[pirate witch]: 524.Short Stories.Silence

I wrote this for a school class. It was written LAST SUMMER. As in summer of '05. Knowing this, please understand why it is not overly spectacular.

Silence

Silence
Dear editor,

My name is Deirdre. That means sorrow. I am amazed at how well my parents named me. It is almost as if they knew how I would be now, and named me accordingly. But that is just not possible, or so they say. People say lots of things are impossible though, and they often end up being quite possible. I should know. Why else would I be typing this instead of telling you face to face? All I want is for someone to believe me, read what I am writing and at least try to understand why I am the way I am. Maybe then the person who reads this could tell the world about me, because I can’t tell them myself.
I am a pretty average girl. I attend a decent public high school that is right near my house. Like most kids my age, I don’t really relish the precious hours wasted away in school, but I suppose things could be worse. I don’t have many friends, because of my “condition”, but that does not bother me. I have always thought of myself as someone who stands alone. I really don’t need people to help me. For some reason though, people feel a need to attempt to help me. It can get rather annoying. But I won’t complain. I find complaining a waste of time, time that could be used to write with. 
One thing that sets me apart from everyone else is what politically correct people call my “voluntary condition.” What they mean is that I have a problem most people assume is my fault. I don’t speak. Some people assume that I refuse to speak because I believe I am better than everyone. That is not true. Other people think it’s because I have some deep, hidden fear of social situations. This puzzles me. If I was afraid of being in social situations, I would simply withdraw myself from the world. I don’t do this. I go to school dances, I attend plays and go to the movies. I actually enjoy the company of a select few people. Maybe the reason people continue to attempt to put their finger on my reasons for silence is because they have this need for a mundane explanation for every single thing.
People may think that if they convince themselves that I’m just insane they can reassure themselves that nothing bad will happen to them as a result. But they couldn’t be farther away from the truth. The reason I refuse to speak is because whenever I say something out loud my words come true. I am not speaking to protect all the people who want me to speak. The irony is just sickening sometimes.
When I was a little girl I was the same as everyone else I knew. I played with my friends, I went to birthday parties, and I was even in the elementary school play. But three years ago during seventh grade something changed. I remember exactly what happened. It was during history class, a class I was quite fond of at the time. My teacher was asking people questions about the American Revolution. A question came up about the battle at Lexington Green. I raised my hand, proud that I knew the answer.
“Yes Deirdre?” My teacher asked. “You know what happened at Lexington Green?”
I nodded. “The shot heard around the world was fired.” Suddenly the room shifted. I was standing on a field surrounded by very old looking houses. I could hear drums as I looked down the road near me. Hundreds of men dressed in red jackets carrying guns were marching towards me. I looked behind me, afraid of what I might see. A handful of men dressed in farming clothes carrying pitchforks and muskets were clustered together. A heart stopping bang sounded, and a fight began between the two sides. I was frightened for my life. After what seemed like hours, but was only around three minutes, I found myself back at my desk in school, with the entire class staring at me. 
“What happened Deirdre?” My teacher asked. “You were screaming.” But I clamped my mouth shut. I didn’t want to know what would happen if I spoke again.
In the month following, I did try to speak a few times, but each time everything I said came true. I did not want to risk hurting anyone by saying something about them that might come true, so I gave up speaking all together. Until today, I withheld the words.

“Jocelyn will be with you in one moment.” The receptionist tells me from behind her desk. She sounds extremely bored. I really don’t blame her. Answering telephones and filling out reports does not sound like the most exciting of jobs. I crane my neck and look at her name tag. It says Alexis. I pull my book of names out of my backpack and look her name up.
Names have always fascinated me, I really don’t have an explanation as to why. I have a book of names and their meanings that I always carry around with me. Whenever I meet someone new I look up the meaning of their name. Sometimes they can be very accurate.
Alexis’s name means “one who assists.” I feel bad for her. If her name is true to her, she will be stuck as a receptionist for a very long time. I put the book back in my bag as my psychiatrist Jocelyn walks into the waiting room. Her false, cheery smile makes me cringe. 
“Deirdre! How nice to see you again.” She bubbles. I nod to her, silent as ever. Her smile shrinks a few molars. I can tell Jocelyn wanted me to speak. I feel slightly insulted. I have not spoken in nearly three years, why does she think I will start today?
Inside the office I plop into the chair that is in front of the desk. There isn’t a very nice view outside the window. Just the freeway, all the little cars whizzing back and forth to their own schedule. I doubt any of their occupants have ever sat in a psychiatrist’s office waiting for their every thought to be analyzed. I bet they are all chatting away with their families or talking with their friends on their mobile phones. I don’t understand the craze over mobile phones. Why would people want to be able to be contacted while they were away from home? I leave home to escape all the chaos that it reminds me of. Soon I think privacy will be lost forever.
The door shuts, dragging me away from my thoughts. It’s Jocelyn. I turn my gaze to her desk. The name plate catches my eye. I think back to my book of names. I seem to remember looking up Jocelyn’s name at some point, probably the day I was informed I would be seeing her every week. The meaning evades me for the time being though.
“Have you been enjoying school?” Jocelyn asks me. I shrug. Even if I did tell her how I felt about my life, what could she do about it? She would just use my every thought to put together some diagnosis of my problems. I wish she would skip the small talk and get down to doing her job so I could go back home. I have a history paper to write and three chapters of Mists of Avalon to read. 
“...Been speaking lately?” I hear. I must have spaced out, because Jocelyn is looking at me expectantly and I don’t really know what she wants to know. I shake my head, assuming that it will answer her question. I guess it does because she frowns slightly and leans forward, I can tell she is getting frustrated.
“Your parents are getting worried about you. Don’t you think it will make them feel better if you speak?”
It would make them feel better, until whatever I said to them happened and they thought I was completely crazy. I know where that would land me. In an asylum. It is bad enough having to go to psychiatric sessions. 
“Just say one thing.” Jocelyn is smiling. She must be trying a new tactic, trying to coax the words out of me. I remember what her name means now. Merry. Her smile betrayed her. “One simple sentence. How bad could it be?”
Terrible I think to myself, but luckily she can’t hear my thoughts. If she could I would be long dismissed. 
“Come on, please?” Jocelyn is growing impatient. I think she may have made a bet about me speaking today. Why else would she care so much about whether or not I choose to talk.  “Just one sentence. If anything happens we can stop the appointments today and you can be as quiet as you like.”
I know she won’t believe me until she sees it, the chaos that erupts the moment I say a single word. I should show her, I should show her just how bad it can get, how much havoc words can bring. All I have to do is speak one little sentence, four or five tiny words and all hell will break loose. I really should show her, perhaps she will believe me. I think I will, so that she will know why I have to suppress all the emotion inside of me, why I have swallowed every word desperate to get out into the fresh air.
Two words, that is all it takes to ruin everything. Two fateful words that I stupidly, arrogantly, use to prove myself to this woman who I know could not care less about the outcome of my obliging to her cajoling. 
“Nothing exists.” I whisper. The words hang in the air for a moment. For that one heartbeat I am shocked to hear how unfamiliar my voice sounds. The voice in my head does not match this voice I haven’t heard i years.
Then, nothing truly does exist. Everything disappears completely. Nothingness is the most difficult thing to imagine. No one can possibly picture nothingness, therefore no one can describe it. I see it now, and I know that no words in any language known to man can describe how frightening absolute nothingness is. 
In my mind I scream. I hit the nothingness surrounding me and, although I scramble around looking for something my fists can connect with, I know it is a lost cause.  I still keep it up though, I have to get out of this. This can’t be permanent, it just can’t be. When I used to speak, nothing I said was permanent, but something always existed then. Now nothing does. I begin to cry, out of desperation and fear. I raise what used to be my hands to wipe the tears, and I feel something on my face. I pull my hands away, amazed that I can actually see them. Things are starting to exist again! But something about my hands is different, they are bleeding. I don’t really know why, but the sight of the blood running down my hands gives me hope. If my hands are bleeding, then something is making them bleed. I continue hitting the vast emptiness. Keep going! I tell myself.  You have to get out of here.
Suddenly Jocelyn appears. She grabs my hands and keeps them down, preventing me from hitting her. How did you get in here? I want to ask, but I can’t. I can not speak again, she must understand that now. After all, she saw it too. 
“Deirdre.” She says calmly. Why is it that doctors are always so calm? Its almost not human. This bothers me slightly. They shouldn’t lie like that. Telling people “everything will be okay,” when they know it won’t. It gives people false hope.
“Deirdre!” She declares again. “Stop. Look around you.” I look down and see that I am in her chair again. I am facing the desk, and the room is all around me. On the desk, everything is scattered around, as if a small train plowed through, or a miniature tornado. A potted cactus is in front of me and I recognize my blood on its spines. Sure enough, the scratches on my hands are bleeding.
“What happened?” Jocelyn asks. “You were hitting things all over the place. What was wrong?” I shake my head and close my mouth tightly. I thought she would understand when the nothingness closed over her. I thought that one person might realize why I am afraid to speak and maybe help me tell other people my reasons. But it looks like this doctor is just as blind to what happens as everyone else.

So far, I have not managed to help anyone understand me. I am going to be trapped in this silence forever unless I find someone who can see what happens when I speak. That is why I am writing this and sending it away. I hope that someone who reads it will have a mind open enough to help me, because until then I will be silent.

Truly Yours,
Deirdre