Actions hurt and words cut deep. If you don't find your voice you may find yourself trapped in quiet.
You are enveloped in a darkness so agonizingly silent. You can’t recall how you’ve come to be here or where this is for that matter. Your injuries have healed. That much is certain but you can’t help but feel like your extremities are being tugged at from all sides; slowly losing feeling, rising up to your core. Soon you won’t be able to feel anything at all. You can’t see them but your fingers are like wispy tendrils floating out behind you.
It was only a few days ago you had been catching the subway home in the early morning, fretting in vain over having enough time to sleep before work. It was Saturday not Sunday. You were coming from the man with the hat. You had met, two lonely souls, at the bar of a popular uptown club. His English wasn’t very good. Yet you both knew what each other wanted.
Shyly you followed him through the maze of subways to his cramped apartment. Gripped in passion the deed was done. Walking the few cold blocks from the subway to your flat you expelled any guilt over the matter. It was what you needed you told yourself; the tender purple-blue skin oozing over your chest.
Was it before or after the man with the hat that you had been called into the principal’s office? Gripping the seat cushion beneath you as you felt the pain stretching its way up your leg; she sat there across from you yelling wagging her finger in your direction then jabbing it at others. You had no idea what she was saying but it couldn’t be good. The translator confirmed your fears. As his words entered your ears you felt a jagged twist wrenching into your thigh. You fought back the tears.
Later, in a stall with an annoyingly small toilet seat you let them fall. You reached down to gratify the unbearable nagging itch at your left thigh. You drew your fingers away, a glint of crimson under a fingernail. Drawing up a pant leg you could see the lines tortuously leading from your ankle to the spot on your thigh. Dried blood dotted the thin lines so like the stray scribbling of a child’s red crayon.
There were so many bruises you realized. Nearly your entire body had been covered. So many injuries had you sustained that new ones were forced to cut through and reopen old ones but now you were clean, healed. No longer could your fingers trace the outlines of bruises caused by so many intoxicated evenings. There had been so many your skin almost seemed one large unending contusion accented with the ugly edges of scars.
You were healed but something inside you ached unbearably. Your fingers gone now, you dig what’s left of your elbow into your side trying to feel something. You can’t. You scream into the hushed space. No one can hear you. No one ever has, and now they never will.