Quiescence

I hear the obnoxious birds outside my four-paneled window. No, I see the obnoxious birds outside my window. My brother, Druce’s band plays in the basement, causing my shagged bedroom floor to vibrate with every excruciating note. At least, I think. I mean I feel the music. But do I hear “Druce’s Dudes” playing their strung-together random notes (I think they categorize that as music... at least Druce does)? I wish. At least that's what I've been told.

“Shut up!” I yell, not sure how loud, not even sure how annunciated. But I do.

The heat seems to waft into my room; a sneaky poison filling the air and wrapping around my conscious. Moisture sticks to my forehead and it tickles my sun-kissed skin. I run my slender fingers through my long sandy locks, inhaling as I expect my fingers to get caught in tangles and knots of untouched hair.

My breath hitches in my throat as my phone lights up under the fabric of my pastel pajamas and I fish around the fleece (despite the ninety degree weather) pocket until the cold rectangle fits into my palm and I pull my hand out. I know what the screen says, and yet I read anyways.

Mom: Come on down, sweetie. First day at a regular high school – you need your breakfast! Catch ya’ l8r!

I stifle a laugh under my breath as I acknowledge my own mother’s attempt to lighten the darkest doubts in my mixed-up head. It didn’t matter I would see my mom in two minutes – if she can find the excuse to use a texting acronym… she would. Why did she specify regular high school? Was the school I went to before not regular? I sigh, my own thoughts defeating my argument. I knew what she meant – being regular meant you were like most high school kids. Watched stupid TLC shows which probably killed your brain cells. Eat brownies for breakfast and cereal for dessert. Disobey your parents even when you fully agree with them – just for the sake of labeling yourself as a teen rebel.

The thing is, though, I’m not regular. I’m me. I can’t disobey my parents solely because sometimes they’re the only ones in a given group of people who understand me. Literally. I can’t watch dumb (yet addictive. No pun intended with the show, My Strange Addictions) TLC shows without wracking my brain to constantly read everyone’s lips to figure out what they’re talking about. I can’t dance and sing to my freshman brother, Druce’s band without looking stupid and out of my element. And I can’t hear the birds every time they open those magnificent yellow beaks of theirs.

Sometimes I feel so little, my voice so suppressed. I feel like the lamb of society; my peers being the lions.

But for all I care, being deaf has it’s benefits.

Because those birds - surreal shades of ocean blue and hues of maroon so dangerous I feel I’m stealing from nature each time I take in their beauty – might as well be roaring instead of chirping.

I haven’t heard any differently.