Disappear
"The world doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, does it?"
-Leonard Shelby
Memento
They said it would be sudden. They said it would be complete. And it was.
Complete, sudden silence.
Their mouths moved, but there wasn't sound. A glass fell and shattered, but it was a cascade of beautiful silence; there was no noise. He pushed the mute button on and off on the remote control. There was no difference. He tried screaming; he could feel his blood pressure rise and his face shift from dusky to a more scarlet complexion. He knew that he could create sound.
But there was still nothing. He was deaf.
It hadn't happened at work, and that was good. He had only gotten home twenty minutes earlier; it had been a long, stressful day, and all he had wanted to do was kick off his shoes and relax. He had been listening to opera to soothe his emotions that he tried desperately not to show, and then it just happened. At one moment he was concentrating on the waves of the music, and then suddenly there was no music. He got up, wondering what was wrong with the stereo; he hadn't understood right away. The stereo said the CD was playing, but there was no music. He tried switching CD's, unplugging and plugging the stereo in, and even upping the volume to full blast before he began to understand what had happened. He started to stomp on the floor with his feet, and there was nothing. He started drumming his hands on the walls; he repeatedly turned on and off the water faucet, and still, still nothing. At one point, he broke a dish across the counter top, and when it sprayed silently across the kitchen, he understood the complete and sudden silence. And yet he could not accept it, and he kept breaking the dishes, throwing them across the kitchen to the far wall on the other side of the apartment, where they would connect and shatter with no noise whatsoever. He couldn't stop throwing them, as though if he threw them long enough, the silence would end, and the noise would come back. If he worked long enough, everything would flood back to how it was supposed to be, but it didn't. The silence stayed. He felt hot tears roll down his cheeks. He felt his throat constrict with sobbing. He could feel another glass shattering in his own hand and drawing blood from his palm and fingers to drip with the shards of glass on the cold kitchen tile. He felt all of this, but he could hear nothing.
And it was over. Sudden and complete silence.
He remembered closing his eyes, and then opening them suddenly, frightened like a little boy in a dark room. Because it was worse than being frightened of the boogeymen you couldn't see; when you were deaf, the whole world disappeared when you closed your eyes, and you were alone, defenseless, handicapped.
Now he sat on his couch, his opera music still playing even though there was no audience to appreciate it, and he tried to reflect and make sense of things like he always did. He was calmer now, much calmer than he had been when the sudden, unanticapted storm of emotion had hit, and he tried to reason things out now, do that "Grissom" thing, as some of his co- workers called it. A part of him was still screaming that this was the end of the world, but he shushed the voice. After all, to say that deafness was the end was ludicrous. His mother had been deaf, and she had done well. And it wasn't as though he couldn't communicate. He could read and write. He could still speak. He could sign. He could read lips. Plenty of ways to communicate with the outside world, the outside world that didn't disappear when he closed his eyes. He could still touch it, still smell and taste it. The world was still there, and so was. Nothing disappeared into the darkness.
But even so. . .he could not completely and suddenly silence the voice in his mind, for it brought up valid point. How would he deal with this? How could he possibly explain? What was there to say? "Gil Grissom, in to take charge of the night shift, and oh yes, I'm deaf today and from now on." What would he say? He had never told anyone about his condition. . .and it felt so wrong, saying he had a "condition". Conditions handicapped people, and he could not afford to be handicapped. Handicapped meant a loss of control. He had to have control; it was the way he managed his life. The only way. But now he would never get back that control. No matter how hard he tried, he could never regain it. It was gone now. And without that control, what did he have? Work. No, he couldn't work. Too much of the work was listening; he had explained that to the doctor. If he didn't have control and he didn't have work, what did he have?
Books. He had books. He had knowledge. He had his bugs. He had art (if no music). He had roller coasters. Diversions. People? Did he have people? Friends? Family?
No, he had no family left. Friends? Catherine? Sara? Warrick, Nick, Greg? Jim? Weren't these people his friends, or even his family? No, no, they weren't. He had used them as substitues, but they weren't real friends or family. simply co-workers, and they'd soon forget about him. Sure, they'd check up on him now and then. They'd drop by one by one and say, 'Hi, how are you, want something to eat. Oh, come on, my treat!', but soon they would forget him, leaving him alone in his empty, silent world. When he closed his eyes, they would simply integrate into the world and fade from view. And he'd miss them. He'd miss Nick's southern accent and his constant bartering and bantering with Warrick. He'd miss Warrick's laugh. He'd miss Catherine's dry tone and blunt philosphy on life. He'd miss Jim's bark of a voice and his companionship. He'd miss all of Greg's stupid jokes and constantly changing hair styles. Most of all, he'd miss the sound of Sarah singing as she worked, that lovely, melodic, perfect sound. Sometimes, when she was singing and so engrossed in what she was doing that she failed to notice the world around her (blind), he'd stand nearby and listen to her sing softly and wonder if he wasn't a bit in love with her. But love was complicated, uncontrollable, and he had too much in his life (work) for such complications. He needed his stability. He needed his control. But sometimes he still listened and wondered whether control was so important and if he did love her and if, in his own, unique way, loved all of his family (co-workers) a little bit for the completion of the void within him.
But now he had nothing. He didn't have control. He didn't have love. He didn't have family or friends. All he had was a void. A void, and nothing could fill it. Music could fill it, but he could never hear it again. Sara's voice. . .but it was never to be heard again.
How could he tell them? How could he go on without them? Without friends (co-workers) and without work (purpose), how could he possibly fill that void within him and go on, alone, in a silent world?
Maybe when he closed his eyes, the world did disappear. At least, the part that mattered.
And then, when the world disappeared, maybe he would fade along with it. Alone and deaf, he would be trapped inside a magic hat alongside a furry, white bunny, waiting to be let out. But he never would be let out. The world would stay outside, and he would forever be a prisoner, and he would be forgotten. And like all things for gotten, he would disappear, and that would be the end.
At least, the end of all that mattered.
"The world doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, does it?"
-Leonard Shelby
Memento
They said it would be sudden. They said it would be complete. And it was.
Complete, sudden silence.
Their mouths moved, but there wasn't sound. A glass fell and shattered, but it was a cascade of beautiful silence; there was no noise. He pushed the mute button on and off on the remote control. There was no difference. He tried screaming; he could feel his blood pressure rise and his face shift from dusky to a more scarlet complexion. He knew that he could create sound.
But there was still nothing. He was deaf.
It hadn't happened at work, and that was good. He had only gotten home twenty minutes earlier; it had been a long, stressful day, and all he had wanted to do was kick off his shoes and relax. He had been listening to opera to soothe his emotions that he tried desperately not to show, and then it just happened. At one moment he was concentrating on the waves of the music, and then suddenly there was no music. He got up, wondering what was wrong with the stereo; he hadn't understood right away. The stereo said the CD was playing, but there was no music. He tried switching CD's, unplugging and plugging the stereo in, and even upping the volume to full blast before he began to understand what had happened. He started to stomp on the floor with his feet, and there was nothing. He started drumming his hands on the walls; he repeatedly turned on and off the water faucet, and still, still nothing. At one point, he broke a dish across the counter top, and when it sprayed silently across the kitchen, he understood the complete and sudden silence. And yet he could not accept it, and he kept breaking the dishes, throwing them across the kitchen to the far wall on the other side of the apartment, where they would connect and shatter with no noise whatsoever. He couldn't stop throwing them, as though if he threw them long enough, the silence would end, and the noise would come back. If he worked long enough, everything would flood back to how it was supposed to be, but it didn't. The silence stayed. He felt hot tears roll down his cheeks. He felt his throat constrict with sobbing. He could feel another glass shattering in his own hand and drawing blood from his palm and fingers to drip with the shards of glass on the cold kitchen tile. He felt all of this, but he could hear nothing.
And it was over. Sudden and complete silence.
He remembered closing his eyes, and then opening them suddenly, frightened like a little boy in a dark room. Because it was worse than being frightened of the boogeymen you couldn't see; when you were deaf, the whole world disappeared when you closed your eyes, and you were alone, defenseless, handicapped.
Now he sat on his couch, his opera music still playing even though there was no audience to appreciate it, and he tried to reflect and make sense of things like he always did. He was calmer now, much calmer than he had been when the sudden, unanticapted storm of emotion had hit, and he tried to reason things out now, do that "Grissom" thing, as some of his co- workers called it. A part of him was still screaming that this was the end of the world, but he shushed the voice. After all, to say that deafness was the end was ludicrous. His mother had been deaf, and she had done well. And it wasn't as though he couldn't communicate. He could read and write. He could still speak. He could sign. He could read lips. Plenty of ways to communicate with the outside world, the outside world that didn't disappear when he closed his eyes. He could still touch it, still smell and taste it. The world was still there, and so was. Nothing disappeared into the darkness.
But even so. . .he could not completely and suddenly silence the voice in his mind, for it brought up valid point. How would he deal with this? How could he possibly explain? What was there to say? "Gil Grissom, in to take charge of the night shift, and oh yes, I'm deaf today and from now on." What would he say? He had never told anyone about his condition. . .and it felt so wrong, saying he had a "condition". Conditions handicapped people, and he could not afford to be handicapped. Handicapped meant a loss of control. He had to have control; it was the way he managed his life. The only way. But now he would never get back that control. No matter how hard he tried, he could never regain it. It was gone now. And without that control, what did he have? Work. No, he couldn't work. Too much of the work was listening; he had explained that to the doctor. If he didn't have control and he didn't have work, what did he have?
Books. He had books. He had knowledge. He had his bugs. He had art (if no music). He had roller coasters. Diversions. People? Did he have people? Friends? Family?
No, he had no family left. Friends? Catherine? Sara? Warrick, Nick, Greg? Jim? Weren't these people his friends, or even his family? No, no, they weren't. He had used them as substitues, but they weren't real friends or family. simply co-workers, and they'd soon forget about him. Sure, they'd check up on him now and then. They'd drop by one by one and say, 'Hi, how are you, want something to eat. Oh, come on, my treat!', but soon they would forget him, leaving him alone in his empty, silent world. When he closed his eyes, they would simply integrate into the world and fade from view. And he'd miss them. He'd miss Nick's southern accent and his constant bartering and bantering with Warrick. He'd miss Warrick's laugh. He'd miss Catherine's dry tone and blunt philosphy on life. He'd miss Jim's bark of a voice and his companionship. He'd miss all of Greg's stupid jokes and constantly changing hair styles. Most of all, he'd miss the sound of Sarah singing as she worked, that lovely, melodic, perfect sound. Sometimes, when she was singing and so engrossed in what she was doing that she failed to notice the world around her (blind), he'd stand nearby and listen to her sing softly and wonder if he wasn't a bit in love with her. But love was complicated, uncontrollable, and he had too much in his life (work) for such complications. He needed his stability. He needed his control. But sometimes he still listened and wondered whether control was so important and if he did love her and if, in his own, unique way, loved all of his family (co-workers) a little bit for the completion of the void within him.
But now he had nothing. He didn't have control. He didn't have love. He didn't have family or friends. All he had was a void. A void, and nothing could fill it. Music could fill it, but he could never hear it again. Sara's voice. . .but it was never to be heard again.
How could he tell them? How could he go on without them? Without friends (co-workers) and without work (purpose), how could he possibly fill that void within him and go on, alone, in a silent world?
Maybe when he closed his eyes, the world did disappear. At least, the part that mattered.
And then, when the world disappeared, maybe he would fade along with it. Alone and deaf, he would be trapped inside a magic hat alongside a furry, white bunny, waiting to be let out. But he never would be let out. The world would stay outside, and he would forever be a prisoner, and he would be forgotten. And like all things for gotten, he would disappear, and that would be the end.
At least, the end of all that mattered.