Times to go deaf

There should have been a lot of noise: people cheering, blood pounding in your ears, an internal chant of don’t trip, don’t trip, the starter pistol. But the gun is smoking, and suddenly the ground is racing backward. Was the wind whistling by your ears? Were your feet beating rhythmically against the asphalt?

You would be up by now, but it was a late night. You remember Ben wrapped a strong hand around your arm and begged you to have another drink. The phone might be ringing, but Vermouth is still sloshing around your head and the warm, fat comforter is in your ears. So you sink back to your dreams, and Ben raises his glass as he toasts to you.

There were shots and then sirens, but now there’s nothing, not even your own screaming. Maybe no one can hear you. Maybe no one will ever hear you again, and you’ll never hear another Springsteen song or your sister’s laugh or thunder on a stormy April night. You try comforting yourself because this means no more parents screaming at each other over the phone bill, and no more hair metal, and no more gunshots ever, ever again.