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|Silence (standard:drama, 564 words)|
|Author: A.E. Sadler||Added: Aug 17 2001||Views/Reads: 1981/1||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. ### Tweet
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