I only remember the loud things.

 

There is absolutely no running in the library.

But I had to move. I don't know what would have happened to me if I hadn't at least paced.

I paced from the A's of the fiction section to the 450's of the nonfiction biographies.

I took Stephen Hawking books off the shelves and put them back.

Some of the words started to make sense.

I checked out A Brief History of Time.

I sat down at an empty table, pointedly ignoring people and their staring at my minty shoes, and it was then that I realized I had forgotten how to read.

Should I talk to someone?

 

His voice attacked me from behind.

Attack (n): drift from a room's corner.

Shatter.

 

My body went numb.

His voice… hurts.

Like a hundred little glass pieces.

I felt light-headed.

I needed to run away.

I needed to get out of there.

My Cranium Maximus felt like the North Pole.

I panicked, read a book, relearning how to read.

 

His voice is soft in a loud way.

His voice is loud in a soft way.

Shattering glass is still delicate.

I'm the only one who can hear the loud part.

In him, anyway.

People say, "He's so fragile."

I respond, "I'll shove your head up your Gluteus Maximus."

People are stupid and ugly.

 

People hurt people.

I hurt people. I'm an ass.

His voice hurts me because it's shattered glass.

A hundred pieces of it.

I don't want to hurt anymore.

 

I am fragile.

Butterfly-fragile.

Maybe even glass-fragile.

People say, "You're so strong."

I nod; shallow people like me feed off of lies like that.

But I bruise easy.

 

His voice reminded me of that.

His voice reminded me of how to read.

To read, you run.

To read, you sew your mouth shut.

To read, you get away.

To read, you shut down the main brain.

To read, you get cold.

 

To read, you shut out voices that hurt like shattered glass.

And you die with your own voice in your head.

 

I only remember the loud things.