bring me a dread that I cannot begin to explain. I cannot control because that is why I stay silent, control. Silence keeps me sane. It saves me from opening my mouth and making an inhuman sound. It keeps me in control, even though he controls it all, I just carry out his controls. I live in fear of him and his actions. He damaged my psyche. There’s nothing that I can do and I hate him for that.

        My name is Sadie Dilon, although no one calls me by that. My nicknames include Saddie and Silent Sadie. Others like to use the conventional ‘whore’ and ‘slut.’  Chalk one up for creativity. I hate these names, but I don’t speak up, so the names remain.

        People talk about me, they think that I don’t hear them, but I do. They say that I am crazy, that my voice box was cut out, or that I have some mental disease. I’m not sure of my mental standing, but I don’t think that it is for others to discuss. My name is on everyone’s tongues though. They all think that because I don’t talk, I can’t hear. That’s why I get called all these names, even if they have no relation to the situation. People have this need to talk about personal situations of others to make themselves feel better. I think that that’s shallow and idiotic, but again, since I’m silent, my name will continue to be the talk of the town.

        I haven’t talked since the incident in my freshman year. Everyday is a countdown until his return. Every damn day I go through the same routine of anxiety, fear and panic. You have no idea of his abilities. He is capable of ending my life at any given moment. Every second I’m alive is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because he has not completely controlled me and a curse because he has. The whole situation is a paradox in itself.

        The fact that a single word has not escaped my lips since I was a freshman is impossible to fathom. I believe that if our paths had never crossed, then nothing would have ever happened, but I know that that’s not true. He knew who I was and everything about me before I did. He had planned to pursue me from the very beginning. That clever bastard had it all planned. I was just a part of his act. He played the stereotypical “bad boy:” leather jacket, tattoos, motorcycle and the mysterious personality that brought you in. He knew that this freshman girl was vulnerable and trying to gain attention. She was blinded by the illusions fed to her by her fellow peers, so he took advantage of her.  I was his pawn. I fell head over heels for a character. God, I feel so unbelievably stupid.

        He lured me into dating him for three months. I had no insight to his motives. I thought he genuinely liked me and would stick with me through everything. How I was wrong. They say your first love is the hardest to get over, and he truly believed that. He only let me go after the night of the incident.

        We broke up soon after.

     The break-up shattered my reputation. It jump-started the rumours and the hateful language directed towards me. Of course he took the immature route and decided to spread rumours on how I broke up with him because he wouldn’t sleep with me. That is completely untrue. There is a lot more to the story than who didn’t sleep with who. I can’t discuss what actually happened. It’s too hard for me to stomach. I still get sick because of the truth. It didn’t set me free, contrary to popular belief. The truth became concrete and taped my lips together.

        Typically after a life changing event such as what I went through, people move away from the situation, only to have their problems follow them. My mother waited three years to move away from the situation that altered my life. Although, we aren’t moving because of me. We are moving because my oh-so-loving mother got served one too many restraining orders. She’s an drunk sexpot. She already slept with half the male population of Maine, so I guess since she’s going for a record, she has to sleep with the other half.

        We means me, my mother and my two siblings: Casey and Carlie. Casey is my younger brother. When he was four, someone tried to kill him. He was involved in a tragic hit and run. I blame myself because I wasn’t fully paying attention to him. It’s not like I was talking at the time, because it was a month or two after that night. “Sadie, can we go outside!” I held up a finger “No waity!” He ran outside. I noticed he was gone and sprinted to the front yard. I heard a deafening crack and saw him on the road. I ran to him as the car drove away. My neighbour called an ambulance for us. We waited for five hours after his surgery to see him. In the emergency room, I heard the news. “Ms. Dilon, your brother has sustained some serious damage to his brain and spinal cord. He’s very lucky, but his damages will hinder his later development. The damages to his frontal lobe will severely retard his cognitive abilities. The damages done to his spinal cord will prevent him from ever walking again.”

        My sister Carlie is living proof of the effect of alcohol on a fetus. My mother ignored her doctors and began to drink heavily after Casey was born due to postpartum depression. She birthed another mentally incapable child, gaining my mother the “Worst Mother of the Year” award. She probably would love to just put us on the street, but she’s never actually home long enough to kick us out.

        I call her a sexpot because that is exactly what she is. She has been with a different guy almost every night since I was born. Carlie, Casey and I all have different fathers. All I know about mine is that he was an artist. It makes sense. I was told that I have artistic talent. I guess I believe them. It has been the only way for me to feel better. But, like the others, he was just a fling. The routine is all the same: She goes out drinking, comes home at three-ish with a man who she had hand-picked and he’d be kicked out at six thirty. When she stayed over at one of her many pursuers’ houses, I was basically left by myself. I had to take care of myself. At six, I learned how to make simple foods like mac n’ cheese and toast. I remember when I was eight, my mom had passed out and there was no edible food in the house and I refused to eat the goldfish food from my beta fish that had died a few months back. I took five bucks from my mother’s purse and walked down to the corner store. I walked in and an elderly woman saw me.“Sweetheart, how old are you?” I replied with “Eight!” “Where’s your mother?” “She’s not feeling well and I’m hungry. She forgot the groceries. She was fighting with Harold.” “Is Harold your daddy?” “No, I don’t know who my daddy is. Momma said he’s an artist.” “Well, what’s your name?” “I’m Sadie!” “Okay Sadie, how about we get you and your mother something to eat and then I’ll take you home.” She bought enough groceries for a few days and dropped me off. My mother never even knew I had left.

        Due to my mother’s so generous care, I have moved around quite a lot. I originally lived in Meriden, Connecticut until my mother uprooted and moved to Newport, Vermont. Then I was taken away by child services for a few years when I was eight. I’m guessing that the old lady reported my mother. During that time I lived in Lincoln and Westerly, both in Rhode Island, Danbury and West Haven in Connecticut and then White Plains in New York. The foster parents that I lived with all had children who were bigger troublemakers than I ever was, but since I was that charity case, I was blamed for injuries and missing items. After four years, and thirty AA sessions, my mom was able to get me back under her loving care. How she convinced the judge in family court is a complete mystery to me. Shortly after, my mom moved us to Presque Isle in Maine. Since my mom wasn’t citizen of the month in our town, she decided that it was best that we left, so she found a house in Westbrook, Maine. Coincidently, it’s right down the street from a bar.

        We pulled up to our new house. There were a few trees around, but otherwise the house was very plain. It wasn't a bright color, or an interesting color thant started conversations. No, it was a yellow. The kind of yellow that covered aging items and makes you feel sick. We had two garage doors, excessive and unneeded luxuries. The car we have was gifted to my mother by the wife of a fling. I guess she wanted to shut my mother up. I took a step out of the car and stretched my legs, but my exercise was cut short. "Grab all the luggage and take it inside. I've done a lot today and I need a rest." My mother barked out to me. Ah, 451 Fieldbrook Drive, my brand new home.