Stolen

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They say I am Lost. But I know better. I am stolen (lost lots stol stole stolen). I try to tell them this but my voice comes out louder than I intend and I blurt out !Stol¡ Stol¡ Stol! stuck. on. (stutter.ing. Stumbl.ing.) stol. The words s|h|a|t |t|e|r silence, tumbling (rumbling?) about in this place of empty walls and broken souls. They wince at the echoes (echoes echoes) of my outburst. They do Not (NOT) like noise. But noise is beautiful, like silence. (Swirling swishing sound, subtle simple silence…)

!What?! She squawks (like a crow.) I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue has mutinied, rendering me mute. (Mute Mutiny, Muted Mutiny, Mutiny Muted)(Haha!) A giggle bursts from my lips, and they stare. I open my mouth to explain the joke (Why didn’t they get it?) and He narrows his eyes. My jaw snaps shut, and silence chokes us, stifling and uncomfortable(like these clothes). I shift in my red (cherry-toned) seat as they begin to speak, and my mind wanders.

I drift through the plains of my consciousness, rewinding my memories, pausing (||) at the day they decided I was MAD. (Not angry! MAD, just voices voices everywhere but not a soul to see, MAD) She cried, mourning the loss of a daughter who was not gone. He said nothing. The bitter disappointment on his face was enough (For who? Not for me, perhaps for you…?) She used to be my mother and He was my father. Mom spelled backwards is still mom, and dad is the same way (but a backwards daughter does not work…who wants a rethguad?). I do not work. (I guess I am now Rebme) Ember was intelligent. Rebme is not. Ember had friends. Rebme does not. Most importantly (to the rest of the world) Ember was sane. Rebme is, not. (Definitely definitely definitely notNOTTontone s;a:n;e).

They stare at me, and I realize They are waiting for an answer. I stare back, silent. Their eyes bulge. I imagine their bodies expanding as their eyes do, blowing up and up and up (and away…) like a pufferfish until the pressure forces them to explode (banG! BOOM! BLAST! !) I do not want to laugh, but I chuckle, my tongue betraying me once more. They do not like it. They do not think my jokes are funny. I do not think their jokes are funny either (He never tires of jokes about knocking on doors, but people use doorbells now.)(Even I know that.)
!Are you ready?! She says. She is not my mother, but I do not know who she is. She smiles too much, (like a Cheshire cat) and her (twisted, predatory,) grin falters at my blank stare. On her shirt a plastic rectangle is pinned above her heart. It says Dr.Penn. I am wondering why she wants a pen above her heart (Maybe to write a love song?) For a moment I am lost in an image of Dr with a long feathered pen in her hand, humming a tune as she scrolls heartfelt words onto a sheet of parchment. He makes a noise in his throat, and I’m jerked (dragged) unwillingly back to reality.

!No.! I say. Because it is easier to say yes later and no now. She reaches into her purse for a bag of tissues (Oh Dear, she’s going to lose it again.) This whole place is uncomfortable, unwanted, unhappy, and it’s making me come undone. I start humming, my voice rising in pitch as I became increasingly agitated. The white walls pick up the tune, and the floor crashes like symbols as my song comes to life, even my chair pitching in, screeching like a flute. Their faces are startled, and then annoyed as I hum louder, trying to drown them out. Drown everything out. This place, this life, this person. The song crescendos and the room begins to fade from sight as I retreat from reality, searching the recesses of my mind for a world that makes better sense.





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CanadianRose This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Oct. 12, 2010 at 3:03 pm
All I can say is wow! That's some piece of writing. I've never read anything from that point of view before. It's great.
 
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