In the Absence of Voice

The story is written completely in second person POV, and relays a true set of events. It has references to Raymond Carver's "A Small, Good Thing." It includes elements not suitable for children.

You just finished putting on your make-up. It’s a lot more than you usually do: silver and black eye shadow smudged almost all around your eyes, gun metal colored eyeliner (at least that’s what it says on the stick), two coats of Cover Girl Lash Blast mascara, coral lipstick and a coat of minty lip plumper, and two pink-y splotches of blush on the too-high-up position on your cheeks. You’re trying to look nice for the family. You look at yourself in your full-body mirror. It’s leaning against the wall, you had it taken down for the move. The slanted face makes your hips look far larger than your breasts. You lift the mirror so it’s vertical, but your hips are still too wide. The bleach-perfect, white sweater helps to take the eye away from your hippo hips. You set the mirror down and fix the loose turtle neck so it hangs classily in front. You take one last glance and straighten the bottom hem. Walking out of the bathroom, you shout across the house “Yamron! Do I look pretty?” in that annoying kiddie voice you think is cute. Your brother shouts back “na’ you ugly” in the silly pretend-to-be-ghetto voice that you and him do for laughs. He comes into the room anyways, and tells you something nicer " things big brothers are supposed to do. He also tells you you’re wearing too much makeup, as he walks back to his bathroom to finish straightening his hair. You almost call him a f****t in that silly ghetto voice, but you don’t. You know he’d come put you in a headlock and that’d ruin your make-up. Instead, you tell him to hurry up because you’re going to be late. He tells you something along the lines of “shaddup.”

            You go to the front door to let in your dogs, the ones you let out before you started getting ready. That was at least half an hour ago. You know your dogs stay in their yard. A thought passes your mind about how you’re going to replace your brother’s laptop charger. Your dog chewed on it overnight, leaving it mangled in the front room for your brother to find this morning. After beating the crap out of your dog with a loosely-rolled newspaper, you open the front door and tell him to “go poddy” in the momma’s-very-upset-with-you voice. He goes outside, tail between his legs with the older dog going out after him, oblivious to the trouble.

            Now you’re at the door, feeling that slight pang of guilt you always feel after punishing your puppy. You open the door and whistle like you normally do. “Oreo, WeiWei!” You call before you notice a van moving slowly, as if from a stop, some ways down the road. There’s a truck behind it. You see your little dog, WeiWei, darting up the road heading towards your voice. She moves past you into the house. You keep looking in the direction she came, and as the truck is getting ready to pass your house, the driver beeps his horn and you look. He points back in the direction he, and your older dog, have come. You call for Oreo again, and shut the door behind you. You see him, as you come to the edge of your porch. He’s laying in the road, very still. It takes a fraction of a moment for you to realize what has happened. The air is static. It’s the moment of silence that happens after realization, and before panic - everything slows down. A fraction of a fraction of a second that becomes a minute. And in that minuscule moment of time, your heart stops. The air stills in your lungs, stalling. Your ears go deaf. Your jaw is set. Your eyes don’t see light or dark. They just see Oreo. They see him laying still in the road.

            And then everything speeds up, and you’re screaming. Screaming and tears are flooding your vision. You scream for your brother. You scream “Cameron!” and a sob shudders through your chest. You scream “Cameron come here! Oreo’s dead!” You’re still on the porch facing the direction of your dog, and the front door is closed. “Cameron, Oreo’s dead!” Your voice sounds ragged. Just then, as your voice cracks, a rude thought pops into your mind. You think that you’re being too dramatic. You think that what is happening is the gaudy essence of Hollywood theatrics. It’s awful, and you push it from your mind quickly.

The next hour becomes a blur: Your brother coming out and freaking, neither one of you knowing what to do. You finally going inside and getting the rubber gloves you use to wash dishes with. Grabbing a box you had meant to use for packing. Your head hurting and your face, for the moment, going slack and blank. Everything is gray, even your purple dish gloves. Hardly remembering the walk down the street. Trying to pick up your dog. Your chest heaving something fierce, as you lean down to grab him. Your hands falling short of touching his crumpled body. The momentary numbness being replaced with fresh tears and snotty sniffs. Your dad showing up at your house at some point, walking you away from your dog, telling you things like “you don’t need to see this,” and “it’s not your fault.”

            Eventually your sobs subside, but your face is puffy and ruined. There’s a few gray drips on your perfectly white sweater. Your dad has buried your dog for you, right under the pecan tree in your front yard. You didn’t watch. Your dad comes inside and says you and your brother should come over to the house still, that it’s good to be surrounded by family at a time like this. He said that the family probably already ate without you, but the food should still be out.

Your brother drives you, but not before stopping in front of the newly turned earth. He bows his head. You see a little make-shift cross, made of two sticks and some duct-tape. You don’t really believe in God, but you bow your head anyway. You think about his eager face and wagging tail. You think about how you poddy-trained him, and how quickly he learned to sit and shake. Tears pool under your closed eyelids, and you don’t pray. You just wish Oreo a good rest, and say you’re sorry. You get in the truck.

You think about how you killed your baby. The last thing you want to do is go to a family celebration of life, and eat a feast as your dog’s body is going into rigor mortis and bloating with trapped gasses. You feel sick at that. You want to take off your stupid white sweater, and crawl into a hole. You want forget all about today, but you can’t.

You killed your baby.

When you get there, your entire family greets you as if they haven’t seen you in ten years. Your step-mother gives you a hug and compliments you on your soiled white sweater. You tell her thanks absently, and pile a plate full of food. As expected, both of the legs are still there. It doesn't bring you pleasure, but you take a leg anyways. Your brother and father also grab plates, and your father is trying to make light of things. He makes jokes, and pats your shoulders. You look down at your food and think about “A Small, Good Thing.” Picking up your fork, you mouth a small bite of potato salad. And then another. You know you’re not hungry, but you eat anyways. The food doesn't taste like ashes. It tastes good, like it ought to. You think about how the Weiss’ sit in the bakery, listening to the Baker and trying his breads. They don’t say much, and neither do you. You realize, as silly as it sounds, that the story is beginning to help you:

You eat, listening to the Baker tell you it’s a small, good thing. He’s saying it through your father’s gentle eyes. He’s showing you new breads through your step-mother’s cooking. She’s tells you there is sweet potato pie and a tub of Cool Whip in the freezer. You sit there, too raptured to leave as your family goes about being your family. Your little brothers are playing with Hotwheels and Legos, playing with them like a game of Army Men. Your Papa is sitting at the table with you not saying very much. He never does. He’s just leaning back in his chair and taking the atmosphere in. Your estranged Nana is up and about the kitchen, asking your step-mother a million useless questions, sneeze-chirping in her OCD habit. There’s a movie on the TV in the living room where your brothers are, making some background noise. Your step-sister is attacking the sweet potato pie. The entire scene is much like the Baker rushing about his bakery, caring for the Wiess family and avoiding the heavy topic at hand. Pretty soon your plate is empty, and you’re tossing it into the trash. This is exactly where you want to be.

 

 

Sometimes in life, it’s not exactly what is said that matters, it’s what occurs in the absence of what is said. Personally, some of the most meaningful things happen inbetween spoken words. Terror. Dread. Equality. Pain. Compassion. Understanding. Empathy. Parental Love. Epiphany. It comes from anywhere and everywhere.

 In this story, it comes in the moments after a tragedy - starting from the exact point of realization. It’s the moment when you seemed frozen in time, where a split second became a surreal minute. It’s the moment you bend down to grab your dog, and you feel a wooden stake burying itself inside your chest. It is in the subtle awkwardness of the elephant in the room as you enter. It’s also in your step-mother’s hug. It’s when your father pats your shoulders at the dinner table, amid the din of your family. It’s in the things you think of as you make yourself eat. And it is in the tossing of your emptied plate.  

Author's Note

Go ahead and let me know what you liked and disliked about the story. I'm all ears.

Reviews

[Dana]

Your story was good. A lot of insight to how loss makes you feel. You are extremely gifted with words. I always want to feel something from the things I see, read or hear. Happy for you that the support of your family was comforting in such unfortunate impacting and pain filled moment in your life. Keep experimenting with your description of words to describe yourself, your feelings and what you see that impacts your life .... the elements help bring words to a sentence not commonly used to describe.

[DeathHaze]

Love to read more of your work and keep writing :)