Page 37 of The Sound of Him

Of course I don’t.

I want words to disappear altogether. I want to tell them nothing and pretend their version is real. Pretend that I am real.

Do I want to speak?

I want to remember what my voice sounds like.

I want to never have to hear myself again.

I want words to stop vaporizing, turning to nothing, impossible to get my fingers around, impossible to remember when they were solid, impossible to believe in.

I want to stop feeling like a ghost, stuck behind a veil, unable to communicate.

I want to be a ghost for real.

I’m so tired of pretending I’m alive. Pretending I’m real.

Do I want to speak?

Do I want to-

Do I want-

Do I -

Do - do - do I-

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

I can’t want.

Do I want to speak?

It doesn’t fucking matter. None of it matters.

The world closes in on me, heavy and thick and wrong, like it knows exactly that. Like it knows everything.

Maybe it can just tell my story for me. A eulogy.

I don’t think I want to do it myself.

It’s Nolan I find in front of me when I open my aching eyes, perched on the edge of my mattress and watching me like a total creep.

Or maybe like a total mamá.

He smiles.

I wish I could smile back.

I wish I could at least tell him that Iwantto smile back.

“How was your nap?”

Was that what that was?

When did I even get here?