A loss of oxygen. That's all it had been. Because of a collapsed lung, the part of his brain that enabled his ears to pick up sound had shut down due to lack of oxygen. Good thing it wasn't anywhere else, everyone said. Like maybe his heart. Or his lungs. Or some vital nerve in his spine. Sure. It would be way worse to die quickly than die slowly over a stupid life where all your meaning was ripped away from you.
It didn't matter that he was almost completely healed. It didn't matter that he was fully functional. He couldn't hear. That was everything to him. He might as well have died. He was a burden to himself now- he didn't even accept himself anymore.
He was bullied at school before, but now the only thing anyone ever gave him was sad helpless eyes. That was even worse than bullying. It was like saying "hey, I'm sorry you have no purpose now. I am so lucky to be able to have a great life and live happily when you have to deal with that. I feel sorry for you." But they shouldn't feel sorry for him. They shouldn't feel anything at all. They shouldn't give him that kicked puppy look, as if he can't handle it by himself. They didn't do anything. It made it feel like it was him who did it. And it was, according to him.
Depression was a normal thing now. After all, he had no purpose anymore, so why be happy? He was silent, never speaking with his mother anymore. After all, he had no idea what he sounded like anyway. It was probably terrible. All he ever did was sit next to the pool in the backyard, gazing at his own hated reflection. There was nothing else to do anyway, with the teachers giving him barely any homework over their pity for him.
It was uncomfortable to hang out with friends now too. He couldn't do anything but give a fake smile and act like he knew what was going on. And being an only child, he was as alone as he could possibly be in the cruel world.
The lights flickered, and went out, startling him from his thoughts. He felt a faint vibration through the air. A thunderstorm. He ran to the window, watching as lightning cascaded down upon their little neighborhood. How easy it would be, if he could just open up the window with a metal ruler, stand up and-
Another vibration struck the floor, shaking his feet. It was much to hard to be thunder. He turned around and saw his mother making the sign for dinner with her hands in American Sign Language. She left, probably going back downstairs.
The two had become detached. They never talked anymore, and she was always stoic, with no emotion at all. Max was the opposite, crying constantly and having panic attacks.
When his mother wasn't home, he would often go into the bathroom and scream so hard that he couldn't even talk the next day because his throat would hurt so much. Not that he really talked anyway. He only ever talked just to feel his voice. To maybe try to remember just a glimpse of what it sounded like to sing or to talk.
It was almost an obsession, to figure out how everything in his body felt when and why. He was so much more sensitive now to movement and feeling, because his hearing was gone. He would massage the joint in his knee to figure out how the tendons worked with the bone and muscle, or watch himself walk in front of a mirror to figure out how many joints each foot had, or look at the inside of his mouth to see how the mechanics of chewing worked, or press his hand to his chest to feel the bones expand and contract with each breath.
He was going insane slowly, and he couldn't even reach out for help.
He made his way into the bathroom to wash his hands, staring into his eyes in the mirror. He felt a swell of emotion inside of him as he thought how detached his eyes seemed, endless pits that he could never escape. He threw water on his face before he could cry, and cleared his throat a few times to get rid of the lump that seemed to choke him there.
He turned the water off, running down the stairs for dinner. His mother was already seated at the table eating. She looked stoically ahead, her mind in the clouds. Max hated the tension that had developed over their previously tight relationship. It was his mother after all. But all he could do now was try to forget how much he missed life before.
He pulled the chair out from under the table, sitting down and pulling himself in. He stared at his mother for a second. She just kept staring into space. He swallowed uncomfortably, feeling as if she could hear every little sound he made that he couldn't hear. He wondered if he was even louder now that he couldn't hear himself. He probably was.
He took his fork and nibbled at the cheesy Mac on his plate, tasting the artificial flavoring. He ate slowly, the pasta cooling down with each bite until he got to his last. He chewed it slowly, trying to taste all of the preservatives. He swallowed, staring at his plate.
And for the first time in months, his mother looked him in the eyes. Truly looked at him. And then went back to eating her dinner as if everything was the same. Max's breath caught, and he felt the pang to cry. He reached his hand out to her arm, and she froze, only her eyes looking up at him. They gave him a look, as if she wanted nothing to do with the person who hurt her. She went back to eating and Max recoiled his hand, feeling a sharp pain flood into his chest.
He abruptly got up, hurt, and went outside. He walked by the pool, watching the ripples from the water droplets hitting the surface, and the lightning striking viciously through the sky. He flung his head back, feeling the cold wispy air on his neck, and the rain soaking his clothes. He opened his mouth wide, letting the droplets fall in, swallowing the water. He dug his fingers into the sides of his face, feeling the tears building up. He screamed hard, and he felt the vibration of his voice in his hands.
He screamed again, this time even louder, and sobbed, his voice cracking, unable to distinguish what was tears and what was rain. He screamed more, his throat starting to hurt. He sobbed into his hands, stumbling forward. He felt his foot slip on the wet pool ledge, and his body smack into the cold water. He naturally started to take another breath to cry, but choked when water flooded his lungs. He opened his eyes wide, ignoring the sting from the chlorine. He couldn't tell which way was up because of how dark it was, and how terribly disorienting and blurry.
He sucked in another breath, desperate for air, and coughed the remaining air he had left out of his lungs. He felt a burning sensation in his chest, panicking as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of pool water. He could barely take it anymore. If he didn't get out in the next few seconds, he would drown, water clogging his lungs, in the bottom of the pool. Maybe that was better than this he thought. He stopped struggling, feeling as if he could no longer move a muscle. He started to sink, feeling the weight of the water inside him pull him down.
Drowning was painful. His lungs longed for air, and his throat burned and ached. He swallowed for no other reason than to feel it. He tried to hum a note, but all that came from his lungs was the water that choked him. His chest hurt so bad. But soon it would be over.
His vision started to go, little black spots clouding the already dark grey landscape of blurry pool water. Suddenly he had afterthoughts. Maybe he could still swim up. But no. It was too late for that. His throat ached and contracted in a last reflex to cough up the water. He started to close his eyes, and he let himself be suspended peacefully by the water.
Suddenly, hands enveloped his body in a strong grip, pulling him to the surface. His mother had seen him fall in. She had been watching him.
She tossed him up onto the pool deck, and he naturally tried to breathe, but only water rested in his lungs. He didn't have the strength nor air to cough.
His mother whacked him painfully in the back, causing him to throw up some of the water he'd swallowed. He grimaced. Squeezing his eyes shut and holding onto the arm that she held his chest with.
She whacked him again, and this time about half of the water came up. He gasped, still choking on the water. She whacked him one last time, and he coughed up the water, gasping desperately for air.
He clutched his throat, coughing, gasping the life back into him. After a few minutes, he calmed down, massaging his throat, feeling as if little shards of glass had wedged themselves into every nook and cranny.
He swallowed hard, grimacing at the pain. His mother lifted his chin up so he could look at her. She was crying. She hugged him, her sobs racking both their bodies. She helped him up after a few minutes, leading him back into the house and grabbing towels for both of them. She sat with him, staring at him.
All he could muster his energy for was to lay his head back and remember to breathe. He swallowed, his throat burning. His lungs ached. He said "water," as best he could remember it feeling in his mouth. Though he couldn't hear himself, he could tell he sounded terrible.
His mother obviously understood him, grabbing the glass of water he had not drank at dinner and handing it to him. He took it gratefully, and lifted the glass to his lips, feeling the water as it rushed to the back of his throat. He gulped it fast, feeling the relief. It was still cool.
He lay his head back again, trying to forget the pain. He noticed that his mother was still looking at him. He said something along the lines of "mom, I'm deaf, not blind." And she laughed for the first time since the accident.
Max watched her laugh, her hair dancing around the nape of her neck. She stopped laughing and sighed. "Are you okay?" Her hands went, her eyes holding a sense of fear still.
Max made the signs for "yes, but-" and he clutched the fabric from his shirt over his chest, and lay a finger on his throat. Then he signed "hurt."
His mother seemed concerned. "Can you breathe ok?" She signed back. Max signed "yes, just hurts." And she nodded.
She made the symbol for sorry and bed, and Max started to get up. She helped him get up, and practically carried him up the stairs. He laid himself down in bed, getting his covers situated. His mother rested a hand on his cheek, kissing his forehead and leaving the room, shutting the door.
A lump grew in Max's aching throat and he swallowed. He forgot to say that he loved her.