MUTE

CRIMSON CONCRETE

All I can remember is the fall, the air flowing as I gripped toward the hand of death. Shards of glass dropping into the air pierced my hands. The sound of my neck hitting against a fire escape as I continued downward. Standing up from the cold and wet concrete, my crimson leaks from my cuts as I lift myself into the consuming shadow of the alleyway. My legs, yet broken, move. My body, yet bruised and battered, somehow finds a way to push forward. As I held the wet flesh on my arm, the wind was taken away from my lungs as I struggled to put one more step. Sharp pains grew from my neck as the numbing ceased; my vision was taken by a barrage of visions that took the form of blinding lights as I fell in pain. Looking into the pool of rain on the ground held a reflection of myself, my long hair in complete disarray and blood pouring from my nose as my sight became more blurry. Somewhere, I was lost in the moment; my thoughts began to fizzle into nothingness, and I was brought back to the past.

The constant barrage of nauseous chemicals fills my sense of smell as the lights dim inside Mr. Rockwell's Chemistry lab. The class was designed to keep any human from feeling comfort, whether through the impossible-to-understand college formulas or Mr. Rockwell's refusal to slow the class. Without seats, we are forced to stand and go through the seminar in the cold due to the building's poor maintenance. While I try my hardest to pay attention, it is hard to write notes when all you can think about is when you can leave for the 'esteemed' and 'prestigious' University of Silverstone. I grabbed my pen and began sketching the beginning of my assignment for studio art, the only class I liked. Ms. Glover says that I have a lot of talent in art; she was the only one in the university to fully comprehend sign language, unlike Professor Rockwell, who refused to slow down or understand my gestures of confusion.

My inability to speak renders my mouth useless, but I always smile when she approves. The assignment was meant to explore our abilities to implore meaning and awareness into our piece. It is all about visualizing the world and how you see it. Being given 2 months to finish the assignment, all I can find on this canvas is just emptiness. Finding no ideas, I pull out my pocket mirror to draw my eyes again. The cracks from all the time spent throwing it in fits of anger barely stop me from attempting to watch my eye as I begin drawing.

They say that artists are ultimately drawn through their vision of themselves in all cases. Van Gogh imagined himself a better person for the hope of his mother, and Da Vinci's self-portrait is as rough and quick as the time his mind took to care about projects before scrapping them and finding something new. I draw the world, and how I see it is a deafening place that is very much black and white underneath the facade of bright colors. I made sure to properly shade in the corners of my eyes before applying the green, adding streaks of brown to show my hair. As much as I hate bright colors, I've always loved my dark emerald eyes. My mouth, in contrast, has about as much visual appeal as practical appeal. I wish that I could practice art as well as do my makeup. I don't care how useless my lips are; I will at least look pretty.

The sound of Mr. Rockwells subtle and intentional clearing of his throat led me to see an empty class around me. "Better get home before it gets dark, Navea." He spoke as he put away his things. I nodded my head before quickly putting my stuff away in confusion. I didn't even see anyone leave. I guess I was too caught up in my mind again, which is typical of Naveah. Exiting the cold and miserable science building to the even more cold and miserable fall air of the campus grounds, I finally found some freedom.

Walking past people together smoking, their conversations loud and filled with laughter, I get the returning pain of jealousy and fear of embarrassment walking past them. Ultimately, I subsidize the feeling by realizing that I'm not in high school anymore, and no longer in the small town filled with social hierarchies and old women spewing gossip and venom. No, now I'm in Silverstone's big city in all its dark and rainy glory.