sounding the fury

I fumbled with the zipper for a few minutes in the warmth of the lobby, fingers stupid from the cold. My limbs shook gently as they absorbed the heat, and the snow in my hair began to melt, making me feel sweaty in conjunction with the stinging of my flushed cheeks.

It’d been just a week since I’d gotten my hearing back. I’d lost it on the subway after a minor confrontation with the clerk at a gas station over the princely sum of 87 cents. I’d boarded by rote, barely noticing anything happening around me. I was brooding, chewing on my cheek while I mulled over the situation. It was the sound that brought my attention back to reality, bit by bit. Finally, I started looking around. I never saw it coming.

Something on the train was squeaking both wildly and rhythmically, a cross between the free flight of a saxophonist’s jazz solo, and the structured, squealing tone of RF interference. No-one else seemed to notice. The buzz of the fluorescent lights grew and my head started to pulse. The dull light pressed down on me, and the squealing pressed in, and finally something popped.

I woke up when the car jolted to a stop at the end of the line. The lack of sound was, as one would imagine, instantly prominent. A man rambling to himself in a seat across from me mouthed vehemently but wordlessly. The normal clatter of the trains was simply absent. When the doors closed and the train started in the other direction, I started, too, rising from my seat briefly out of shock. The rambler offered soundless commentary, and I fixed him with a sullen look until he turned away.

The week I was soundless was about what you’d expect: awkward, frustrating, and devoid of any real explanation of the troubles. No phone calls for doctors appointments; communication dropped off entirely. And the sound returned as abuptly as it had left. After venturing out for a cup of coffee, flavored slightly by all the questions they asked that I responded to with random yeses and nos, coming off probably as somewhat dotty and in poor command of the english language. I drank the cup to the dregs and tossed it in a trashcan on a corner when I was overcome with pressure in my ears. The pain was immense, and I had to lean against the wall, nauseous, trying to keep the coffee down.

Freshly returned from isolation, every sound was notable – the low buzz of a large appliance hard at work; the clatter of ice, the rumble of street traffic. Conversation drifted from all sides, like the sound of a classroom before the first bell sounds. When I closed my eyes, I could feel conversation. With my eyes screwed shut I could eavesdrop on any private discussion, the stories of Kent’s secret baby, or Maraiah’s encounter with a distant, caustic aunt flowing in through the shudder of my breastbone and the light touch of my foot on the ground.