Speechless

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, George?” my father bellowed out. Ugh. I sighed and took out my notebook.

“Brendon said he thinks I should go out around town since I never leave,” was what I wrote. I was hopeful, but at the same time, I knew I wouldn’t get my wish.

“Your breakfast was late this morning,” he hissed, “so you can’t leave today. Try again tomorrow.” His tone was getting very snarky, and I didn’t want to be down here anymore. I just put my head down in defeat, waved goodbye to Brendon, and slowly made my way up to my room.

I heard Brendon leave, and I almost began to cry, but I didn’t want to waste this eyeliner today. No, I was most definitely going out today. I grabbed my phone off of my bed and texted Brendon to meet me outside. He said he was a bit nervous about this because my father didn’t seem like a pleasant guy. If only he knew. I told him not to worry about it, and I snuck back downstairs without my father noticing. There was a door leading to the garage from the kitchen, so I snuck through that door instead.

Luckily, the door wasn’t a very noisy one, and the sound of the TV blocked out the tiny sounds that it did make. There’s another door in the garage that leads outside, and I quickly, but cautiously, made my way out that door. Success!

I was now in my side yard. I looked over at Brendon’s house, and he was waiting on the porch. His hands were nervous and shaky. I wondered why, but shrugged it off. I walked up the stairs of his porch and tapped his shoulder. He flinched a bit, oops. I guess I startled him.

“Hey, Ryan. Ready to go?” I nodded my head, just as excitedly as before. This time I only got a nervous smile out of him. I looked up at him in confusion, and I think he knew why because the second I did, he sighed and opened his mouth to talk, “Look, I’m just... worried. Your dad seems like kind of a jerk. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

I let out a sigh, the same one he did. I wrote down on my little notebook, “Let’s just go, okay? It’ll be fine, don’t worry.” And as much as I wanted to take my own advice and not worry, I couldn’t seem to relax for the rest of the day.

Brendon drove me around, and for the first time in my life, I felt free of the chains that were holding me down. I almost wanted to speak, but I was too afraid of what I would sound like. With my luck, my voice would be odd and unappealing, so I stayed completely silent throughout the whole ride, only expressing myself with body language and a notebook.

It was about 3 in the afternoon when Brendon finally took me home. I began sweating. I didn’t want to deal with the nightmarish charm my father was about to bestow upon me the second I would walk in that front door. Brendon pulled into his driveway, and I quickly grabbed my notebook. I wrote down the words, “Can I please stay at your house tonight? I’m afraid to go home.”

I could tell he saw the sincerity in my eyes, so he nodded his head yes, and led me inside through his garage so my father wouldn’t see me through the window, just in case. His house was nice and normal. Your average white-picket family home. Brendon invited me upstairs to his room, and I followed. It was small, but cozy. He plopped down on the bed, and I wound up sitting in a chair across the room.

“So… why exactly are you too afraid to go home?” he asked. I didn’t know how to reply to that. I shook my head, unwilling to tell him. I couldn’t let him know about the abuse, the pain. I couldn’t just tell that to anyone. Of course, it seemed like Brendon wasn’t just anyone. Maybe I could tell him, but I wasn’t ready yet.

Then he decided to ask another question. “Okay, well, why do you refuse to talk?” he asked. That one hit me hard. I honestly didn’t know why I pretended to be mute. I remembered the night my mother left. She had gotten in a fight with my father and took off after he beat her, and ever since I just decided not to talk anymore.

I scribbled down a little bit about that in my note book, and Brendon was very sympathetic. He walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. He was making me a bit uncomfortable, though because he started getting very close to me. A bit too close for my taste. I scooted over a little bit to give myself some space, but Brendon didn’t really seem to understand it.

“I would love to hear what you sound like,” he said. I felt my cheeks begin to heat up in embarrassment. He watched me as I wrote down more stuff on my notebook.

“I don’t even know what I sound like,” I wrote.

He frowned. The expression didn’t look right on his face. He was the type of person that was just supposed to be happy all the time, so when you saw him in any form of discomfort, you just felt sorry for him.

“I am curious, though. I just wish I could hear you, just once. I feel like I’m talking to a wall sometimes,” he said. He put his hand over his mouth a second later when he saw my reaction. Talking to a wall? Why did he bother with me? Why socialize with a wall? How ridiculously silly. I put my head on my hand and felt moisture on my cheek. Was I crying?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he spit out, frantically trying to fix it. “I don’t know why I worded it like that. Ryan, I’m sorry.” His words were running together so quickly, and I began to feel sorry for him.

“It’s okay,” I wrote, but really, I didn’t feel okay. I knew this was bound to happen. Why did I bother trying to make a friend in the first place? Eventually they would just get bored with me and fed up with me because I don’t talk. Why couldn’t I talk? I opened my mouth for a moment, hoping to find words coming out, but no noise was heard. I sighed and put my head down in defeat.

“Were… were you just about to say something?” he asked looking like he had just seen a ghost. I didn’t respond. I just sat there, head down and cheeks wet, waiting for the right words to say, but none came.