The Silenced

Rain poured relentlessly in sheets upon the streets of Okmulgee, Oklahoma. Splatters of water raised tiny geysers in the puddles that collected in the dips in the road and on the sidewalk, the movements and sounds hypnotic and rhythmic.

Deep in thought, 17 year old Travis Peterson followed the grey concrete that saddled 6th Street. His unruly dark brown hair fell flat on his head, the rain having saturated each lock and dropped down from the tips of his bangs. His eyes, just grey as the darkened sky, briefly caught the stress cracks separating the concrete slabs as they naturally attempted to focus, then would unfocus again as his thoughts continued to wander. A military style waterproof backpack slung across his broad shoulders, bouncing with each step he took, his gait long and smooth.

Up ahead and on the right, sat an old rundown gas station, ply boards nailed to the broken windows, and a For Sale sign planted into the only patch of bare dirt, yellowed with age. Several grungy men, with long greasy hair that fell limply across their shoulders, were sitting in stoop of the boarded up doorway, the narrow space hardly protecting them from the rain.

As he passed the station, one of the men stirred and a voice, groggy with years of alcohol and tobacco abuse, called out to him.

“Hey boy,” it hollered. Travis snapped from his reveries at the sound of the voice, which caused a shudder of unease to roll down his back, the feeling akin to that of an ice cube a friend might jokingly drop down the back of your shirt.

“Got a dolla? I just need some food, mane.”

Eyes wide, uncertainty coursing through his veins, Travis shook his head and quickened his steps, the gas station passing quickly and disappearing behind him as he crossed the railroad tracks. He felt an itching sensation in the back of his mind, but before he could could scratch his head, it disappeared.

Fucking liar! You’re one of them rich boys, I can smell it on you!

Travis shook his head and just continued walking to school, ignoring the shout, but he still had the sense that something was wrong. Something had changed.

The lights of Ms. Isaacs’ classroom bared down on Travis, his eyes aching from the sheer white. Buzzing conversations and hushed giggling filled the room around him, the noises an assault on his ears.

He had been an outcast since he was 6, when the doctor had informed his mother of the diagnosis. High Functioning Autism, they called it. It would a little more difficult for him, they said but it was manageable. He could still be a productive member of society. Most of his life other kids had avoided him, instinctively knowing something was different, that he was not like the other kids.

The conversations eventually subsided as Ms. Isaacs walked in, her denim skirt just above her knees and her long black hair tied into a bun. She was stern but fair. She played loosely with the rules but never broke them. Travis liked her, and she in turn understood his... condition.

Ms. Isaacs walked to her desk and set down her folders before standing before the class and scanning their faces, looking for absenteeism, he supposed.

“Good morning, class,” she said, smiling.

A few people greeted her likewise but the majority of the class had already grown bored and switched their attention elsewhere.

“Well then,” she said, her smile faltering slightly, “I hope everyone had a great weekend, full of fun. It’s time for school though and...”

God, she is so fucking hot, thought Travis suddenly. Confusion crept its way into his mind however. The thought had originated in his mind; he had heard it as if it was his own internal monologue, but he didn’t form the thought himself. He cocked his head as he attempted to figure out what was going on.

I just want to bend her over and fuck her so hard, wipe that stupid smile right off her face.

The words formed again, but they were not his voice. They were male but of a lighter baritone than his own. His confusion deepened and he cast his gaze around the classroom, as if to find the answers painted on the wall. His eyes rested upon Marcus, the school bully. Marcus sat in the front row, his jaw slack, a sardonic grin on his face, his right hand pressed against the front of his pants, as if to hide something.

It’s his voice, Travis thought, astonished. He knew that voice better than his own! Marcus had constantly used that voice to taunt him and tease him, and now Travis was sure it was Marcus’ voice he was hearing! Just as he had that realization he heard another voice, this one feminine.

Like, the party is this weeknd nd idk what im gonna wear!

This one confused him for two reasons. It sounded like a girl and he could hear the words as if they were being texted! Travis scanned the room again and saw Hilary, one of the popular cheerleaders. She had her head bent down and was texting under her desk!

“Mr. Peterson,” called his teacher. He looked up to see her pointing at him, her gaze expectant. He fumbled for words and tried to remember what she had asked. Her voice filled his mind just then.

Come on Travis! You know this, what is Pi?

The voice was filled with hope, concern, and encouragement, and it was Ms. Isaacs’ voice, but it had been in his head. It was like he had conjured her voice and thought the words himself!

I have nothing to lose, his own internal voice this time.

“Pi is a numerical constant, commonly used in mathematics. The actual number is extremely long and repeats in several areas but it is commonly shortened to specifically 3.14159,” he practically shouted, nervous and anxious.

Ms. Isaacs smiled warmly and nodded.

“And what is it more commonly used for?”

“It has several uses including...” Travis is such a nerd! Look at him lapping up the teacher’s praise like a little puppy dog getting his belly scratched.

Marcus again.

Travis faltered for a moment before continuing... “measuring the circumference of a circle as well as in equations for...”

No wonder he doesn’t have a girlfriend! Hilary.

Don’t falter now, Travis! You’ve got this! Ms. Isaacs.

Travis was beginning to feel a little sick as the voices kept intruding on his thoughts. More voice were beginning to join in, filling his head with noise and confusion until he lost all sense of self, the only existence being the voices.

“STOP,” he shouted, jumping to his feet, the chair falling backwards behind him from the force of his upward movement.

The room fell silent, even the voices in his head subsiding slightly, though they remained at the edges of his consciousness, like an unwanted idea that he was trying so hard to forget.

“Travis, are okay, honey,” asked Ms. Isaacs, striding towards him, concern in her chocolatey eyes.

“I... I... I’m fine,” he stammered, finding it difficult to speak with everyone's eyes on him. Freak! Nerd! What is wrong with him! People like him shouldn't even be allowed to exist! He grabbed his backpack and began to walk towards the door.

“My stomach... it... it... I’m going to see the nurse,” he finished lamely as he quickened his pace, nearly running for the door. He grabbed the handle and wrenched it open, bursting through it, his stomach roiling, his forehead drenched in sweat. The door slammed shut behind him.

Freak... Travis heard, faintly, before the door closed and muted everyone. Blessed silence filled the halls of Okmulgee High, empty save for a lone janitor on the other side of the building, his mop barely visible to Travis.

Travis took a deep breath, his mind mercifully quiet, the lights no longer blinding and painful. He exhaled forcefully, then pivoted on his feet and walked towards the nurses’ office, completely unsure of how he was going to be able to explain his schizophrenia to the nurse without being hauled off to the funny farm.