Page 12 of The Sound of Him

“There should be everything you need in there, plus a shit ton you don’t. I wanted you to have options. I mean, I didn’t even know for sure what you’ll need. Obviously. And some of it won’t be needed until you grow your hair out.Ifyou decide to grow your hair out. You don’t have to grow your hair out. I know they kept it cut short at the compound, to make it easier. For maintenance or whatever. But you’re not there anymore. No one can tell you what to do with your hair. Or with your… anything. You’re - you know. Free. To do. Whatever. With your hair.”

I gesture awkwardly toward his head.Why can’t I shut up?

“Or free to do whatever with-” and another gesture, now head to toe.Why has no one come by and killed me yet?This is terrible. “-whatever you want to do. Or… whatever. Wow. I’ve said whatever way too many times. You think that’s a record? Just ignore it. Ignore me, to be honest. I am completely aware I’m rambling and I assure you that it will stop any second now.”

I wince as I process my own words.How much of a dick can I be for pointing out that I can’t stop talking - and wishing I could - when he hasn’t been able to speak for months?

I’m about to launch headfirst into an apology - likely a rambling one, at that - when I realize he doesn’t look upset. He’s not quite smiling, not with his mouth at least, but his eyes are brighter, the skin around them wrinkled a little.

It’s a rush, that little spark of light in him. Better than energy drinks and little orange pills and nicotine. Better than candy, sticky sweet and bright on my tongue.

It’s addicting.

Which is probably why I’m talking again, without even fucking realizing it. “-just thought you deserved to be able to control your hair, if you wanted to. You get to control everything now. I know that might feel overwhelming, it did for m-” and for once, I manage to stop my own voice before it’s too late.Jesus, was I just about to talk to him about my own recovery as a survivor?I’ve never done that. The closest I’ve gotten is with Adam, when I was young and surly, and that was only because he plied me with candy and new video games if I participated in our sessions.

Maybe I should step away from that rush. I think I probably need some sleep. Definitely at least a break from work.

Maybe I should even talk to Adam, just to clear my head. Just to get back on solid ground. These survivors are mine, but I’m not one of them. I don’t get to be plural. I don’t get to relate or burden them with my own struggles. If I had any doubt of that, it’s made clear when I see Matt’s face has twisted into something confused and worried, clearly reacting to how I'm reacting.

I need to get my head on straight. I can’t work here like this. They all deserve better than that.Mattdeserves better than that.

I take another step back.

“Anyway, just try whatever you want, see what works. If there’s anything you don’t want, you can give them to me. Or to one of the other operatives. Or just leave it on the counter in the kitchen or outside my office. There are a few other survivors I gave bags like this too, and they might want more of whatever product you don’t. You might want more of something they don’t. I can trade things around. I’ll order more, too. Of whatever any of you want. There’ll be a sheet soon, if it hasn’t been put up already. You can add whatever you want to the list and we’ll get it during a supply drop.” I take one more step away, realizing I’m going to have to turn soon unless I want to stand like an idiot with my damn back to the opposite wall. “Oh, and I hope you don’t think I’m really fucking weird, but there’s a satin pillowcase in there, too. And a head wrap. No - uh. No pressure to use them, obviously. To use any of it.”

Wait, stop, shut up, you’re about to start rambling again.

I clench my jaw, keeping my mouth closed tight.

He peers into the bag again, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. I watch as his eyebrows do a little up-down-up of confusedsurprise. I realize why when he pulls out the ASL for Beginners book I decided to include in his bag. That’s definitely something I didn’t put in the others’ bags.

Matt looks at me again, his eyes searching for something. An explanation, likely. It’s one thing to know what he looks like - what they all look like - ahead of time. It’s another to know about his struggles communicating.Does he think it’s creepy? Intrusive? Does he think this isn’t my place?

Jesus, is this not my place?

Yeah, this issonot my place.

But then whose place is it?

He deserves this. He won’t ask for things like this, none of them will anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to have them. It’s basic self-care and communication. It’s the least he deserves, honestly.

I wish I could do so much more - for all of them. I wish I could be their Keaton, swooping in to save them from the dark. I suddenly have the urge to bring him to my office. To show him art. To hand over my fashion magazines. To play him my favorite music.

This isn’t nearly enough, but it’s a start.

“I got those for you,” I say carefully. I pause long enough for a mentalduhbefore continuing. “I didn’t know if you - well, your file says that - uh-.” I rub a hand on the back of my neck, trying to figure out how I’ve gone from rambling to not being able to find any words at all. Not the right words, at least. “I just thought you should have the tools to communicate, if you wanted them. I went with ASL because I know some, and Adam - Dr. Singh, the therapist - knows some, too. But if you’d like a different variation of sign language, just let me know. I got you notebooks and pens so you can write, too. There’s the ASL alphabet taped on the inside of the front covers of them, just to make it easier for you, but obviously you’re free to take them out. They’re yours todo with as you please. All of it is. And like I said, if you’d rather something else, just ask. Really. I know it’ll be weird at first, I do, but it’s safe here. I guess that’s the point of this entire speech that definitely wasn’t meant to become a speech at all - I just want you to know that you’re safe here. Not just physically, not just your body, but all of you, on the inside, you’re safe. And with safety comes getting to actually live again, Matt. Not just survive. That’s what the bag is for, I guess. To help you with that. To - well, to help you come back to life.”

His bottom lip begins to quiver, his grip going tight on the book hard enough to make the binding creak. He releases a shaky breath, stumbling back a step. It brings him inside his room again, out of the way of the door if he wants to close it. I’m not surprised when his hand immediately reaches for the slab of wood.

But then he pauses, his watery brown eyes finding mine. I watch as he takes a slow, deep breath, then carefully places the book and tote bag on the floor of his room where I can’t see them. When he straightens, he wraps one hand tightly around the door again before lifting the other hand until it’s by his chin. It trembles as he nearly mimics blowing me a kiss. I don't know a ton of ASL, but I know this one -Thank you.

I borrow the sign-movement in return as I say, “You're welcome.”

His lips twitch toward a smile, I think, just before he closes the door.

Chapter Three

Matt