Sweet Sound of Silence

by Melanie Dawn

  Alexis lightly stroked her canvas, choosing several different colors to express herself. I watched her concentrating on her painting, occasionally closing her eyes to draw out some more emotion. Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, she bit her lip in concentration. She looked content, pleased with the way her masterpiece was turning out.

  I grabbed another brush and dipped it into the red, harshly smacking the brush against the canvas, causing blotchy, splatters of bright red anger across the dark surface. The bleakness of my heart was mottled with red hot, stinging rage. And that stupid, depressing music was eating at me from the inside out. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. I just took it out on my canvas, blindly jabbing my fury out onto my painting with spiteful vengeance.

  Finally, Dr. Atkins ended my misery by turning off the music. “Now, I’d like you to share your pieces with your partner. Each person try to analyze the other’s painting. Read into the colors, the marks. How was your partner feeling while they painted? Make notes and then we’ll discuss them with the class. You’ve got five minutes.”

  Alexis smiled, clearly pleased with this assignment. I, however, wanted to throw the damn thing out the window and move on.

  She held her painting up for me to see. Brightly colored swirls of red, yellow, orange, and purple covered the canvas. “What does it look like to you?” she asked, knowing she wouldn’t receive a response.

  Honestly, it looked like a unicorn had taken a dump after eating a bag of Skittles.

  I just stared at her. Was she always just one big ball of fucking sunshine? I glowered at the painting, sinking back against my chair as I tried to avoid her delighted expression.

  “Let’s have a look at yours,” she offered, her sweet voice washing over me like silk on sandpaper.

  I wanted to rip mine to shreds. Why should I bother showing it to her? Her emotions were far too jubilant and simplistic to understand the complexity of mine.

  “Come on,” she coerced, “don’t be shy.”

  I relented to her pleading expression, holding up the dead, black canvas splattered with red blotches of self-contempt. Glancing at her, I immediately noticed her eyes gloss over.

  I WAS NO expert, but I understood that painting. It reflected the expression in his eyes every time he looked at me—hurt and anger.

  I tried to gain my composure and analyze the painting just the way Dr. Atkins had assigned. “You used the black to hide something, to cover something… guilt? Happiness, maybe? And the red… well, red represents anger or blood… or pain. You’re hurting, but you’re mad about it?” I glanced up at him, trying to see if I was even halfway on the right track. He glared at me, brow furrowed. Oh no. I was wrong. I knew it. I suck at this whole analyzing thing. I covered my face for a moment, embarrassed. When I peeked between my fingers, I saw his mouth gaping with an expression of frustration in his eyes.

  Just then, as if someone jolted him with a bolt of electricity, he flung his painting onto the desk, grabbed his bag, and stood up quickly, nearly sending his desk flying in the process. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  The class jumped at the sound of the slamming door. For an instant, the room was silenced—all eyes on me. I gulped, wanting to disappear. Instead, I slid down in my desk, completely humiliated. Talking resumed and the moment of shock was over.

  Class finally ended and everyone filed out of the room. The blush that had crept its way up my neck retreated as I packed up my bag.

  Dr. Atkins made her way over to me, squatting beside my desk. “Is everything all right?” she whispered.

  I nodded, willing the tears back in my head.

  “You stirred something in him,” she said softly, looking past the open door into the empty hallway.

  “I can’t do this,” I insisted. “I need a new partner.” My eyes pleaded with her. I needed her to understand how serious I was. I needed to work with someone else. I couldn’t work with a mute. He was impossible.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. There’s no one else left to partner with. Besides, considering the circumstances, you two seem to be doing great.”

  “Great?” I questioned. “You call storming out of the room halfway through class ‘great’?”

  She nodded. “My colleagues and I have watched him since last year. No one breaks through to Ryder the way you just did. That was monumental.”

  “It was?” I asked meekly. I felt really bad for upsetting him like that. He’d obviously been through enough.

  “You’re gonna be an amazing therapist someday. Known him all of five minutes and you’re already causing reactions like that? I’m impressed.”

  Wow. She really meant that. I could sense the sincerity in her voice. I was gonna be an amazing therapist someday? My heart swelled with pride. It wasn’t every day a freshman got a compliment like that from a tenured professor.

  “Thank you,” I told her. “I really appreciate that.”

  She smiled warmly. “Don’t worry your head one more second about Ryder. He’ll be back. And I bet he’ll look at you a little bit differently. He knows the reaction you created in him, and he knows you’re the first. Yep. Things will be different. Just you wait and see.”

  I nodded, hoping she was right. Grabbing my bag, I headed out the door for my next class. I worried about Ryder. I wondered where he had gone or if he was okay. I could tell enough by looking at his eyes that he was hurting. Behind those brooding, angry eyes was unfathomable pain. It wasn’t my mission to force him to speak. I just wanted to understand his silence. Then I reminded myself that he hated me, and suddenly I wondered why I cared so much.

  I HOOFED IT across campus. I had to get out of that room, away from that girl who’d read way deeper into my artwork than I’d intended. She saw something in it that I’d never expected. Truth. I stalked across the quad, ignoring all the “hey Ryders” that were thrown my way. I just wanted to get to my room. My bed. Silence. Solitude.

  Flinging open the door of my room, I breathed a sigh of relief. Who knew that some freshman, who barely knew me at all, could see so deeply into my psyche with just a few strokes of paint? I tossed my backpack onto the floor and flopped down onto my bed, covering my head with my pillow.

  I just wanted to go to sleep and forget this ever happened. Lying there in the silence for what seemed like an eternity, I eventually nodded off.

  “Ryder?” A woman’s frantic, muffled voice called.

  I looked around. A group of angry men were standing over me. I tried to move, but my arms were tied down by my sides.

  “Ryder?” the voice shrilled again.

  Before I could speak, one of the men stuffed a ball gag into my mouth and tied it around my head. My eyes stung with tears as my reflex kicked in, my tongue heaving against the gag.

  “Ryder!” the voice of my mother was clear now. “Answer me!”

  The door swung open. Only it wasn’t my mother. It was Alexis. The frightened look of horror on her face and the silent scream coming from her mouth were the last things I remembered before a cold, seemingly never-ending bucket of water was doused on my face.

  I woke up choking, gasping for air. Bolting up, I realized I was still in my dorm room, alone. There was no ball gag, no bucket of water. It was only a dream. I clutched a firm hand to my chest where my heart was beating frantically. Thank god. It was only a dream, I reminded myself. But the look on Alexis’s face was burned into my memory. I needed something to clear my head. I needed to get that look of panic erased from my mind. I needed to get out of here.

  It was already almost seven o’clock. I’d slept for almost three hours. That’s the longest stretch of sleep I’d gotten in months, even with the sleep aid I usually took at night.

  I grabbed a shower and dug through my laundry bag for the freshest pair of jeans. Opening my desk drawer, I counted my quarters. I needed to hit up the Laundromat soon because I’d just put on my last clean pair of boxers. I slipped into a T
-shirt and slid my feet into my Vans, squirting a little cologne on to hide any unwanted odor from my not-so-fresh jeans. College, where jeans and bed sheets fall last on the list of laundry priorities.

  Snatching up the bag that held my pool stick, I slung it over my shoulder. I needed to stop by the pharmacy for my new refill before I headed over to Cagney’s. Cagney’s was a hole-in-the-wall place with a few billiard tables in the back. I knew I could get a table all to myself if I got there early enough. And when I returned with my new bottle of pills after a few games of eight-ball, I had a whole night of dreamless sleep to look forward to. Stuffing my wallet into my back pocket, I headed out the door to play some pool—the only place where I was in control.

  I JUST COULDN’T get Ryder’s painting out of my head. For two whole days, his artwork haunted me. The intensity of his eyes as he’d watched me react to it still plagued me. After a couple of dream-filled nights, stewing over the dark meaning behind his painting, I’d woken up that morning with those deep, red splotches of pain still tormenting me. Keeping myself busy, I tried to wipe it out of my mind, but it was no use.

  While I was sitting next to his empty desk in Psych 10 that day and wondering where he was, Ryder staggered into class late and plopped down beside me. His eyes were bloodshot, and his expression was blank. Leaning back in his chair, he stared into space, uninterested in the lecture.

  “You okay?” I asked, trying to get his attention.

  Of course, he didn’t answer, but the look on his face was very telling as he tried to focus his glassy eyes on me. He was high on something.

  “You… don’t look so good,” I stammered.

  He ignored my comment as his head flopped back. Suddenly the ceiling seemed very interesting to him. He stared at it for a couple of minutes before he opened his notebook. He tried to take notes, but his hand didn’t seem to want to cooperate. The words looked so sloppy as if he were too drunk to write.

  I leaned toward him and whispered, “Seriously, are you okay?” He must’ve taken something before class.

  He didn’t respond, or even acknowledge me. Instead, he lay his head down on his desk and passed out. He slept through the rest of the lesson. I nudged him when Dr. Atkins finished her lecture and released us from class. He stirred a little, but didn’t jump right up or anything.

  “Should we be worried?” I asked, motioning toward him as I walked past Dr. Atkins.

  She cast a concerned glance in his direction. “I bet he pulled an all-nighter and just needs some sleep.”

  “You’re probably right,” I nodded, although I wasn’t entirely convinced. I felt sure she wasn’t either.

  “I’ll keep my eye on him,” she whispered.

  I felt relieved. The way he was acting, so stone-cold out of it, worried me.

  I’d stopped in the hallway to speak to a friend when I saw him stagger past me. I wondered if I should follow him, but the glaring look he gave me convinced me otherwise.

  After all, I barely knew him. It was none of my business.

  I WOKE UP in my jeans, lying on top of my blankets. My shoes were on my feet. My clock read 3:48pm. Did I sleep all day? For some strange reason, I couldn’t remember anything after I’d popped several sleeping pills the night before. But I remembered that I was in my boxers and ready for bed, when I took them. When did I get dressed? How did I tie my shoes? I racked my brain, trying to remember.

  I saw my notebook for Psych 10 lying on the floor, so I picked it up and flipped to the last page of notes. Today’s date had been sloppily written at the top. Shit, I went to class today?

  Trying to decipher my own handwriting was difficult. It was as if I’d written the notes with my other, non-dominant hand. What the hell? I didn’t even remember being in class at all. The realization scared me. I’d never been that out of it before. Sure, I’d slept through the night and half the next day before, but I had never sleep-walked… that I know of.

  I still felt groggy, but well enough to go and get some food at the cafeteria. In fact, my stomach was growling at me. I hadn’t eaten anything in nearly twenty-four hours. Well, that is until I saw the open can of soda and half eaten pack of peanut butter crackers on my bedside table. I guess I did have a bite to eat. Sleep-eating—that’s a new one.

  Not being able to piece time together scared the hell out of me, and I vowed never to take that many pills at one time again. Although the effects of the pills were starting to wear off as the pain in my heart had begun to return. Just one pill tonight, I swore to myself. But I wasn’t sure just one would be enough.

  “HOW DO YOU think I should wear my hair for the mixer with Lance next weekend? Up or down?” Brynlee asked as we sat around a table in the cafeteria.

  I absently slid the food around on my plate with my fork. “I think it would look good down, with some curls maybe.”

  Brynlee thought about it for a second. “I don’t know. I think it would look better with my outfit if it were up.”

  Gia piped up. “I heard Lance say you looked good with your hair up, so I say up. Definitely up.”

  Brynlee nodded. I stared down at my food. I just couldn’t get Ryder off my mind. The guy was pretty messed up in class, and it really freaked me out. There were several times during the class that I wondered if he was even breathing.

  Gia waved her hands in front of my face. “Earth to Lexi.”

  I snapped to attention, nearly dropping my fork.

  Gia cocked her head to the side, furrowing her brows. “Damn, girl, what’s got you all jumpy? Where’re you at, anyway?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” I lied. “Just thinking about the quiz we had today in Statistics. It kicked my ass.”

  She pursed her lips. “Well, better luck next time girl. Maybe you could get your hot musician boyfriend to help you,” she smirked.

  I grimaced. Yeah, right. I can barely get him to hold a conversation over the phone. “Maybe,” I said, stuffing a bite of food in my mouth to avoid having to talk anymore.

  Brynlee and Gia were still discussing the dress Brynlee planned to wear for the mixer when Ryder strode in. He kept his head low with one hand on the strap of his backpack and the other tucked into the front pocket of his skinny jeans. His usual MO—he didn’t look up or acknowledge anyone. He just went straight for the buffet to get a plate of food. I watched him slide his tray down the metal bars, pointing at his selection to the workers. His biceps flexed as he shifted the weight of his backpack from one side to the other. His black Vans scuffed across the floor as he trudged toward the cashier.

  “What are you…?” Gia didn’t need to finish asking me what I was looking at because her eyes traveled down my line of sight and landed on him. “Oh…” she quipped. She looked back at me with a smirk.

  Brynlee turned around in her seat to get a glimpse of whom we were referring. She immediately snapped her head back and rolled her eyes. “Weirdo…” she mouthed the word. Her lips froze into a perfect O as she circled her finger a few times around her temple, the universal sign for ‘crazy.’

  I glanced back in his direction. His misshapen white v-neck T-shirt slouched on his shoulders as he shuffled to a table by himself. He seemed haggard as he slid into his chair and leaned one elbow on the table.

  “I don’t know guys,” I debated, shaking my head. “He doesn’t seem so dangerous.”

  Brynlee grimaced, clearly displeased with my opinion. “I’m telling you… the dude is straight up strange. Now put your eyes back in your head and your tongue back in your mouth. Show’s over.”

  I shook my head, furrowing my eyebrows. “I’m not interested in him, Brynlee. He just seems lonely. It would suck to feel that way. Don’t you think?”

  Gia reached out, grabbed my chin in her hand, and turned my face to look at her. “Look at me,” she demanded. “The guy is looney. Get that through your head. Stop feeling sorry for him and recognize him for what he is. Weirdo,” she drawled, emphasizing the last syllable for effect.

  I jerked my chin fr
om her hand and broke eye contact with her, groaning. “Maybe he’s not so bad. You don’t really know him.”

  Brynlee leaned in and whispered harshly, “Nor do we want to. Now can we forget the freak for a minute and talk about more important things?” She shut off the bitchy tone and turned on a perky one instead, patronizing me with her sticky sweet smile, “Like if I should wear my strappy silver sandals or my black stiletto heels to the party?”

  Gia nodded. “Strappy sandals for sure.”

  I ignored them, looking at my phone in my lap. It suddenly dawned on me that he’d put his number in my phone on the first day of Psych 10. And I had the sudden urge to reach out to him, so I shot him a text.

  You okay?

  I pretended to seem interested in Gia and Brynlee’s conversation, but occasionally stole a glance at Ryder to see if he’d gotten the text. On the third stolen glance, I caught him looking at his phone.

  He immediately snapped his eyes up, looking anxiously around the room.

  I fired off another message.

  It’s just me—Alexis. You didn’t seem okay in class. I was worried about you.

  He glanced down at his phone again, pursing his lips.

  When he looked back up again, he caught my gaze, freezing in his place. I grinned at him, warm and friendly. He didn’t return a smile or a text. Instead, he cringed and rubbed the back of his neck. His shoulders slumped as he slid down in his seat a little and glanced toward the exit. Then, with his lips pressed tight, he grabbed his backpack off the floor, and leaving his tray on the table, made a beeline for the door. What started out as a slow walk quickly accelerated to a sprint. He was out the door in a flash, with the door slamming hard behind him.

  Gia was watching me as I shifted in my seat. “See,” she sighed, as she reached out and placed her hand over mine. “I can see your wheels spinning, Alexis. You can’t save him. He’ll have to do that on his own.”

  I nodded. Maybe she was right.