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Stop looking at me like that!
But of course, nothing comes out.
It’s been like that for twelve long years.
I still can’t get used to it, but my body won’t listen to my brain.
For some reason, whenever I think about talking or screaming, it jams shut and my vocal cords clamp up. I don’t have a choice. My voice isn’t mine to control anymore.
The man smiles at me again, and then he turns around on his bed and faces the wall.
I stare in disbelief. He actually turned away from me and stopped looking.
Did he do that because I pointed at him? Because I made him aware of what he was doing?
Or is just because he’s tired now?
Whatever the case, I have to grasp this opportunity to get some sleep too, despite being nervous about whatever may happen when I do go to sleep.
I can’t hold it off any longer.
I’m too tired.
But my mind keeps going in circles, wondering where I am. If I’ll ever get out.
If … anything.
Accompanying Song: “Kettering” by The Antlers
Twelve years ago
I stand in front of the hole in the ground and stare at the wooden casket deep inside. My hand rises and releases a few rose petals. Slowly, they drift to the bottom, just like my heart. I’m leaving it here with her for safekeeping.
Mom said I should say something, but I don’t know what.
Goodbye doesn’t sound right.
I don’t want to say goodbye.
She should be here, with us, but nothing I do will ever bring her back.
Suzie’s gone … and it’s my fault.
The detectives said she broke her neck when she fell off the cliff, but she died because that stranger took her.
I could’ve stopped him from taking her. I could’ve gone after her faster on my bike. I could’ve done so many things. But I didn’t, and now she’s dead.
I sigh as the tears roll down my cheeks. Glancing over my shoulder, I can’t help but look for Mom who’s weeping against my dad’s chest, clutching him tight. When our eyes connect, the sadness in hers breaks my heart in two.
Every word I could say would only make it more difficult.
When we sat at the table and I tried to discuss what happened, Mom said, “Don’t discuss it. Please. I don’t want to hear it.”
When I was at the funeral home with Dad, he said, “Nothing will bring her back.”
I said I was sorry. I said it again and again until my throat hurt and my voice became hoarse.
But Dad is right. Nothing I say will ever bring her back.
Nothing I say will ever make them happy again.
Nothing changes what’s been done.
So why talk at all?
As I stare at my sister’s grave, guilt washes over me. Even though I haven’t done anything … that’s exactly what I did.
Nothing.
Because if I had done something, she might’ve still been here.
If I’d biked harder, yelled louder, or let her win so she would’ve been the one up on the tree, she might’ve still been here. I would’ve done anything to trade places with her.
But it’s too late for that. Too late for saying I’m sorry. Too late for anything.
She’s gone …
And my voice disappeared with her.
Accompanying Song: “Wheels Within Wheels” by Max Richter
Present
A loud banging on the glass wakes me. I sit upright in my bed, completely freaked out. It’s Graham with another plastic plate of food.
Waking up out of nowhere in a place like this still makes my heart drop. Every time I open my eyes, I see dull grayness … and a glass prison surrounding it. No sunlight. No fresh air. No green trees and flowers. Nothing. It’s like waking up in a nightmare.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but since he’s back with food, I guess it’s already morning. I barely feel rested, though.
I get up and walk closer. Graham puts the plastic plate into the box and slides it inside.
“Eat,” he says. “You’re gonna need it.”
My lips part.
For what?
I sign.
I actually sign the words.
Graham seems confused as he watches my fingers move, and then he bursts into laughter. “Right. You think I can understand that?”
Of course, he can’t.
He’s not a signer. He’s a talker.
I used to be like that too. But when I stopped talking, my parents had to think of something to get me to communicate with the outside world again. I only talked to them but no one else. I’d go completely silent in the presence of others but flourish in their vicinity. I couldn’t tell them what was wrong because I didn’t understand it. The doctors didn’t know what to do with me either. An unusual case of Selective Mutism, they said. No cure.
That’s why my parents brought me to a special school where they taught me how to sign, so I could at least communicate with the rest of the world again. I had deaf and mute classmates, which made me feel much more at home there anyway. By the time I was out of school, signing felt like second nature.
