Born mute, I was lucky enough to have a mother who understood me when no one else could.
Albeit this wasn't always the case.
In a world where words are the only means of expressing oneself, being misunderstood can be a harrowing experience, and the pain accompanying it, is equally so.
I screamed, screamed till my throat seemed to rupture through my neck, and then some more.
Then again how loudly can one scream with their mouth closed?
It's not her fault, I never told her.
I let out a soft breath of relief as I saw mother walk out of the room with teary eyes, the wired whip in her hand.
We had just finished another lesson.
The lesson I learned? Don't stare at your mother for more than two seconds.
It used to be four and in my memory, I would try to store every detail of that beautiful face.
Narcissistic as it may be, I was the most dashing amongst the men I had seen, well it's easy to come out on top when there is no one else competing.
In her rage, she called me a lecherous scoundrel, according to her, something my father passed down to me.
Twirling the feeding syringe between my fingers, my eyes widened as I almost slipped through my boney fingers, which would've made mother sad.
It's painful for both of us when she feels that way.
Wasting no more time I inserted it into the tube running into my abdomen, slowly pressing down the barrel with one hand as I read my book with the other.
As my stomach was being filled I recalled how I had come to acquire the ability to read.
I learnt from my mother, that is until I started receiving lessons at the ripe age of seven.
This book was what I treasured the most in this room.
It was the one possession I had.
I don't remember when, but my mother had given it to me as a reward for making her happy, it was when I tried to inject the syringe into myself without using the tube. I still remember how ecstatic she was to see me so close to my death. Since then I've tried many times to make her happy again but she only got frustrated trying to keep me alive.
That was two years ago, I'll be turning ten soon.
My eyes glittered in excitement at the thought of receiving ten syringes any day now.
Lost in thought I flipped the last page of the book for the thousandth time I moved my hand to scratch an itch on my lips.
Imagine the happiness I felt when a stitch slipped, and then another until I could finally part my lips textured like the bottom of a dried-up lake, now moisturised by my blood, air wafting through the holes left behind in them.
Within my palms laid a bloodied thread; the very thing which stowed away my words.
My vision blurred as a surge of emotions welled up in me, there was but one thing letting them all out - my voice.
I shrieked in joy.
But even as I revelled in my newfound freedom, I was reminded of the fragility of life. I choked on my phlegm and kneeled, bruising my knee against the rubble on the stone floor.
Coughing out the blockage, I propped myself up and for the very first time smiled, only this time it didn't hurt.
I looked at my reflection in the pool of water and blood gathered on the floor.
What looked back was a boy with almond eyes and an aquiline nose residing underneath it.
The most notable feature of his face however was what he had never seen before, his lips part each ways.
A bloody grin stretched from ear to ear, the teeth overlapping each other, most of them being embedded into the gums.
To others, this may have been horrifying behind comparison, but to me?
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.