Page 29 of The Sound of Him

I don’t even know if they were meant to match. The pen came in a pack with other pens. Not all of those pens have a notebook in the same color scheme. But these two matched, and looking at the blue makes me warm, so I have them with me, alongside my blue bunny.

I wonder what he’d say if I told him that.

I wonder what he’d say if I admitted that I haven’t been able to use his hair stuff yet because I can’t get myself to shower. Ialways end up just standing in the bathroom, staring at the tub, shaking so hard I worry I’ll come apart at the seams.

It’s almost as stupid as the fact that I couldn’t control my head just now, and sometimes can’t control my hands, and can’t speak even though there’s no reason for it. Nothing bad happened to me in the shower. At least, nothing bad enough to stick out. It’s just that the thought of taking each piece of clothing off and keeping it off, keeping it all off, all at once, just being there naked and empty and not even a real person, it - it makes it hard to breathe.

Would he find that stupid? The man who gave me the tote bag?

What was his name again?

Dr. Singh.

Wait, no, that’s not him - that’s the other one. The therapist is Dr. Singh.

This man is…

“He’ll write the information he wants you to know down for you, if you’d rather learn that way,” he says. He’s leaning back against the counter, dressed in dark jeans and one of those sweaters that only has a zipper part of the way down the chest. It’s pale blue, so light and soft against the dark skin of his throat. “If you don’t want to meet with him, I’ll tell him to write it all down instead. It’s probably just a list of things, really. He’ll want you to know the resources here and if he has any ideas or a plan for your own individual therapy. That kind of thing. He can slip it under your door when he’s finished with it. Or send it to you with one of your friends. Hell, I’d bring it, if you wanted. You don’t have to see him.”

The coffee mug he’s cradling to his chest sends steam swirling up to his face as he tilts his head at me. It’s not the type of head tilt I’m used to, though. It isn’t the same way people move theirhead when they’re trying to figure me out, or when they pity me, or when they can’t understand what I’m trying to communicate.

This is just… a head tilt. Like he wants to look at me from a different angle for no other reason than to justlook.

Actually, it reminds me an awful lot of a puppy. Especially when he suddenly smiles, surprisingly bright for the topic of conversation. It feels like he should have floppy ears and paws too big for his body.

“I’ll warn you, though. He’s going to want to talk to you eventually. He’ll keep trying. He’s a stubborn asshole like that.” His smile shifts into an over-exagerated expression of disgust. “He’s kind of the worst, but he means well.”

It doesn’t make me laugh, or even smile, but it makes mewantto. My lips even manage to twitch a little, like they’re trying to remember how a smile works. It’s… nice.

This is kind of nice.

“Here - let’s make this easier. If you want to see him right now, give me two fingers. If you want me to tell him to write his stuff down instead, give me three. If you want me to politely fuck off so you can think about it and deal with it yourself, just give me one finger - the middle one, even, if you so choose. I’ll only be, like, 3% offended and I don’t hold grudges anyway. Hell, I probably deserve it these days,” he adds with a suddenly sad look on his face that he quickly hides behind another smile.

I get the strongest feeling that he’s good at hiding behind his smiles. If I wasn’t someone who spends all of his time having to just observe the world around him, rarely able to participate, I likely wouldn’t have even noticed the difference between this smile and the previous one. There is a difference, though.

I wonder why he thinks he deserves the middle finger.

I wonder why, without barely knowing a thing about him, without even remembering his name, I have this feeling in my gut that he’s wrong.

It doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that the very idea of meeting with Dr. Singh terrifies me. He’s going to have so many words. He’ll say so many things I’ll be meant to listen to and understand and remember. He’ll have questions, too, I bet. Questions he’ll want me to answer despite seeming to already know I can’t speak. It makes me feel itchy from the inside out.

What if he notices the shaking? What if it prompts him to ask even worse questions than I already expected? What if it provides the proof he needs to realize I’m not like the others? Would he let me stay, if he knew I was just a ghost?

“Ah, shit,” the man says. He steps forward and I’m stuck in place, heart lurching into my throat.

Except, his eyes aren’t on me - they’re on the apple.

“Little dude fell off the pile. Let me grab that.” He scoops the apple off the floor, gives it a quick inspection, and turns his back to me. I prepare for him to toss it in the garbage.

Instead, he turns the sink on, runs it under the water for a few seconds, turns the sink off, wipes it off with a paper towel, and shows me it with a proud smile that reminds me of that puppy again. “Want it? I hate this kind. Green ones are way better.”

Ace.

That’s his name - he told me it before. It’s Ace.

It’s a nice name. Easy. Just three finger shapes - the A, then the C, then the E.

He’s so…happy, even with that fake smile from before. He’s relaxed and gentle and warm. So warm.