Where Thoughts Cannot Speak

 You stumble over yourself.

 You have the correct thoughts, all lined up in order of most to least important; the words playing on your tongue, itching to jump out. You know what you want to say, you feel your mouth open, about to voice it but that’s when it all shatters. Any dreams you could have possibly had about having a normal conversation run for the closest window to catapult themselves out of. Then like a wave of trauma, the stuttering comes. The shaking of the leg. The darting of the eyes. You had a trail of thought yet – oh wait there it is! You found it! It’s in a lonely, chilly ditch that is surrounded by other lost ideas, covered in a sheet of black. You instantly know that what you were about to say wasn’t that important anyway. The world could do with one less blabbing mouth.

You can write your thoughts down; you aren’t all that bad at writing letters. Look, last Tuesday you left a note on the kitchen table for your cousin, because you know he’ll be waking up late again. You know he won’t fix himself some breakfast and probably won’t remember to change his clothes.

 “Dear Elias,

There is some left-over pizza in the fridge, but I think you should make some porridge instead. There’s a clean shirt on the couch. I didn’t iron it, but you don’t mind the creases so I though you could wear it. Try not to watch TV, you will feel better if you go for a walk. The sun is really sunny today. I’ll be back for lunch at about 2:30pm If I don’t run into that really chatty little kid that you used to babysit. I can get us some fish and chips; we haven’t had that in a while. It will be nice.

-Bram.”

 You were meant to look out for each other, so you make sure to write him a note every day. You don’t know if he ever reads them though, because he always eats the pizza and watches Criminal Masterminds anyway.

You walk down the same road every day and you see the same people with their moving mouths as they flit around like hornets. There is always this one lady you see; she has curly black hair and a red watch. You don’t think she ever uses it, but maybe she just likes the way it ticks. You like the way clocks tick. Tick tock, tick tock. They remind you that you are there, that you are you and that time moves forward, carrying you in its empty basket.

The barista’s always snappy. You think she might have a problem with her eyes, but don’t want to say anything because it would be rude. She always does this thing where they roll around in a circle. Maybe it’s a game. Maybe you should try play sometime. Elias doesn’t like games though; he doesn’t like jokes much either which suits you fine since only you hear enough of the joke to find it funny anyway.

 You walk into the Library that you have been working at for 3 months now, with a strawberry smoothie because you’re not supposed to have caffeine. It makes you hyper. Plus, you like the way the strawberry seeds crunch and it’s a nice deep red colour that reminds you of the curly haired lady’s watch. Tick tock.

You wave at the older woman at the desk. You like her. She talks but doesn’t ask you questions. She goes to get her jean bag with bright yellow feathers and always smiles and says “That’s a nice chap! I’m off then.” She is like one of those aunts, those ones that are always chirpy and perky. You like her.

 You like your job. Your hours. It’s one of the only libraries that is open 24 hours, but you can only work in the mornings because Elias might try to pull a fast one again. You don’t have cutlery in the house anymore, so he should be fine. You always try and imagine what he’s doing while you’re gone; not that he does much anymore. He used to love music, was the best at piano and would always make you smile thinking of the lovely white keys and the way his hands moved over them. You wish he would play again, but he always says that he doesn’t feel like it. He never feels like doing anything anymore.

 At 10 am, every Tuesday, a girl around your age comes in. She has wavy copper hair and deep brown eyes like the wooden bookcases. Your mouth always goes dry when she comes in, wearing a floral flowy dress with an armful of books. You jump up to help her with them because if she drops them then she could mess up the pages up, which would be bad. She always smiles saying “Thank you”, but just before she can say something you go back to the desk. You go back so that you don’t have to speak. You secretly hate it, knowing that you will become a nuisance to anyone if you start talking. No one’s that patient to listen to you try to swim your way out of a sea of “ers” and “ums” that roll over your mouth every time you want to say something.

Elias listens. He never reacts and you don’t say much anyway, but he doesn’t sigh or huff. He just stares at the wall and runs his right thumb over his left palm.

But one Tuesday, the girl follows you to the desk. She plops the remaining books down, looking like she’s nervous. Maybe she’s just like Elias and you, like your Mother used to say; you’re both “different”, not special, but different. Which is alright because you don’t need to be special to someone, you just want them to tolerate you. To be nice.

 “It’s quite nippy out, ai?”, the girl says, taking her scarf off.

 Didn’t she just say that she was cold?

 You laugh, a way to indulge in conversation, you learnt, without needing to talk. So, you look away because you know you don’t look good when you smile. You know because you practice smiling in the bathroom mirror, mastering the art of conveying words without uttering a sound. You know it’s not your best feature, kind of crooked and your scruffy, tawny hair doesn’t help. But you don’t care.

 “I’ve noticed you around,” she says, clearing her voice.

 You check in her books in an attempt to distract her from the conversation, but she doesn’t catch on, so you say one of the few words you can without embarrassing yourself.

 “Yeah,” with a slight laugh.

 “I’m Camilla, by the way,” she continues. “But everyone calls me Millie. Camilla’s too prim and proper. Not to say I don’t like it, I do, I just think Millie is easier to say and doesn’t make me sound so uptight.”

She was right. That had been one of the first things you’d notice about her. She didn’t have acrylic nails or fancy hair styles; she wore baggy coats and long skirts, sometimes an odd assortment of different fabrics and read Wuthering heights at least once a month. She obviously didn’t mind.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

 Your hands stop at the computer and your heartbeat speeds up. You were fine with her knowing you from a distance but aren’t fine with making a complete fool of yourself. There was no option, though. You lick your lips and clear your throat, preparing to make yourself look like a dweeb.

 “I’m er – I’m Br – I’m Bram. Um...ye-s.”

You feel yourself going red as heat crawls up your neck. But she doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t roll her eyes or give you a patronizing look.

“I like that name. It’s short and sounds nice too. So, both our names are short and easy to remember. I can never remember long names, I’m actually not good at remembering things all that well,” she laughs. “Someone needs to tell me something 10 times before I can remember it!”

You smile.

 So that’s why she’s check out Wuthering Heights so often.