Even before the crash I’d never been
a fan of not hearing clearly. I tried wearing headphones to listen to music but
it made me feel claustrophobic, isolated. I get the same thing with sunglasses.
I can’t bear them, they make me feel like I’m in world of my own where no one
can reach me, like I’m suspended somewhere other than reality.

So that’s why, since the crash, you
will never see me wearing sunglasses or even a hat. Anything that cuts me off
from feeling in the thick of the here and now has me panicking.

The crash left me suddenly and
utterly deaf. It was the strangest sensation coming round. I felt like I was
deep underwater unable to make contact. The sound of my own voice was muffled
and thick, so alien and far away I screamed. I knew I was screaming because my
throat was raw and nurses in blue cotton pajamas were smoothing their hands
over me and petting me, their brows furrowed with concern.

That was over two months ago.

I still wake up with that feeling of
panic. Sometimes though, I let myself lie in the morning stillness, trying to
be as quiet as possible with shallow breaths so I know, for a little while at
least, that I am choosing the silence. It is mine.

I don’t know how long George and I
will last. He must be sick of the bruises I inflict when he’s trying to catch
my attention by tapping my back. The shock! I have not been able to master the
art of not being panic stricken by an unexpected touch. It’s exhausting,
straining to hear all day long when all there is is stifling black nothing. So
disorientating. I saw a program once about a room that was so well sound
proofed that there was no echo at all. When the lights were out, people could
only last a few minutes before demanding to be released from the black hole.
George said he thought he’d love that – he’d do anything for a bit of peace and
quiet, he reckoned he’d last a good eight hours. I knew what they were feeling
though – I imagined it so keenly at the time, and now, it is confirmed to me. If
I close my eyes, I’m there, in that room of absolute nothing. Alone.

We’ve taken to notes, or texting.
Being unable to hear my own voice means I can’t risk the words coming out.
George says I sound fine. I don’t believe him.

George left a note this morning.

I hold it between my thumb and
forefinger. You wouldn’t think not hearing would rob you of other senses, but
it does. I can feel the paper, yes, but I can’t hear the feel of the paper. Try
it now, go on, rub your fingertips over the pages of a book, or a newspaper.
Listen to how it feels. Now try to imagine not hearing that. See? You’re
surrounded. Your world is full of senses interacting and well, making sense of
everything. I begin to fold the note up, slowly creasing it into a plane. The
paper is rough and crisp, and I drag my nail along the folds making them sharp
and perfect. Something about the points and lines makes a shiver run up to my
solar plexus. I open the note back out and trace the words.

I try to savor the text without
worrying how it should sound. I lift the note to my mouth and run my tongue
over the letters, hoping to taste words. The shiver has become a flutter and
travels gently down my abdomen and settles at my crotch. I let the sharp edges
tickle my lips and the tiny hairs at the corner of my mouth. It makes me twitch
and salivate. The prickle and swoosh of my breasts alerts me to my stiffening
nipples and I look down to the rise in my shirt.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt
arousal, I’m taken by surprise, guilt almost. I make a decision. We will
make love tonight…