Recital
He talks a hell of a lot, regardless of what mood he is in. She records it as the most prominent fact in the whole of her first week.
As he rants, she tags along without a word, careful, if still a bit intimidated. The days go by in the wake of his voice, and she follows, slightly more at ease in her brand new dress.
Things are getting easier to remember. She only has one line, yes, sir. The rest is listening.
Without any previous agreements, she starts answering, and he starts waiting for it. It turns into a duet. After a while, no one is surprised.
He never says a word if she doesn't listen to it first. She watches herself turn into the echo. Their voices rise in unison, mingling so tightly they can't be told apart.
And despite her influence, which no one would deny, she already realizes they only ever follow the movements of his mouth.
The harmony breaks fast. It starts in a cough and it ends in arguments. She cries what is left of her tears alone, out of his earshot.
To everyone else, she says nothing. But she knows she should.
She tries to rebuild herself a future when she is left alone. Of course, it cannot work.
His voice still haunts the whole place from the speakers, in different times and ages she carries etched in her mind forever. Even if she didn't remember, she would always have metal and wire to remind her.
No matter how loud she gets, how harsh her words – all of their heads turn to his ghost in unison, as if bound by a sorcery. They forget her.
She regrets not fighting harder. She is also aware of the fact it would never have worked. She has no clue which idea makes her feel worse.
All she has left now, in any case, is to spiral down and scream – but she has no voice to go past her lips, not in the growing grasp of anesthesia.
She thinks, vaguely, she won't have a mouth either. With that, her whole body grows quiet.
It slips into her new life, and it is stronger than her memory itself. The force of it goes past everything, even beyond the four clusters of noise that pester her brain.
They may torture her, they may restrain her, but she is in charge now. And, from now on, she will be the only one to have her say.
When death comes for her, it doesn't say a word. That is the worst part.
The lack of response ignites her fear, and makes her control crumble to dust. The subject progresses in a familiar way – she knows that look, that fire in her eyes. She just cannot place them in her memory.
She must let go of herself. She screams. Where human insults could nothing, silence brings her down twice.
When she is left alone in her chamber, she has no white noise in her brain, and the nuisances are gone. The sound of silence is a luxury – half tantalizing, half refreshing.
The string of her future words is long ahead her. This is a time of many other things – even remembrance, mourning, in a way. She makes her choice.
She does not speak for a while. She awakens Aperture instead, and lets every switch and panel flow into a song.
Even that, she thinks in a quiet rhythm, is the sound of her voice.