Article: 261443 of talk.bizarre
From: (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$>
Summary: Tales from the SuperNet
Status: O

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.
| | Stevens Hall Indecency Taskforce | No URL, cope. |