A/N: Here we are. Jesse's my favorite, even though I don't think he should've been so mean to Rachel. Enjoy the prologue, dears.
*Glee is not mine, despite my wildest dreams.
Being cursed from birth is a burden that none should have to bear. To be silent is to be invisible, and to be invisible is to be forever forgotten. All the same, to be such a thing is better than to be always ridiculed. By blending in, a person can get by; by getting by, a person can escape the brutality of others easily. Theatricality can kill people, if those people are not prepared to face the consequences of being so ridiculously outspoken.
However, when a person does not have such a choice, the pain of being unable to speak out and up for themselves is excruciating. Without a voice, the human body is little more than a soulless corpse, incapable of naught but dependence on their fellows. To fade into obscurity is preferable to being such a leeching life form, a needy dependent on society.
I'm the greatest leech of all. To be sheltered in the same way I am is to be a parasite on those near one; reliance on others is the only way to get by.
My parents home-school me. I'm the most spoiled child in the entire Midwest, or, at the very least, in the top five percent. I adore my family, and they are my saving grace. They go out of their way to do everything that can be done to make my life easier, and I think they've wasted a lot of their lives for it.
As you, dear reader, may or may not have pieced together, my body doesn't work quite the way that I want it to. Rather, one specific region of my body doesn't, or at least not when I want it to. You see, I'm a selective mute.
As a small child, I was bullied by a teacher; I was hardly six years old, and I had said something out of line in class. She proceeded to say some less than nice things to me (it wasn't the first time I had spoke when not spoken to), and I haven't been quite the same since. My parents pulled me from school, and I haven't gone back there from that day.
I don't live up to my name anymore, although as a child I was the greatest chatterbox of all time. My name, Kalliope, means beautiful voice, and I suppose I used to have such a thing – my parents and teachers could never get me to shut up back then. Nowadays, though, I'm as quiet as they come… and it isn't a choice, either. My family are the only ones who have heard me talk for ten years, though many a therapist has tried to work me out of my "funk."
I'm fairly certain that my disability is why they never had any more kids. I'm such a mess – why would they ever want another screw-up like me? To be honest, I can't say that I am blame them. I wouldn't want a child like me either.
There's a lot of irony in the fact that my favorite subject at home is Modern Greek (as Ancient Greek is a dead language), and even more in that I love to speak it. My mother was born in Greece, and immigrated to the States when she was eleven (God knows why she moved to Ohio). She and my dad were a fairytale unto themselves; he was the first friend she made at school, and he was the one who taught her most of her English. He is Hispanic, and Mom is Greek; at that small-town, predominantly Caucasian school, they were the oddest pair that could be seen walking down the hallway.
I've always liked the fluidity of the human voice; excuse me while I'm vain for a moment, but I really do like to hear myself talk. It doesn't happen often, and when it does, the value of the words is impeded by the pathological shyness that is forever affecting my life. As stated before, I haven't spoken to anyone that's related to me in over ten years; it gets to a person after awhile, especially a teenager, not having any friends.
At the very least, though, I do have my parents, and I adore them to the point of no return. I mean, sweet baby James, I can't imagine how much patience it took on their part to learn to deal with my "little quirk" as they call it. And I'm a real brat sometimes, too; I don't know how they've managed to put up with me all these years.
Really, to be honest, the only thing I'm good for is going out to get groceries, and to pick up pizza occasionally, and one time, I even messed that up. Mom and Dad thought it was funny, but I really did feel bad about it.
Oh well. I don't mean to whine so much, or be so ungrateful. Given how bad some people have life, things are going pretty well for Kalliope Vitar. A person just gets a little tired of having to depend on others to communicate after awhile…
I think glee clubs put on the most stunning performances I've ever seen. Mom was in glee club when she was in high school, and that's why she named me Kalliope; her voice, Dad says, is what made him fall in love with her. She smiles and shakes her head every time, and then tells me, after Dad's left the room, that she got to give me that name because Vitar needed balanced out with a little Mediterranean spice… but I digress.
Since I was little, even before I lost my voice, Mom would take me to show choir invitationals, dragging dad along whenever she could. The glitz and the glam and the lights that glanced off the stage make-up; it was the most beautiful sight to me then, and it still is now. Secretly, I've always kind of dreamed of getting up in that auditorium and belting my heart out; I'm not naïve enough to think that would ever be possible with this social disorder that's taken over my life. Besides, my voice doesn't live up to my name anymore. It's raspy from lack of use, and it cracks when I get to an odd point in my vocal register…
I've learned to settle for less, though. There's beauty in simply hearing and seeing a performance, although I know I can never join in. In fact, I think I almost appreciate it more than most, due to my disability.
Sometimes, it's just necessary to appreciate the little things… because the little things bring big ones along with them.
"If the bombs go off "Cave In" by Owl City
the sun will still be shining
because I've heard it said
that every mushroom cloud
has a silver lining...