Status: still in progress, updates coming whenever i've got the inspiration.
The Test
the consequence
I did not ever recall being an unhappy child, but the attitude I held made certain that I was never entirely content. I viewed the world around me through scornful, burned out eyes, and I would pick apart the threads of situations with an element of displeasure.
My confidence had always been questionable, my expressions a constant unclear haze. Those fortunate enough to become close to me spoke of me with blossoming praise, telling stories of how excellent my insight was, how interesting my situation was.
The way I forced myself to watch, remaining silent, struck people as unusual quickly, almost the minute I'd met them. The younger my peers and I had been, the shakier their understanding of my 'issue' had been.
The only year I had attended school was kindergarten, where I lasted only a month before the constant cat-calls of 'can't you talk?' and 'are you stupid?' angered me to the point I had lashed out, raging and knocking over desks and running from my classroom each time I had been prompted to speak.
By then, my parents realized that my lack of voice went further than slow development. They wasted hours of their time, searching for a deep, emotional reason for their son being a mute. They found no such reason, because there was none to find.
Eventually, they left me alone. They kept me in the house, with schoolwork set for every weekday, with the evening and weekends given to me as free time. But despite my freedom, I never allowed myself to walk past my barrier - the red bridge across the lake - and chose instead to venture to the same place each day.
I was distractable, a wanderer, one who would go barefoot into the woods to play alone with a stick and the muddy paths. My tendency was to slip away in silence, resenting the idea of pursuit by others. I would sling my jumper onto the stick as I pushed it into the soil, pretending to be aboard a sailing ship, a ghost ship without destination. I would immerse myself in fantasy for hours at a time, my imagination working like clockwork, almost making up for the terribly lonesome sensation of being unable to speak.
When I did not play, I would write, spending lazy afternoons huddled over a navy notebook, allowing the words I failed to vocalize to speak for themselves.
I never showed anyone my book. Like a madman, I spoke incessantly to myself
My confidence had always been questionable, my expressions a constant unclear haze. Those fortunate enough to become close to me spoke of me with blossoming praise, telling stories of how excellent my insight was, how interesting my situation was.
The way I forced myself to watch, remaining silent, struck people as unusual quickly, almost the minute I'd met them. The younger my peers and I had been, the shakier their understanding of my 'issue' had been.
The only year I had attended school was kindergarten, where I lasted only a month before the constant cat-calls of 'can't you talk?' and 'are you stupid?' angered me to the point I had lashed out, raging and knocking over desks and running from my classroom each time I had been prompted to speak.
By then, my parents realized that my lack of voice went further than slow development. They wasted hours of their time, searching for a deep, emotional reason for their son being a mute. They found no such reason, because there was none to find.
Eventually, they left me alone. They kept me in the house, with schoolwork set for every weekday, with the evening and weekends given to me as free time. But despite my freedom, I never allowed myself to walk past my barrier - the red bridge across the lake - and chose instead to venture to the same place each day.
I was distractable, a wanderer, one who would go barefoot into the woods to play alone with a stick and the muddy paths. My tendency was to slip away in silence, resenting the idea of pursuit by others. I would sling my jumper onto the stick as I pushed it into the soil, pretending to be aboard a sailing ship, a ghost ship without destination. I would immerse myself in fantasy for hours at a time, my imagination working like clockwork, almost making up for the terribly lonesome sensation of being unable to speak.
When I did not play, I would write, spending lazy afternoons huddled over a navy notebook, allowing the words I failed to vocalize to speak for themselves.
I never showed anyone my book. Like a madman, I spoke incessantly to myself