Melodies of the Broken

I wished that people could hear the same things I do.

Not my everyday conversations, or the arguments I used to experience every other Saturday morning; not even the numerous times I got in deep trouble for not paying attention to the teachers in middle school.

No. What I wanted, more than anything, was that everyone could hear my voice.

The one that I lacked, no less.

But my kind of speech was completely different from those that could express through words. Instead of being able to voice my feelings to others or tell someone that I disliked having them too close for my liking, I turned to a reliable source.

Music.

It might sound cliché, cheesy, stereotypical, whatever. However way a person wants to perceive this, I like to think of melodies as my external voice.

A way of expressing myself, for that matter.

And quite frankly, the only way that I’ve found I can do so without pressuring my mother into paying expensive medical equipment, or that I’d undergo extensive therapies.

Here are three-quarters of the entire story: I’m mute.

Earthshattering revelation, I know.

Now, let’s head on to ‘Google’s Most Answered Questions For The Mute’, shall we?

‘What do you do if someone wants to talk to you?’

‘Do your teachers let you off the hook for being mute?’ And of course, my personal favorite, ‘How are you going to manage when you’re older and have different responsibilities, say like, calling the natural gas department because their service was cut off in the middle of the day?’

You might think I’m joking, but the last interrogation is one that I’ve gotten a lot. Just with different words and contexts.

It took a few years, not going to lie. Trying to get around with people was too difficult at first, but I’ve developed methods that would allow me to communicate easily.

But as I said, it wasn’t an easy road.

Losing your voice can take a toll on you, especially if you lost it along the way. The psychological damage behind the occurrence might even drive people mad, to the point where some begin to think of... other solutions.

I survived that. Yes, torn and utterly broken, but still alive and breathing. I became a survivor. A soldier fit to survive through the multiple war zones of life, able to hold my ground to whatever the universe planned to bomb me with.

If you met me at this moment, I know you’d be bewildered when I say that I used to be a happy girl. That I was carefree to the point most kids in my generation wanted to be friends with me. That every weekend, without fail, I’d be surrounded by children my age and playing in someone else’s backyard, be it a game of tag or some other sport.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Mom says my attitude turned bitter, somewhat similar to my father’s. I like to think I turned realistic; able to discern all those lies that kids place before them, like a barrier, to conceal their true selves.

After Middle School got ruined because of my lack of functional vocal cords, I hoped- no, I prayed-, that High School might be different.

But oh no, if people at the age of twelve were bad, Austin’s “Worst Crowd Ever” was a price only teenage students could hold.

Kimberly High made me realize that if there was a place on this Earth destined to pair you up with the stupidest individuals in the entire county, then this is where you’d want to enroll your kids. Obnoxious, phony, and all-around foolish, I guess it’s safe to say they’re what makes me this close to punching a hole in the wall.

See? Not bitter, just realistic.

My fingertips softly brushed over the fabric of my bed and settled on a pair of cushions that seemed all too familiar to me. Without turning my head, I grabbed and pulled them over my messy morning hair. My eyes stared at the cream-colored roof of my bedroom, the area once silent until the overhead AC sparked to life.

Along with teenagers, something pretty high on my “Hate List”, was mornings. Mostly because at my age, waking up early could only mean one thing: education.

A muffled voice tore through the tight gaps of my rusty door, “Isabel! Get up! It’s morning sweetheart!”

Of course, I didn’t respond and instead pulled out the small squared silver device from my thick coat’s pocket and pressed the button in the middle. Yiruma’s ′Kiss The Rain′ filtered through the headphones. The sweet melody lured my eyes to focus, my fingers twitching along, like a robot.

With newfound energy, I pushed myself off the bed and into the cold environment of the room. My body longed for the soft covers, where heat could still be felt even though I was no longer under them.

I pulled out a pair of grey sneakers as the song reached its climactic point. At this point, I began to waltz around the room and followed suit to the melody. My actions were in sync with the soft piano, letting the amazing composition take control of my tired self and my morning routine.

And just as the song came to its final notes, I swung my favorite grey jean jacket and grasped the cold doorknob with newfound energy.

“Isabel! What’re you doing up there that’s taking so long?” the same voice said out loud.

I rolled my eyes, grasping the staircase railing as I flew down the steps toward the main entrance. The house was louder than usual, the noises of a teapot reaching its highest boiling point and a few curses thrown out for good measure. Voices sprung from the kitchen, not as happy-sounding as I’d thought.

It was after I slid the chocolate-brown doors open and stepped inside the room that I realized what had happened.

There, along with Mom and my two brothers, was a puddle of dark green splattered on the center of the kitchen floor.

Tension lingered in the air, too thick not to be noticed. I turned to look at the three of them, silently questioning what was going on, when my younger brother, Sam, spoke up.

“Were we supposed to drink that?” We turned to look at him, looking lost and utterly confused. Surprisingly though, Mom let out a hearty laugh and scratched the top of her head; a trait she’d show whenever she was too conflicted about something. David and I turned to look at each other, not sure of what was happening.

Mom placed a hand above her hip, shaking her head at Sam. “Well, I was hoping you would. I’ve been up for hours trying to get the new blender to work. And I saw an online recipe I thought you’d like.”

The boy’s face scrunched up as he looked down at the mess. “You thought I’d drink vomit? Ew, I pass.”

At this, my family couldn’t hold back from laughing at Sam’s response. The kitchen was filled with ringing laughter that seemed to lighten up the situation, and Mom turned to the laundry behind our fridge to take out a mop.

“Well, you ain’t drinking that anymore, mijito,” she replied, cleaning up the blob of green substance that looked so much like nuclear waste. Even though her tone had a hint of disdain, Mom couldn’t hide the smile behind her thick brown hair.

Mom, given her strong Latina heritage, was gifted in the traits of youth and beauty. With her low stature, curvy body, and perfect light-brown skin, it wasn’t that far-fetched when people mistook her for a thirty-year-old woman when she was, in fact, entering her late forties.

I know many people would die to be in her position, and take advantage of what she has to better themselves, but not Mom. In my seventeen years of living on this planet, I’ve never seen Mom dress up like the rest of the Austin society or buy makeup to “beautify herself” on a normal day.

No, she’s a firm believer in the term, Natural Beauty. And for her, it seems to work out well.

Mom ruffled Sam’s hair, causing him to protest and say, “Hey! I just brushed it ten minutes ago. Now it’s all a mess.”

“Guess we’re even now, huh?” she said, causing a sly smile to slip on my mouth; my version of laughing out loud.

A chair screeched on the kitchen floor as we turned to look at the tall teenager who was quietly eating his breakfast away. Very similar to Mom, my older brother, David, walked toward the sink, deposited his dirty dishes, and smirked at a frustrated-looking Sam.

“If you keep brushing your hair, you won’t have any left,” he said, which earned him a poisonous glare from the eleven-year-old. “Besides, if you want to impress the girls at your school, you’ll have to drop that face first, dumbass.”

Sam looked ready to pounce at him, but Mom got in his way and glared at David. “What have I said about bad words inside my house? You’re grounded. You’re on Dish Duty for the whole week, mister.”

David didn’t seem the least bit faced at my mother’s ranting and instead passed by her with a cheeky grin. Mom’s glare deepened, and with an accusing finger pointed at him, she yelled, “Keep laughing, and you’ll do the bathroom too.”

As if feigning innocence, my brother raised both his hands in the air, the grin still not disappearing. Mom breathed out, grabbed the towel on the sink, and smacked it against David’s arm to prove her point.

It truly was a mystery why David was born first. He acts as if there was a little boy- probably near the age of two-, stuck inside the body of a twenty-year-old. I’ve read multiple articles that claim that firstborns are the mature ones, which I still don’t believe. My best hypothesis is that there was a fault in the system when David came around.

An electronic ding rang out, making all of us turn to the clock stuck to our kitchen wall. “Okay, that’s enough, the three of you!” Mom said out loud. “You’re going to be late for school. So, scat.”

While Mom bossed David and Sam, I strapped my messenger bag around my shoulder and placed my headphones around my neck so I could listen to my music when I entered the car.

“Remember, I’ll be working today, so you’ll have to pick up Sam after school,” she said while looking at David. I hadn’t even realized she had her barista clothes already on until she ruffled the fabrics so they wouldn’t wrinkle.

She looked spotless, unlike Sam, who had a line of dark blue running down his neckline and a few spots of green here and there. Upon further inspection, Mom finally realized and seemed horrified to find her son’s t-shirt look like splattered paint.

“Oh my God, Sam! I just washed it last night!” she exclaimed. “How will you get a girl’s attention looking like that?”

Sam turned to look at her, mortified. “Mom! I’m not looking to be married yet!”

David rolled his eyes and grabbed the keys from the little woven bowl at the front door. I followed suit, and as both of us stepped out into the gloomy Austin atmosphere, my brother spun around on his heel and yelled, “We’re late! Just grab some napkins so we can get the hell out of here!”

“What have I just said about bad words!” came Mom’s immediate reply.

Sam sprinted up to us as David replied, “I’m outside. It doesn’t count.”

A grin etched its way into my mouth as we entered David’s light grey Camaro. Our neighborhood turned into a hazy blur as we sped our way onto the main road. Like many summer mornings, Austin’s sky was painted a dull grey. Lights dotted the horizon, mostly tall apartment complexes and corporations. There were barely any people walking down the commercial side of Austin, and as the wind picked up, the entire metropolitan area took on an ‘abandoned city’ vibe.

The gloomy air matched my hatred for early education, and the more I lingered in this depressive state, the more tired I felt.

A sigh left me, earning David’s interest.

“Hey,” he called out to me. I turned my head, waiting for what he’d say. “Only a few more weeks, and it’s over, Isa. Just two more weeks, and you can kiss that High School goodbye.”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I pulled up my headphones, soaked in the melodies playing through my ears, and closed my eyes to rid myself of this dull reality.