I’ve Lived My Whole Life Without Ever Hearing Music

Over the next three days Andre shows up in his yard at different times with the whiteboard. He writes simple questions I can answer with thumbs up or thumbs down.

“Are you allowed to leave the house?”

Thumbs down.

“Are your parents planning something?”

Thumbs up.

“Soon?”

Thumbs up. He erases and writes more.

“Do they hurt you?”

I hesitate but give a thumbs up, and his face goes hard.

“Are they moving away with you?”

Thumbs up. He writes one more thing.

“We’re going to help you.”

I press my hand against the glass and he does the same from his yard. For the first time in weeks, I feel like maybe I’m not completely alone in this.

On the fourth day, Mom catches me standing by the window during my assigned reading time. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with this look that makes my stomach drop.

That afternoon I hear drilling and hammering, and when I come out for dinner, there’s a curtain rod installed above my window with thick blackout curtains. Mom pulls them closed and they block out all the light.

She tells me the curtains stay closed at all times because the outside world is too distracting from my recovery, and I know she means Andre. That night after everyone goes to sleep, I carefully pull the curtain back just an inch to see if Andre left any messages.

There’s nothing on the whiteboard, but I see a light flick on and off in his window like he’s checking if I can still see out. I flick my desk lamp twice in response, and the light in his window flicks three times.

It’s not much, but it’s something. I have to be so careful now because Mom checks on me randomly throughout the day, pulling the curtain back to make sure it stayed closed.

I start sabotaging the move preparations in small ways. I knock over a box of dishes while carrying it to the garage and three plates smash.

Mom yells, but I apologize and act clumsy. I lose the folder with important documents about the new house, and Dad spends two hours searching before finding it in the recycling bin.

I tell him I must have thrown it away by accident while cleaning. Listen to 90 seconds and rate me five stars on Spotify, doing a giveaway for people who did this and show proof on my Instagram; there will be four winners and you get to choose between a Spotify or Amazon gift card.

The Glimmer of Evidence

When Mom asks me to pack my clothes, I fold everything wrong and mix summer and winter items until she gets frustrated and does it herself. Dad’s irritation grows with each mistake, but Mom interprets everything as me being confused and damaged by the music exposure.

She tells Dad I’m probably having trouble with basic tasks because my brain is still recovering, and I have to hide my relief that my act is working. One morning I wake up to the sound of a drill outside my door.

I sit up and Dad pushes the door open holding a shiny new deadbolt. He says it’s for my own protection so I don’t wander during the night, but I can see what it really is.

He’s turning my bedroom into a cell. He installs it while I watch, the deadbolt facing outward so only someone in the hallway can open it.

He tests it three times, sliding the bolt back and forth, and tells me this is temporary until we get to the new house where I’ll have more freedom. I don’t believe him.

That night after he locks me in, I lie awake thinking about being transported like a prisoner to some isolated property where nobody will ever find me. I need to document what’s happening in case I ever get a chance to tell someone.

I tear pages from the back of an old notebook I’d hidden under my mattress months ago. I write everything down in small letters so it fits on the scraps.

May 3rd: Dad installed deadbolt on outside of door. Says it’s to keep me from wandering.

May 4th: Mom checks on me every hour. Not allowed to use bathroom without permission.

May 5th: Dad lectured for 3 hours about music damage. Mom took away my books.