Quiet...just...quiet by Elizabeth Mullenger
Elizabeth describes herself as a Sylvanian colleting, tattooed old woman living in a twenty-somethings body! She has a brilliant blog called MungleVille and a lovely Tumblr page where she shares her photography. You can also follow her on Twitter! Elizabeth has written a very moving piece for the Christmas Flash Fiction and I believe this is the first time she's ever written anything. Girl, you got talent!
A busy hospital, a bustling ward, repetitive Christmas carols on the radio; and people, so many people, talking, laughing, crying and praying.. .. Yet I find silence.
Nobody will ever understand how quiet this loud world can be, until they have been in a world like mine.
Oh the doctors will tell you I can hear everything. That I can hear dinner being prepared downstairs, the nurses talking through their notes, the birds singing outside, the television next bed but one.
They are right of course, I can hear with such clarity that I would once have felt blessed.
But I cannot speak, and for me, that silence is louder then any noise.
I hear them criticising my response level, I can't tell them how painful it is to respond, to accept what happened, to know I'm still here, and that there are still things to respond to. I will refuse.
I can see.
I can breathe
and worst of all these miracles,
I can remember.
I remember the snow most of all.. just, snow. A white world stretched out before me. Oh I'm sure there were trees, houses, maybe even other people, and if I tried hard I could picture the street, the Christmas wreaths on every door, the trees winking through the window panes. But it hurts to remember so clearly, its a strain because I only want to see the snow, and our shadows stretched across it in the sharp winter sun. I was never alone, he was always with me, my love, my baby, always by my side, hand in mine.. I remember the warmth of his touch, the love, the trust and the hope we shared as we talked about our future..Yes! I remember, the fenced front gardens, the perfect picture book houses adorned with Christmas lights. I remember how we stopped, unexpectedly, the snow falling around us, as he asked me to live there. The tears in my eyes, the dreams, the laughing and crying and the impromptu snowball fight that followed.
I want to remember the snow, just the snow.
I don't remember the truck, I don’t remember the black ice, marring my beautiful snow scene. I don’t remember the noise, the brakes screaming, their sound stretching out forever. I will not remember letting go of him, nor the force that threw me to the ground like a rag doll.
I will not remember being unable to move, to reach him, nor the people, the screams.
But I remember the cold hard snow surrounding his lifeless body.
I remember knowing, I remember the sound of my world ending.
Seven endless days have passed. Christmas dawns tomorrow. His presents still lie under the tree back home, in our dismal flat made for one. His gift for me hidden in the wardrobe, handmade, I saw the glitter. His heart and soul shine unabashedly through the untidy writing on the card, in pride of place on the bedside table, declarations of love and Christmas wishes, more glitter.
My baby's first card. My baby's fourth Christmas.
When I finally make a sound, I am half in slumber, half in dream.
A single dry sob on Christmas morning, I was remembering.
A hand grabs mine, a face appears above me, my father, his eyes shining with fresh tears. I see my mother close behind. As I blink the activity around me comes into focus, the doctor, the nurses, then the questions. My mouth spits and crackles as I begin to answer, incoherent grunts forming into sounds, to words, to strangled speech. I see the pain in my parents eyes, the worry my stubborn silence has caused, I see the ray of hope across their smile. I see the gift I have given them.
Nobody will ever understand how quiet this loud world can be, until they have been in a world like mine.
Oh the doctors will tell you I can hear everything. That I can hear dinner being prepared downstairs, the nurses talking through their notes, the birds singing outside, the television next bed but one.
They are right of course, I can hear with such clarity that I would once have felt blessed.
But I cannot speak, and for me, that silence is louder then any noise.
I hear them criticising my response level, I can't tell them how painful it is to respond, to accept what happened, to know I'm still here, and that there are still things to respond to. I will refuse.
I can see.
I can breathe
and worst of all these miracles,
I can remember.
I remember the snow most of all.. just, snow. A white world stretched out before me. Oh I'm sure there were trees, houses, maybe even other people, and if I tried hard I could picture the street, the Christmas wreaths on every door, the trees winking through the window panes. But it hurts to remember so clearly, its a strain because I only want to see the snow, and our shadows stretched across it in the sharp winter sun. I was never alone, he was always with me, my love, my baby, always by my side, hand in mine.. I remember the warmth of his touch, the love, the trust and the hope we shared as we talked about our future..Yes! I remember, the fenced front gardens, the perfect picture book houses adorned with Christmas lights. I remember how we stopped, unexpectedly, the snow falling around us, as he asked me to live there. The tears in my eyes, the dreams, the laughing and crying and the impromptu snowball fight that followed.
I want to remember the snow, just the snow.
I don't remember the truck, I don’t remember the black ice, marring my beautiful snow scene. I don’t remember the noise, the brakes screaming, their sound stretching out forever. I will not remember letting go of him, nor the force that threw me to the ground like a rag doll.
I will not remember being unable to move, to reach him, nor the people, the screams.
But I remember the cold hard snow surrounding his lifeless body.
I remember knowing, I remember the sound of my world ending.
Seven endless days have passed. Christmas dawns tomorrow. His presents still lie under the tree back home, in our dismal flat made for one. His gift for me hidden in the wardrobe, handmade, I saw the glitter. His heart and soul shine unabashedly through the untidy writing on the card, in pride of place on the bedside table, declarations of love and Christmas wishes, more glitter.
My baby's first card. My baby's fourth Christmas.
When I finally make a sound, I am half in slumber, half in dream.
A single dry sob on Christmas morning, I was remembering.
A hand grabs mine, a face appears above me, my father, his eyes shining with fresh tears. I see my mother close behind. As I blink the activity around me comes into focus, the doctor, the nurses, then the questions. My mouth spits and crackles as I begin to answer, incoherent grunts forming into sounds, to words, to strangled speech. I see the pain in my parents eyes, the worry my stubborn silence has caused, I see the ray of hope across their smile. I see the gift I have given them.