Why Do I Write?

I feel mute.

Someone asks me how I’m feeling, and I look to my notebook.

It’s palm sized and blue (I stole it from a Staples because the color made me smile).

I look at my fingers.

There are no nails for me to bite, but I find a piece of cuticle growing back and my mouth swells with saliva as I give it a trim.

“How are you feeling?”

The answers bark in my mind.

They’re loud and angry, and everyone wants their voice to be heard.

Like children in their seats, bouncing up and down with their hands in the air screaming, “Pick me! Ooo! Ooo! Me!”

I hear the noise and I scribble on a page of my smiley-blue-book.

One by one I give the children a chance to speak, taking my time to write down their answers, so that they can sit back calmly, satisfied.

I do this until one child remains; she is the quiet one.

I know she has something to say, and I try to coax it out of her, but she says nothing.

I write down the question for her so she can look at it, examine it.

She shakes her head, and says nothing.

Her silence makes me cry.

I cry so much my tears soak her desk and trickle down into her socks and shoes.

The tears don't stop until they’ve filled the whole room, and once they do, it’s too late, because everyone’s drowned.

Except for the last little girl.

The silent one.

She’s treading tears, her face pressed against the ceiling, her mouth like a fish.

“How are you feeling?” I plead for an answer.

Of course there isn't one.

She closes her eyes and takes one last sharp breath before submerging.

I taste the salt in my mouth and nose, and it drips down my throat and pools into my lungs.

It burns and it dries my insides, and as they dry they shrivel, and all the while the burning builds and ignites until I’m equal parts flame and flammable.

I teeter on the edge of instability until my heart fires on all cylinders, and my body sparks into combustion.

Someone is still standing in front of me.

Tapping their foot.

They watch me with an eager expression.

One that says, “I’m asking because I’m polite”.

And “I’m trying to look more interested than I actually am”.

I take my finger out of my mouth and close my cerulean-blue, Staples brand notebook.

“I feel fine”.