Prologue-Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

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I didn't choose to be like this. It wasn't my fault. Nor was it anybody else's. It just sort of...happened.

If I went to a psychiatrist, and told them my life story, they would say I had what is known as 'elective mutism'. I did research and it means that I'll only talk in certain places that I'm comfortable in. Let me make it clear right now that that's a load of bull.

I don't talk to anyone.

I mean, I'm not saying that I can't, I just don't like talking to people. I've learned from experience that talking only gets me into trouble. I'd tell you all about it, but then we'd be here for awhile.

People call me Jack. Just Jack. I didn't choose it. I'm sure my mom didn't choose it. I don't remember who gave it to me. It appeared out of thin air when I really think about it.

Around here, Jack (that's me) gets blamed for everything. A window gets broken, Jack did it. Something goes missing, Jack took it. Sometimes it's a curse and a blessing. For instance, I don't have to answer to really stupid questions. On the other hand, I obviously can't stick up for myself. See where I'm getting at?

You know, it's kind of funny when people think that just because you don't talk, you can't hear them. When people walk up to me and start talking really loud, it takes a lot not to laugh. But by this method I've learned more about the town than anybody else.

That's right. I've learned all the good stuff people are too ashamed for anybody else to know. For instance, who's screwing who, who's kid made the varsity football team yesterday, which ex-Beatle was on the Simpson's last Saturday (Bet you didn't know I like rock'n'roll, did you?), that sort of junk.

I remember almost as if it was yesterday the day I officially became 'deaf'. I was around 7 years old and already living on my own. I went by Joe's every Tuesday for something to eat at about 6 o'clock in the evening. On this particular Tuesday, Joe wasn't standing at the counter waiting for me.

I went searching for him, like my little toddler instincts told me. It's strange the way that little kids seem to know how everything works. From the mouth of babies comes wisdom, some say. But not from mine.

I followed the counter all the way into the kitchen, where I saw Joe sitting slumped over in a chair. My little body froze for a second. I thought he was dead or something like that. I lost track of how long it took for me to walk over to him. Must have been at least a minute or two.

I stood next to him and just stared. What would you expect me to do? I was a little 4'2" kid who weighed about 50 pounds. Joe's thumb alone could squash me like a fly. You can't expect me to try and move him.

Anyways, I reached out with my little finger and tapped his shoulder. Time seemed to falter for a moment. I kept staring at him. Waiting for him to do something.

All of a sudden, he lurched up, taking in this great breath, as he put his hand over his eyes, wiping away the tears. He tried to chuckle but you could tell there was a hint of hurt in it. My heart stopped beating for that split second. He scared me so much I fell over and landed on my backside.

"Hehe, sorry Jackie. I should've known you were here," he said as he slipped the ring off his finger and examined it. Joe was a pretty tall guy, probably in his forties. He had a scar on the right side of his face, like a cat scratch or something. He always wore the ring on his right hand, on the finger next to his pinky. This was the only time I saw it off. After this, I never saw it again.

I didn't know what to do after that. I must've stood there, looking like an idiot, for at least five minutes. It finally clicked that something was up with his wife. He would later be put in the paper for committing suicide by way of shotgun thanks to it.

The one thing about Joe's Parlor is that there's an annoying-as-hell bell on the front counter. Sometimes when people are in a rush they get a bit trigger happy with it. There were times when I felt like throwing it against the wall just to get the sadistic pleasure of listening to the bell go 'ding' as the outside shatters in pieces. I have a rich fantasy life.

Somebody outside the kitchen started ringing the stupid thing over and over. I didn't feel much like turning around to see who it was, my brain was too focused on the way he was twisting the ring on his finger.

Joe looked up and stared at me staring back at him. He looked as if he knew I'd been lying about something this whole time and any minute I would crack under the pressure. To be totally honest, I almost did, until he spoke up.

"Hmm...I didn't know you were deaf, kiddo. I just thought you were being quiet on me. Give me a few minutes, kid, and I'll be back."

As he got up and left me there by myself in a kitchen full of hazardous pizza rollers, I thought about something, odd as it may seem. If people thought that you can't listen to them, then they'll say anything and everything without a second thought. It was the most brilliant plan since...since...since the invention of ice cream or something. (No really, I did think of that.)

From that moment on, I was deaf to the world around me. Well, almost. About a year after that, two days before my birthday, the police came and stuck me in the Bethany Christian Services Adoption Agency. Plucked right out of Joe's place. I don't know how he knew I was an orphan. I don't know who he called. In fact, I don't really know much beyond that point.

Since then, I've been in and out of three families, up until I was 18. The first time I was adopted was when I was almost nine, by a family who had no idea about raising a kid with a 'disability'. But they tried, and I'll commend them for that much. The second was by widow who had lost her daughter to a fire. The most she wanted was to hear her son laugh, but I couldn't give even that to her. I beat myself up for it all the time.

The third was the toughest. Not family wise, more like outside the home. I was fourteen when the Murray's adopted me. Both my parents had one thing in common with me. They were deaf too.

Actually, I had fun while I was there. It was from there that I started going to the library every week at closing time and listened to a scratchy Beatles album as I finished 'Don Quixote'. The librarian always played them as she locked up the place, as she figured it wouldn't bother me. In truth it didn't, but be forewarned, the Beatles have nothing to do with this (you Charlie Manson psychos).

Communication was easy, despite what you're thinking. BCSAA took me to any available signing class within the area. The language itself was easy to 'speak', but 'listening' to it was the hard part. Quickly got over that dilemma. Had to, actually.

The Murray's names were Alice and Dave. Alice had a sandy blonde color hair, with green eyes, which I loved to stare at. She liked to write books, and even had a few published, but they never made it big. Once, I gave her a copy of 'Alice in Wonderland' and she nearly broke down crying. I never did understand why.

Dave was almost an exact opposite. He had jet black hair, and always wore a five o'clock shadow. He was a little taller than Alice, and loved to do nothing more than watch NASCAR. When I was fifteen we built a Soapbox Derby car and raced in the local, but never won. That was good times, building the stupid hunk of fiberglass.

School was awful. I hated going to school about as much as I liked getting my teeth extracted without the anesthesia. There was always this kid who thought it was funny to pick on me and shout behind my back, trying to get me to jump. When I think about it, it was good practice for the useful times I was supposed to freak out when the fire alarm went off.

Well, that's my life story, up until I get in trouble. All the trouble with the law happened when I was 17, a week before my 18th birthday. Now remember, when a person is 18, they're tried as an adult in court. That knowledge will come in handy in future chapters.

Sometimes life's frustrating, and I just want to scream.

Scream bloody murder.

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Well, what'd you think? Don't worry, the actually CSI stuff comes in next (or somewhere down the line). Oh yeah, if you want info about either the BCSAA or the All-American Soapbox Derby, contact me. No, you will not find 'Jack' in either of them.