Silence

Wind and snow blew across the almost empty streets of a slumbering New York City. Mikey crammed his fingers under his armpits as he sat against the cold bricks of the building behind him; his parents huddled a few feet away. They still had not forgiven him. But why should they? He had not even forgiven himself. He had let everyone down. He deserved to suffer.

Besides the noise of the cars on the street, it was quiet. Mikey hated the quiet. It reminded him of his loss.

“Not as cold tonight.”

They just ignored him, though he knew they heard him speak. To them, he had remained a silent figure they had to put up with. It hadn’t always been that way. Mikey sometimes smiled at those memories.

Standing on the street corner, his father strumming out the melody on his guitar. Wishing that his dad’s gigs at local bars and shows had kept them out of this situation, and then Mikey wouldn’t have to do this. Heart racing as he stares at the people passing by, almost afraid to let them hear him. But he has to make them hear him! Opening his mouth, Mikey starts to feel it swelling inside of him. Suddenly, he is no longer scared. He wants it to come out, yearns for it, needs it like the food that rarely fills his stomach. The sweet words coming out of Mikey's mouth grab the music from the guitar and stick, wrapping around them like a thread, weaving a quilt that he throws around himself.

People stop.

Tears fill their eyes. The quilt is full of blue, red, orange, yellow, green, magenta, and so many other colors that ears almost can't stand it. They are warmed down deep by the beautiful quilt, hypnotized by the power of Mikey's voice. But Mikey doesn’t notice, he’s no longer there. His parents do. Going from person to person, they barely even feel the wonderful quilt. They may have… once. They desire a different blanket now. A more valuable one…

Then one chilly morning, waking up to find everything he cared about-gone. That brutal assassin, cold, slowly murdering Mikey's voice as he slept on the streets each night. Sucking the life out of his lungs with incessant hacking and coughing, setting his throat on fire. No sound coming from his lips, no matter how much he wished it so. Looking into the eyes of his parents, seeing something die. He was killing it. He was killing hope.

Mikey shivered.

Twinkling stars shimmered.

Through the alley, the wind whistled.

His voice had come back but it wasn’t the same, it had emerged with holes ripped in it, no longer as warm or colorful as it had been so long ago. A tear rolled down his cheek. No longer special, no longer whole. Now that he was broken, no one believed that he had anything worth listening to. His voice no longer instilled greedy hope in his parents, so what good did it do?

Mikey sighed.

The silence was deafening.

©Joseph Whitaker 2010