Noise

I'm used to laughing, screaming, shouting. Not me of course. I never laugh or shout. I merely form disgruntled noises that my family has learned to ignore. But the laughing, screaming and shouting of my younger sisters and brother who possess the excellent sense of humor that must have mutated in my genes. I'm used to my dogs barking, at me (the worst owner of them all), at my parents (still mediocre at best), at every single thing that moves and sometimes even the things that don't. My cat barfing, sometimes purring, sometimes both simultaneously in some wicked way to tell me that watching me later clean up his barf will undoubtedly bring him pleasure. My baby sister slamming on the piano keys in some failed attempt to make something that could have been music but stopped far and long and away from it. The dishwasher churning from the hundreds of cups we use and forget about and leave in all random corners of the house. The dryer beeping its heated exhaustion from doing the 10th load of laundry of the day (Zoey having colored herself with food for the 20th time of the day). The sizzling of hot greasy Chinese food as my mom prepares for dinner. The constant creaking of the floor above, from my brother doing pushups in his room or my father restlessly pacing. I'm used to constant, incessant noise that I can't get away from. I'm used to lying awake at night, trying to ignore the sounds of my little sister texting or my little brother playing video games downstairs. I'm used to leaving home just to find some peace and quiet at the library or to study at Starbucks because it's easier to drown out the superficial conversations of strangers than to drown out my big, lovable mess of a family that I can never fully ignore.

So my family leaving me home alone to study for my DATs should have been some dream come true. But this, this silence is more deafening than Zoey's most horrid screams. Too much silence is suspicious. I endlessly pace the house built for more than just me, looking for and almost expecting someone else to have moved in. The only noise I make is microwaving the endless frozen TV dinners my mom bought for me before leaving, as my cooking skills are worse than nonexistent. They exist in negative form.

I lie awake at night, listening for the rustling of the trees, the snoring of my dogs, the creaking of the old floor panels as my cat finds a comfortable place to sleep, as the demons of too many detective TV shows keep me from ever closing my eyes and the demons of my past failures haunt me from ever wanting to dream. And I listen, for the laughter, screaming, shouting, churning, slamming, chatting, clanging. The attempt to make something that stopped short of being music, but now stops far and long and away from being noise.