I’ve Lived My Whole Life Without Ever Hearing Music

If I run, I have no money, no car, nowhere to go, and they’ll probably find me within hours. But if I let them take me to that rural property, I’ll be trapped forever with no way to contact anyone or get help.

Neither option is good, but at least running gives me a chance. During one of Dad’s lectures that afternoon, I do something I haven’t done in weeks.

I actually ask him a question about his theories, and his whole face changes like he’s surprised and pleased. I ask what happens to people who’ve been exposed to music, whether there’s any way to fix the damage.

He launches into this long explanation about recovery periods and neural cleansing. He talks about how the brain can heal itself if you remove all musical influence and follow strict protocols, and he seems genuinely happy that I’m engaging with his ideas.

I nod along and ask follow-up questions while my real thoughts are racing. I’m calculating how much he wants to believe I can be saved, how much he needs to think his system works, and I realize I can use that.

If I act like I’m trying to recover, he might give me slightly more freedom. That night, after everyone goes to sleep, I tear a piece of paper from an old notebook I’d hidden under my mattress.

I write carefully in small letters so the whole message fits on one piece.

“I need help. They’re moving me away. I’m not allowed to leave.”

I fold it as small as I can and tuck it in my pocket. My heart won’t stop pounding because I know how risky this is.

If my parents find it, I don’t know what they’ll do, but I’m out of options and out of time. On trash day, I do something that shocks everyone: I volunteer to take out the garbage bags.

Mom actually stops what she’s doing and stares at me. She looks suspicious, but I keep my face neutral and helpful, and finally she agrees.

Dad watches from the kitchen window as I carry the bags to the curb. I move slowly and carefully so I don’t seem like I’m rushing.

The neighbor’s recycling bin is right next to their driveway, and I walk past it on my way back to the house. I slip the folded note under some newspapers in the bin as fast as I can, praying nobody saw me and praying even harder that someone actually finds it.

Two whole days go by with nothing, and I start thinking the note got thrown away or buried under other recycling. Maybe the neighbor boy never even looks in that bin, or maybe he found it and decided I’m crazy and ignored it.

I spend hours at my window watching their house and seeing nothing unusual, and I’m starting to lose hope. Then on the third day, I’m looking out and the teenage boy is standing in his yard staring directly at my window.

He’s holding a small whiteboard and he’s written something on it in black marker.

“I saw your note.”

My hands start shaking so hard I have to press them against the glass to study them. I give him a thumbs up, and he nods, then erases what he wrote and writes something else.

“What do you need?”

I mouth the word “help” as clearly as I can, and then I point to my parents’ car in the driveway trying to make him understand that they’re planning to take me away soon. He watches me carefully and then nods again, this time looking serious and determined like he understands exactly what I’m trying to say.