I Feel Your Voice [MxM]

The sunlight that day slid between my fingers, staining them red. That’s the first thing that always comes to mind when I remember that moment. The way the light felt so warm, so alive. It was something I could hold on to if I just tried hard enough.

And the air. It smelled like salt and tasted like it too. It stings your lips and dries on your skin. I can still feel it sometimes, like I’m standing on the edge of that boat again, surrounded by nothing but the sound of waves and the never-ending blue.

It was the type of day you never think will leave you. The ocean was loud, the engine humming underneath it, and the sun burned bright in a sky so blue it didn’t look real. I remember hearing a laugh, soft and clear, and then her voice calling my name.

“Adam,” she said. Just that. She didn’t need to say anything else.

When I turned, she was there, my mother, smiling like she always did, but softer this time. Her curly hair whipped around in the wind, and her sunglasses caught the sun, reflecting me back at myself.

She wore that necklace I’d made, the one with macaroni beads and lopsided knots. It looked ridiculous. She loved it anyway.

“Don’t stare into the sun too long,” she said, brushing her hand through my hair. If I close my eyes, I can still hear it. Except now, it’s quieter, slipping away no matter how hard I try to hold on.

“Okay, Mom,” I said, lowering my hand and smiling back.

That’s how it always was: her voice was gentle, my father was loud. He was at the front of the boat, one hand on the wheel, his other hand waving at me.

“You having fun, Adam?” he called, his voice booming over the sea. The sun’s reflection bounced off his dark sunglasses, just like they did in the movies.

“Yeah, Dad!” I yelled back, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

I was six, wearing a bright red “Birthday Boy” T-shirt, fresh out of kindergarten. We were going to a remote island they’d talked about for weeks to celebrate my graduation. They packed sandwiches and talked about fish, and it all felt perfect.

“Eyes on the water!” Mom called to him, her laugh carrying through the salty wind.

“Don’t worry!” he shouted back, still smiling. My dad always smiled, like even when things went wrong, they’d somehow still be okay.

“Adam!” he said again, waving me over. “Come steer the boat!”

Mom nudged me forward. “Go on. Be careful, though.”

I remember looking at her. There was a mix of pride and worry in her eyes, a lioness letting her cub hunt alone for the first time. Yet she continued to smile, taking any fear in me.

Her hand lingered on my shoulder for a moment before letting go.

I was halfway across the boat when it happened.

I still can’t piece it all together. Even now, six years later, it feels more like jagged fragments of pain than a complete memory.

Someone ripped the film from a projector of memories and shredded it carelessly, leaving me with flashes that make no sense. I moved through those seconds like a ghost.

A black shape appeared as if out of thin air. A rock that no one ever warned us would be there.

My dad was still looking at me, smiling.

How would I have known then that that was the last time he ever would?

One moment, I was gasping for air, my small feet scrambling for something solid beneath me, something that never came.

The next moment, the water was red.

Mom and Dad.

Their eyes stared skyward, wide and unblinking, as if they were watching something I couldn’t see. Two identical gashes marked their heads, blood seeping into the water, staining it crimson.

I thought of Mom in the tub with me back home, laughing as she poured blue soap into the water, turning it into a bubble-filled sea.

I blinked, and the blue was gone. Only red remained.

I screamed. I don’t know how long. I don’t know if my screams saved me or if they simply summoned the fishing boat drifting nearby.

I screamed until my voice gave out, and the world went black.

When I woke up, the doctors tried to speak to me. Their voices were muffled as if coming from underwater. I barely noticed them as they covered Mom and Dad’s faces with white cloth.

They were so still, lying on those cold metal beds. Just sleeping, I told myself. Just sleeping.

I walked closer, ignoring the doctor’s gentle protests, and reached out to touch Mom’s cheek through the cloth.

Cold and lifeless.

I stared, willing her to wake up, to move, to breathe. For her hand to rise and ruffle my hair the way it always did. Please, I thought. Please say something. Please come back.

A hand touched my shoulder. I looked up into the doctor’s sad, tired eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, his words distant and blurry.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t move. I watched as they took Mom and Dad away, their bodies swallowed by the hospital’s endless white hallways.

An old nurse tried to hold my hand. Her face was soft, her voice gentle. “Are you hungry, sweetheart? Would you like something to eat?” she asked. Her kindness felt foreign and painful.

I didn’t answer. My eyes were fixed on the small window of the door behind her, the one leading to the room where they had taken my parents. Flames flickered inside.

They were burning them.

I screamed again. My mind, my heart, my very soul screamed. Nurses surrounded me, their arms holding me back. Someone pinched my arm, and the world turned dark once more.

When I woke up once more, there were two urns in the middle of the room. White, delicate and unassuming flowers rested beside them. A small sign read: We’re sorry for your loss.

People came and went, faceless shadows in my memory. They spoke to me, but their words were as hollow as the echoing halls. I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t see them. They moved around me, through me, like ghosts.

I tried to scream again, but nothing came. My mouth opened, and silence spilled out. My fingers brushed my lips, searching for the sound that refused to exist.

I reached for the candlelight between Mom and Dad’s urns. The flame danced across my fingers, flickering as if it, too, wanted to disappear. I tried to repeat Mom’s words, to call out for her.

But the tape was still there, invisible and binding my mouth shut. A rope, tight around my throat, allowing me only shallow breaths.

The doctors called it traumatic mutism. They said I was so broken from the loss that I couldn’t speak. That one day, I’d find my voice again.

Now, I stand alone in my room. The full moon’s light pours through the curtains, painting silver streaks across my bed. I step into its glow, the open trunk at my feet half-filled with clothes.

I raise my hand, reaching for the moon’s light, letting it play across my fingers.

Six years have passed. The doctors were wrong.

I never spoke again.