This must be what the world looks like to an ant. Everything is tall and sideways.  Different colored shoes walking up the “walls”. I called it my “Silly World” . Hiding under my bed was always fun to me. As long as I could remember-although not long being only four, I had always found it to be my favorite observation point.  

 

   On this night, I realized I must have fallen asleep under there because all of a sudden I was waking up in my silly world and it was dark. My eyes burned, and my mind was foggy. How did I fall asleep when I don't even remember climbing under here. My body seemed heavy, and everything felt different. I couldn't feel the usual plush fibers of the carpet against my face. In fact I’m not sure if I can even feel my face. Vision is still blurry. Why does it feel so cold? Attempting to get up, it was immediately obvious that I wasn't going to be able to. Slowly, the blur began to subside as I lay there motionless. Lots of black shoes walking on the walls. Blue and red lights danced around them and the occasional white flashing ones as well. This is definitely a silly world, but not my silly world. This carpet was black with white stripes, broken stripes. Am I outside? I couldn't move anything but my eyes which began frantically peering through the hazy darkness, interrupted only by the dancing lights., looking for my mom's red canvas shoes, with the white laces and ankle socks.  

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   Finally I saw them from a distance, pacing up and down the walls, stopping in front of the unknown black shoes from time to time, then dashing here and there.  What is she doing? Is she still looking for me? Waiting there for her to come find me , puzzled by the scene ahead of me, my daydreaming turned into real dreaming.  Laying there I drifted in and out of sleep-for who knows how long or how many times. Each time I awoke my body felt heavier, as I became ever more aware that something wasn’t right. I think I am stuck under here somehow. I still could not move anything but my eyes. 
 
   Someone find the lady in the red shoes with the white laces! Tell her I am stuck, please! Things are starting to hurt and I don’t know where. The words were there but my mouth refused to speak them. Panic now in full force and on the brink of waterless tears. If breathing was nearly impossible, yelling was out of the question. I took a slow, shallow, but deepest breath I could, as if  it were my last, and could only produce a tiny moan. All the black shoes stopped walking and the red canvas shoes haulted only a few feet in front of me as if pointing in my direction. I waited. The shoes waited. Could I muster one more moan? This one was smaller, and hurt much more.  The red canvas shoes stepped backwards. Then one knee, another 
knee, two hands, then a face…mom! The look on her face was one of sheer terror as she screamed, falling backwards before being lifted off the black carpet by four arms above four black shoes. 

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Mom??? 

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 The silly world was dark again and I drifted back to sleep. 

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   Waiting in the lineup was never my favorite part. I am impatient by nature.  A recent storm brought some serious winds and with it some of the best waves. It was unusually hot today, with the crystal blue water only reflecting the sun's ferocious heat onto my face. The rider ahead gestured for me to begin paddling out. Finally.  I steadied myself on the board ready  for the pop up. Steady and firm, I gained my balance. Next stop, bottom turn, then, barrel. With perfect form and position, I was in my happy place. Tunneled in shimmering blue and green, protected from one scorching element by the cool, serene enchantment of another. It’s a different kind of silence here. One that makes you question your own reality. If only this could go on forever. I would close my eyes if I could rely on my other senses to ride this wave.But then it is over. Summer sun can be the harshest of reality ripping you out of the cool relief of the perfect barrel. The other riders clapped their hands overhead as I made my way to the shore. I waved back modestly. 

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   It was almost sunset and I had plans for dinner with my father. I hadn’t seen him since I left for college four years ago.  He had never come to visit me before. Traveling was exceptionally difficult for him ever since he was in a car accident when I was little. In and out of back surgery is how I remember him. So much time spent at the hospital. I couldn’t wait to be away from that scene. It haunted me but I never understood why.  I was graduating this week, so he took some extra precautions, and spent an exceptional amount of money to ensure he could travel comfortably. Why was I so nervous? We would video chat every week, sometimes more. I couldn't wait to see him in person.

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   The incline was the steepest I had ever seen, with jagged, loose rocks and ledges almost too small to grab onto. This would be the most difficult free climb I ever attempted.Still looking upwards I raised one leg to waist height, tightening my shoelace, then putting it back down and jumping three times to pump the courage through the rest of my body.  The first grab was easy, the second was sharp enough to feel a sting through my gloves. The only way left is up from here-I convinced myself even though my feet had not yet left the ground. Right hand, right foot, left hand, left foot, ascending the mountain and never looking back.  The distance drowns out any trace of existence down below. An enhanced silence, only amplified when you close your eyes. I feel as if I could float on the air as I tilt my head back. Reminding myself not to let go. For if I did, I would not float, I would fall…and to my certain death. But oh what a perfect way to fall. Inhaling one last breath before pulling myself over the ledge. Exhaling and rolling onto my back, immersing myself in the open, endless sky.

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   Being blindfolded was one of the scariest moments  for me.  Feeling so helpless, and detached from the world around me. I often avoided pinata time at parties as a child.  I grew so tired of being teased for it, eventually I avoided parties altogether.  Building up the need for social energy release only perpetuated anxiety. It became unbearable. Isolated by my own fears and perceived limitations, depression almost got the better of me. One night I had a dream. It was only a few seconds where I would open my eyes and the world would be sideways and dark. Then I would wake up shaking, sweating and cold. Over the next few months I would have the same dream, each time lasting a bit longer than the last. Feeling so real, intense, yet feeling nothing at all. But that is all that it ever was… and it didn't make any sense.

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   When the dream began to last more than a minute of this dark, sideways world, and waking up feeling numb but almost sore, I attributed it to my deep depression and started seeking a solution. From the dark sideways world of laying down all the time, I got up and started moving. After that, there was nothing that could stop me. Fascinated by adrenaline and addicted to the feeling of cheating death, I never felt more alive. Surfing, rock climbing, base jumping, everything that could kill me, but never drugs or alcohol. And I was always ok. Best of all, the dreams had stopped.

 

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   My father signaled me from across the restaurant. I didn't bother holding back the tears, as I rushed to him like a little girl. We held each other for the longest time and let go to look at each other, only to shed more tears and continue our embrace. Puffy eyed and sniffling, our conversation poured out of us as if we hadn't spoken in years. I told him of my dare-devil adventures and he just smiled in awe at my courage. Then somehow the subject of my dream came up. 

   When I mentioned it everything changed. The  joy in his expression melted and the color drained from his face. He lowered his hands to his lap, leaving me to observe his silence. Raising his eyes to me, a new kind of tears left his eyes. Sadness. I was more confused than ever before and gestured to him to explain. His hands left his lap, reaching to cradle mine. His look was heartbreaking, as for the first time in my life he used his mouth instead of his hands to speak but two words,  I’m sorry.The depth from which he spoke was so powerful, I could imagine hearing it in my head. It had to be in my head, as my ears have never worked. Feeling his silent words tore into me with a familiar pain of which I didn't understand but knew I had felt before. What is this? I thought,  escaping the grasp of his hands, as they lifted from the table to try to explain. 

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   Watching the story unfold from his hands was devastating. Each turn of his fingers and flick in his wrist, to the motionless pause from not wanting to show me more. Then signing slowly through the hardest parts. So much that never made sense before, now unfolding from his aging hands. The dreams, depression, risk addiction, and the hospitals when I was young. 

 

   We ended our evening early and said our goodbyes. Once out of sight, every tear I never cried flooded over me. My blood boiled as the rage grew within. How could they not tell me? How did I not know? I couldn't believe it. It isn’t true. I knew I needed to see it all in front of me again, in my own words. I picked up the pace walking home, sprinting the last block. Fumbling for the keys, trembling to open the lock. Ripping the calendar from the wall, I turned it upside down exposing the large blank canvas in front of me. Fading marker in my hand, I closed my eyes and scribbled every word my father signed that night from memory.

 

   Then, there it was…my story, written in my own hand. Still in disbelief, knowing it had to be true, even if I couldn't remember.  Breathing in the fear and exhaling the hesitation I lifted the corners of the calendar and began reading my story.

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We were driving home to take your mom out to dinner one night. We wanted to surprise her for her birthday.  We spent the day shopping for her gift. When we were about a block from the house we slowed to make the turn when we were struck by another car going twice the speed limit. I was knocked out instantly.  Your mother was outside watering the yard and heard the whole thing. When she looked up, she saw it was our car. She called 911  frantically while running towards us. She found me crushed up against the steering wheel, but you were nowhere to be found. She hoped for a moment that I had dropped you off with grandma and that you werent with me at the time. When there was no trace of you, I think she started to believe it to be true, but it's not like she could ask me if it was.  The ambulance came and was preparing to take me away when your mother’s worst fear was realized. She recalls hearing a faint moan and pausing for a moment. Then again, she knew she had heard something for sure.She crouched down looking under the car that had hit us….and there you were.  The windshield of our car had been so badly broken, you couldn't see the small hole created when you were thrown through it.  The other driver tried to reverse but had blown both front tires. They found you pinned under his car. Had he been able to reverse, he would have run over you.  We were both in the hospital for weeks. They were holding you for observation mostly, surprised at how lucky you were to have not been more badly injured. But you weren't speaking. We would talk to you and you would just stare at us.  What we didn't know at the time was that the impact from hitting the windshield caused some serious nerve damage.  You couldn't control many facial muscles, and you had lost sensation in your face. This all eventually came back, but unfortunately, your auditory nerve was ruptured so badly, you would never be able to hear again. We all learned sign language, as you had not learned to read yet and when you were comfortable with signing we would ask you how much you remembered and you said you didn't know what we were talking about. It was just easier to tell you that you had never been able to hear, and we were grateful that you had no memory of it. We have wanted to tell you for so long but you have been doing so well and are so full of life,  and we didn't know what  it would do if you knew the truth. We are very sorry.

It wasn’t just a dream…

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   Drained of every tear and emotionally exhausted, I gathered just enough energy to get up from the table and into my bed, turning every light off on the way. Laying there,  gazing  into the pitch blackness above my bed,  I couldn't remember ever hearing a spoken word or even a sound before. But on this night, everything I never heard echoed within, maddening and overwhelming. How I longed for my blissful silence again. 

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Story prompt: No dialog