A & P #1 (Fiction)

Pitter-patter. Chitter-chatter. Raindrops sliding across the surface of the newly glazed windows.

I turn towards the digits highlighted in red on my right. 2:32 AM.

Cling. Clang. Cling. Clang. Tambourines teetering.

uhHURGHHHHHH. A chesty cough rips through my eardrums.

Creak, crack, creeeak, crack. A festive march of footsteps rumbles the floors.

Bing, bang, bing, bAAng. The doors, the windows, swinging aggressively. 

Thump. cRAsh. THUMP. The clutter of books piled on top of the termite-infested shelves, now debris of an in-home landslide.

HAHAAheheHAHAHrhshHAHAHA, a gurgle of hysterical laughter ensues and –

I clamp down onto the helix of my ear praying, begging for it all to stop.

But it continues.

Grnnnnn, grnnnn. The tunnel-boring machine drills into the earth of the ground.

The clamouring, the stomping, the rattling – screeeeeech. The train wheels frantically latching onto the tracks to come to a halt.

I storm out of my room, desperate to end my misery, but with every step I take, the dissonant symphony dares to continue.

Pitter-patter. Cling. Clang. Creak. Crack. Bing. BANG. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH. Stomp. Stomp. Grnnn. Grnnnn. Screeeeeeeech. Another train roars.

It needs to end.

My feet take me to the only weapon I know of in this household.

As I run my finger along its sharpened edges, I dream of everything that could be.

The chains that bind me to this world, severed.

The noise, the commotion, gone in an instant.

Peace, serenity, bliss, I picture, closing my eyes now with the cold, sharpened knife pressed along the rim of my ear.

Just a second, just one more second…

And nothing.

I gently open my eyes and peer out the kitchen window, anticipating the din of screaming adolescents and tumultuous festivities.

Still nothing. Not even the faintest rustle of trees.

I find myself clutching at my stomach, belting out the heaviest laughter I could finesse.

Is it too loud? HAH! I'd never know.

As I continue to wallow in ecstasy, I notice my reflection pooling on the ground.

I trace the outline of my facial features with my eyes and cackle violently, uncontrollably.

Jagged flesh, oozing blood, coagulating clots.

The bloody yet beautiful gift of silence.

Hyperacusis (2021).

Art by April Vansleve.