Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Slice of a day
It was very loud. That was how he knew, at the beginning, that it was something. He would lay awake at night, not thinking, and the rush of it in his ears was louder then the train around the block, or the humming of the power lines. The problem was, once he recognized the loudness for what it was, it was always there. Even when he'd turn the stereo up full blast and take a shower, the combination of the water and the music didn't really muffle the loudness. So, over the course of the days after, he just learned to live with it, like a person in a crowded room will learn to filter out the noise of a hundred conversations so he can hear the one that's happening in front of him.
But the first night, the important night, it was loud and it was everywhere. He tossed and turned, and kept trying not to think of anything so that he would sleep, and kept hearing it. It wasn't like any other sounds he had heard, or even like any combination of them. It would just roar in his ears like a train in the subway as he threw the sheet off, then pulled it back up, then threw it off again. Eventually he fell asleep, he knew this because the drone of his alarm clock pulled him out of the sleep with a jolt that sent his glasses and a CD flying from the nightstand. But, trying not to make too much of a feeling that was so strong that it would manifest itself in a deafening blast, he shrugged it off and went about the business of preparing for another work day.
It was during the drive to work that the next thought hit him. How, he wondered, would she feel about this? He knew that there was no way he could communicate this feeling to anyone else, let alone the one who inspired this din in his head. Even on the phone he would usually end up tongue-tied in normal conversations, and with this girl it only ever got worse. He usually chalked it up to nervousness, the butterflies in the stomach he'd always gotten when talking to a girl he liked. But this was bigger then liking her. I mean, God, he thought, I can HEAR it.
So, he went to work, prepared to force his way through a typical day that left little time for independent thought in more then short bursts, and let the matter rest until he had time to pay it more mind. The closest thing to a resolution of his feelings he felt was possible was the thought he had as the light turned green: This is going to a weird day.
* * *
She lay in bed, reveling in the lack of a 9 to 5 job like she did most days before she forced herself up and into a chair. The writing she had to do today was more then enough to keep her busy for a few hours, but it was hardly taxing. She would relax, take it easy. Luxuriate in it a little, even.
When it came, it was fast and hard, like a baseball thrown by a major league pitcher. Except it was nothing so physical, or so easy to understand. Instead it seemed like a concentrated ball of sound and light that deafened and blinded her. Her eyes closed involuntarily, and they wouldn’t open again when she wanted them to. She lay there, shaking, waiting for it to stop, hypersensitive to the light on her eyelids, the sheet over her legs, even the places where her hair fell over her face. It was suddenly all too much, and the last thing she saw in her mind’s eye before giving in to the panic was his face.
But the first night, the important night, it was loud and it was everywhere. He tossed and turned, and kept trying not to think of anything so that he would sleep, and kept hearing it. It wasn't like any other sounds he had heard, or even like any combination of them. It would just roar in his ears like a train in the subway as he threw the sheet off, then pulled it back up, then threw it off again. Eventually he fell asleep, he knew this because the drone of his alarm clock pulled him out of the sleep with a jolt that sent his glasses and a CD flying from the nightstand. But, trying not to make too much of a feeling that was so strong that it would manifest itself in a deafening blast, he shrugged it off and went about the business of preparing for another work day.
It was during the drive to work that the next thought hit him. How, he wondered, would she feel about this? He knew that there was no way he could communicate this feeling to anyone else, let alone the one who inspired this din in his head. Even on the phone he would usually end up tongue-tied in normal conversations, and with this girl it only ever got worse. He usually chalked it up to nervousness, the butterflies in the stomach he'd always gotten when talking to a girl he liked. But this was bigger then liking her. I mean, God, he thought, I can HEAR it.
So, he went to work, prepared to force his way through a typical day that left little time for independent thought in more then short bursts, and let the matter rest until he had time to pay it more mind. The closest thing to a resolution of his feelings he felt was possible was the thought he had as the light turned green: This is going to a weird day.
* * *
She lay in bed, reveling in the lack of a 9 to 5 job like she did most days before she forced herself up and into a chair. The writing she had to do today was more then enough to keep her busy for a few hours, but it was hardly taxing. She would relax, take it easy. Luxuriate in it a little, even.
When it came, it was fast and hard, like a baseball thrown by a major league pitcher. Except it was nothing so physical, or so easy to understand. Instead it seemed like a concentrated ball of sound and light that deafened and blinded her. Her eyes closed involuntarily, and they wouldn’t open again when she wanted them to. She lay there, shaking, waiting for it to stop, hypersensitive to the light on her eyelids, the sheet over her legs, even the places where her hair fell over her face. It was suddenly all too much, and the last thing she saw in her mind’s eye before giving in to the panic was his face.
# posted by Stephen Hungerford @ 11:55 AM 
