Silence (standard:drama, 564 words)
Author: A.E. Sadler	Added: Aug 17 2001	Views/Reads: 3837/3	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Being unable to communicate can be the most frustrating experience in the world. Sometimes it can even be destructive.

SILENCE By A.E. Sadler 

"HELP!" 

I am shouting in the marketplace.  I am in the center of crowds, hordes
and hordes of crowds.  People rush by, back and forth, to and fro.  
People rush by, dogs are barking.  Donkeys bray.  Beneath my poncho my 
heart is racing, racing and trembling. 

"HELP!" 

No one hears me.  People keep rushing. 

They are buying pineapples and coconuts.  Someone bumps me, keeps moving
past.  My heart is racing, my pulse drumming, deafening, in my ears.  I 
can feel the convulsion coming.  It is coming, it is coming— 

"HELP!  AYUDA!" 

No one even looks at me.  They are busy.  The people of the marketplace
are busy.  It is their Saturday morning.  Saturday morning is sacred in 
this part of the world.  The donkeys are braying, loaded with the 
bounty of Saturday shopping.  People push past me, I am in their way, 
standing here in the middle of the marketplace.  I hold out my hand.  
It is red with blood. 

"AYUDA!  AYUDA!" 

I scream.  A dark-haired woman looks at me curiously.  Another older
woman beside her turns to look, too.  Their words are silent shapes 
from their mouths; they talk and talk and talk, and stare at me, and 
point, and even look concerned.  But I hear no sounds.  Only their lips 
are moving.  Fingers pointing. 

"What?  HELP!" 

I cannot hear them.  I do not know what they are saying.  Indeed, are
they saying anything?  They seem puzzled, the two women.  They shrug at 
each other and turn to leave. 

"HELP!  AYUDA!  AIDE!  AIUTO!" 

It is no use.  No one hears.  No one turns.  No one sees.  I sink to the
ground.  It is upon me.  My hand is red with blood.  My arms, my 
clothes.  All red, all blood.  I clasp my hand to my chest.  It is 
throbbing.  My hand, my chest...my hand convulses, my heart is clasped. 
 I make the signals, I make the signs.  My index and second fingers 
extend straight out touching each other.  I clasp my hand, I make the 
sign.  My palm faces outward, the index, second, third fingers touching 
the first joint of my thumb.  The blood is bubbling up from my chest.  
I have fallen to my knees.  People keep brushing past.  I feel the 
cloth of their skirts against my shoulder.  I am in the way, here in 
the marketplace.  It is Saturday, it is their sacred Saturday morning.  
They do not hear me, they do not see me.  I am screaming.  My index 
finger points straight out from my body with my thumb stretched 
downward at the right angle from it.  They can not hear me. 

I am sinking into a pool of my own blood.  It erupts from my chest like
a geyser now.  They do not see me.  I am in their way.  They mouth 
strange words.  I do not hear them.  They do not make any noise.  I am 
dying.  It is too late.  I clasp my hand.  In one last final effort, I 
clasp my hand.  I form the sign.  My hand faces down, its index finger 
slanting outward at a 45-degree angle, its second finger pointing down 
and back as if they are walking.  Walking away from me and out of my 
blood.  My thumb touches the second finger's first joint.  The third 
and little fingers curl into my palm like a fetus. 

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