Article: 261443 of talk.bizarre From: boymozart@BIX.com (Boy Mozart) Newsgroups: talk.bizarre Subject: Nothing To Say, No One To Hear It Date: 1 Dec 1995 22:51:38 GMT Organization: Stevens Hall Indecency Taskforce Lines: 163 Message-ID: <49o0tq$qij@news2.delphi.com> Summary: Tales from the SuperNet Status: O X-Status: I've been oversleeping lately, which has made me late for work. I had overslept last Saturday morning, and was late for an appointment, which they didn't appreciate. I've been late a lot. Lately. I happened to mention it in e-mail to my mom, and she replied, "Oh, yes, you've always been like that, a little bit. You were a late birth. And you've been late for some other things...." I didn't need elaboration. I knew what she meant. I think babies are supposed to start talking after they start crawling. Or that's when my parents expected it. They spent a great deal of time saying "Mama", "Dada", "Bot-tle", and "Coo-kie" to me. To no avail. I began walking at 18 months. I was still silent. They took me in for testing, but I'm not deaf. A specialist examined my throat and found nothing. My Adam's Apple is prominent in my neck. They waited until they became desperate before taking X-rays, but it appears I have a voice-box. My parents and I learned sign language. They continued to speak even as they signed the words to me, which my childish mind found redundant and strange. I never said--nor signed--a word about it. When I was five I was brought before a child psychologist. She was young and pretty and nice, which broke through my initial shyness. She didn't use sign language, although she knew it. She talked to me, I signed to her. "You can hear what I'm saying, can't you?" she said at our first meeting. I nodded. "You understand what I'm saying to you, right?" Another nod. "Can you say your name?" That was an interesting question. No one had bothered to try _asking_ me to talk. I opened my mouth, tried to arrange my lips to form the word my mother had used to summon me all my life. I didn't even make a sound. Air flowed through my teeth, unmarred by sound waves generated through the vibrating organ in my throat. She would ask me from time to time to say things, but not very often. She asked if I ever felt scared, if people ever did things to me that made me feel uncomfortable, or dirty. I told her how the Big Mean Boy at kindergarten had thrown mud at me once. "Has anyone ever touched you someplace, where you didn't want them to?" I told her my grandmother pinched my cheeks too hard. We talked about other things besides talking and hurting. We talked about school, friends, Mom and Dad, my toys. My hands waved in excitement one session after Christmas as I described my Bionic Man toys and accessories in detail. One day I went to her office and found her to be a little withdrawn and sad. She was always nice and happy when I saw her. Even this small change was noticeable. What's wrong? "Oh, nothing, I'm just a little tired today," she said. There was a man lying on top of me, with no clothes on. I was sweaty, my heart was pounding. Something both hard and soft was between my legs. I was burning. It was forced into me, pulled out, pushed in. His eyes were closed, his arms were wrapped around me, he wasn't paying any attention to me. He seemed to be concentrating on whatever it was between my legs. Now he was wearing clothes, somewhere else, talking to another woman. His hand was on her chest, and she was grinning at me. He was yelling at me. I hated him. I feared him. I wanted him. I was on the couch in the psychologist's office, and she was yelling into the phone. My chin was wet with drool. She hung up and ran over to me, putting her hand on my forehead, picking me up and hugging me. The doctors were more concerned than ever. They examined me, they looked at me, they looked at each other. They looked at me some more. They told my parents I was damaged. I had epilepsy, maybe. They wanted to do something to me called a "cat scan". Did I have a cat in my head? My father was angry. My mother was scared. The doctor said something that made them feel threatened. They gave in. I was in a cold room, wearing a dress. Why was it so cold? The big man in the white clothes wanted me to lie down on that table, in front of a big machine with a hole in the middle. I could see that the table would go inside. I was scared. I didn't want to lie down. I started to back away. The big man grabbed me by the arm and tugged. It hurt. I should have been scared, but I heard a voice say "Stupid kid! Dammit, get on the table!" No one was speaking. I was angry. Who'd said that? I resisted, but the big man pulled harder. He tried to pick me up. I was the bully. He was the little boy. I punched him. I kicked him. I pulled his hair and took the ball away. "You dumb little dork!" I laughed at him. "Yer nothin' but a dumb little dork!" I sang: dumb little dooork, dumb little dooork, nanny-nanny-boo-boo! He was crying. He was lying on the floor in the cold room, crying, curled up, bleeding from the nose. The doctor came in and saw him and was angry. He said some bad words, then walked over to me. Stomped over to me. I was the man wearing the black dress, pounding a wooden hammer on a big wood desk. He was looking at a woman at the other table, who was hugging a man and laughing. Laughing at him. I was the girl who was younger than him, who was angry and crying because he'd FUCKED her then FLUNKED her! How was I supposed to become an intern now? What was I supposed to do? I'm going to the Chief Resident, and tell him EVERYTHING! Wait, no, put the gun away! I knew. He knew I knew. He wanted to hurt me. He fell down on the floor, and blood poured from his nose. I told the big man in the policeman's uniform that they had started to fight. The big man in the white clothes was asleep, in something called a "coma". I wondered if that was like a cat scan. The doctor was in jail because he'd killed a woman who had wanted to be a doctor too. Go away, I told the voices. I pretended there was a man with a remote control in my head, and he could turn off the pictures that sometimes appeared. Sometimes he could turn them on, too. When I was sixteen I went to the psychologist for the last time. "Usually, when a patient turns sixteen, I refer them to another doctor, one who takes care of adults," she explained. "But I don't see any real reason why I should do so with you. I'm sorry; we've never been able to make any real progress, have we?" She blamed herself because I never spoke. She wasn't married. She was older and prettier. I was older, and she thought I was pretty too. Once she'd had thoughts about me that I could understand now. She felt guilty about them, and she'd never thought about it again, although I don't think I would have minded. We were sitting on opposite sides of the couch. Her arm was resting on the back. I took her hand and pulled slightly. She looked confused. The man with the remote control turned up the volume. My hand was on her neck, and I pulled her closer. She rested her head in my lap. I stroked her hair. She started crying. She was alone. She didn't have a boyfriend. She had lots of children. But they weren't there at night, when she went home. Now I'm in cyberspace, like everybody else. Very few understand it, but everyone wants in on it, because nobody likes to be left out. I know what it's like to be left out. My persona talks with a deep voice. I like to flirt, but usually I just sit and listen. I have a job, I go to night school, I have a life. I have a power which isn't very interesting to talk about, since stories about people with telepathy are abundant within the genre. I know what you are thinking, right now. Don't worry--by now you know I won't talk about it. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | BoyMozart@BIX.com | Stevens Hall Indecency Taskforce | No URL, cope. | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+