Page 113 of The Sound of Him

There is a notebook with a feelings chart, up in the room, too far away. There is the purple piece for sadness. The red for hurt. The orange for anxious. The yellow for hopeful.

There is no color, no word, for what I feel.

I’m a ghost.

My friends are talking about… the future, I think. About what they want to do after leaving this place. About the lives they will live.

I don’t talk, or sign, or draw, or write.

I just sit, their words flowing through the air and wrapping around my throat. That doesn’t matter. There’s no danger, even as the noose tightens and tightens andtightens.

I’m already dead.

Will I spend the rest of my time haunting this place? Even after they’re all gone?

Will they forget about me?

Nolan tells me he noticed I didn’t eat earlier. I haven’t learned the sign for ‘distraction’, but I manage to sign an apology, at least. He says I don’t have to be sorry. He asks if I want him to heat the food up. I can’t figure out how to tell him no. I just stand and watch as the plate spins in the microwave.

It spins, spins, spins just like my mind.

The microwave beeps, finished with its job.

Nolan sits to my right after putting the plate in front of me. His mind is drifting. He’s worried about Maison. He’s frustrated that he’s not getting himself any help, still hasn’t gone to the doctor like he promised, and now that Carter is leaving he has more excuses to put things off. I’m thankful for the drifting. Really thankful.

Until he says, “Come on, Matty. Eat.”

I don’t let myself think about the food. Not the smell or the taste. Not the look.

I don’t let myself think aboutonly, only, only.

I take a bite. I stare at nothing. I pay attention to the swirling chaos of my mind. I swallow.

I take a bite. I swallow.

I try to take a bite. My mouth fills with acidic saliva. I swallow and swallow and swallow.

I take a bite. I swallow.

He nudges a glass of water toward me. My skin crawls. I wash down bile with long gulps. No matter how many times I do it, though, the bile comes right back when I stop.

I catch sight of my plate, at the food, at the colors blurring and running and the lump of-

I swallow, swallow, swallow as the glass of water slips from my hand. It doesn’t break. The water just spills out and seeps intothe cuff of my sleeve. I stare at the fabric, just watching it slowly grow darker.

Someone - Nolan, it’s Nolan, I forgot he was there - dabs at the mess with a towel, saying something about it being okay. I want to tell him nothing is going to be okay. It’s too late. It can’t be fixed.

I can’t be fixed.

“You nervous about Carter and Casey leaving?”

Yes.

No.

I’m worried they’ll be hurt, or they aren’t ready, or they’ll be so happy they forget all about us.

I’m nervous they’re just the first of many. I’m nervous that Nolan or Bryce will be next. I’m nervous I’ll be the only one left standing. Abandoned. A ghost.