crying, “I’m always gonna be short and I will never get taller!” She was short too, and would empathize by telling me, “Good things come in small packages.” I adopted that phrase as my comeback for everything.
I became so self-conscious about my voice that I would sometimes mumble or talk in a low whisper, which made it difficult for people to understand what I was saying. I stopped making eye contact with other kids, letting the words tumble out of my mouth. Concerned about the tone of my voice, I even asked my doctor if there was something wrong with my throat. But he assured me that there was nothing wrong with my voice, that it was unique. The word “unique” stung like a thousand bees. This single, Latin-based word would keep me up at night, wondering why I had to be “the one” gifted with a voice so different from the other boys’.
I didn’t know what to do because I wanted to talk, but knew as the sound wave left my throat that it would become a rusty wheel against the air—a disgrace that threatened the perfect silence of nature. Did the birds mock me when they heard me speak? It was during those long nights of over-obsessing about my voice that the idea of suicide began to form in my mind. I would think about taking my own life because living with my voice, my falsetto of death, seemed unbearable.
I felt cornered by the sounds coming from the larynx of my own body, and I had no idea how I would get through an entire life sounding like that. Should I become mute? Should I hide my voice in my throat, tucked away beneath the skin and muscle? Could I somehow change my voice? I didn’t know the answer, nor did I want to think about it, but the daily teasing began to strangle me, and the person I should have been in the process of becoming began to hide deep within my skin.
Although my spoken voice fell flat, I believed that my written voice would withstand the ages and leave a deeper impact than any physical voice I had been given by the creator of humans. It was then that I realized Pandora’s box was not evil; rather, it contained her voice box, and by opening it she was able to speak her own thoughts as a strong woman. She angered the world around her and was condemned for it, and so was I.
THE HUMAN SKULL IS A COMPLEX STRUCTURE THAT HOUSES THE BRAIN. WITHIN THE BRAIN IS A SPECIFIC REGION RESPONSIBLE FOR RECOGNIZING FACES. IT IS SO ATTUNED TO FINDING THEM THAT IT CAN IDENTIFY FACES IN RANDOM PATTERNS, IN SYMBOLS, IN FOOD, AND IN NATURE. THE HUMAN BRAIN CANNOT SEPARATE THE IMAGE OF THE HUMAN SKULL FROM THE FAMILIAR HUMAN FACE. BECAUSE OF THIS, BOTH THE DEATH AND PAST LIFE OF THE SKULL ARE SYMBOLIZED, AND HUMAN SKULLS HAVE A GREATER VISUAL APPEAL THAN ANY OTHER HUMAN BONES IN THE SKELETON. THE SKULL FASCINATES EVEN AS IT REPELS.
A menacing shadow had been following me for two weeks, and I couldn’t shake it. It quietly lurked until I was desperately vulnerable. That shadow was Death, and I had been marked. I could feel the chill of its breath in the autumn breeze with its intoxicating, clove-like scent.
I had become a regular at the hospital due to my asthma. Even though I couldn’t breathe properly, I continued to show up for Saturday afternoon gymnastics practice. Endorphins released by exercising usually helped me breathe easier, but that natural chemical relief was no longer occurring. At the end of practice we raced each other up a giant hill. Running made my lungs vulnerable and frail, but I couldn’t tell my coach because I didn’t want to appear weak. He would have allowed me to rest, but I wouldn’t—I’d be giving up on myself. I wasn’t going to sit back and watch my teammates’ strength increase.
Chris was usually the fastest, but on one glorious Saturday I won the race three times in a row. At home after practice my breathing quickly disintegrated into a tight, wheezing gasp, making me sound like I had swallowed a whistle. I took my blue inhaler, showered, and watched my mom get ready for work.
Once my mom left, I searched the channels on TV for a good horror movie. As the daylight faded, my breathing began to decline quicker than ever. Usually attacks took time to increase in strength, but this was a sudden tidal wave roiling over my body. The dark shadow I feared sat next to me, holding my hand. It was not dark in color, but more an absence of light, and it chilled my skin. Its frigid hands touched my chest, feeling my heart beat, trying to memorize the sound so it could crack the code and stop it.
When my attacks got that bad, I would close the bathroom door, run a hot shower, and sit by the steam to loosen the thick phlegm’s black grip around my lungs. I would sit there for hours with the shower door cracked open, tilt my head back, and suck in the white mist. The steam and repeated shots of my inhaler weren’t making a difference that night. Each minute the tightness worsened, and I could feel my airway closing.
As my breath slowly waned, I saw the appearance of Death for the first time. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female, but it was exquisite, commanding, radiant, tranquil, and genuine. We sat face-to-face at a dinner table, and I looked deep into its bottomless eye sockets. Death, handsome, gorgeous, and composed, was dressed in a suit, and I wore a hospital gown. The room was empty except for us, but there was background chatter, as though we were dining in a crowded, fancy restaurant. A piano played in the background, a familiar song I couldn’t recall. I put my hand to my mouth and noticed it was gone. I tried to feel the outlines of my lips and teeth, but they had vanished, and all that remained was a smooth, gruesome patch of skin. I began to panic.
I looked down at the silverware that sparkled like stars in the sky, and the tablecloth resembled a giant galaxy. Death gestured with its hands, as if to say, “Bon appétit,” but there was nothing to eat on my side of the table. I looked across to see a large, sterling silver lid covering a platter. Death’s bony fingers reached down to grab the handle, and it said pleasantly, “You know how badly you’ve wanted me to come.” Its voice was ecstasy echoing through my life. It spoke graciously. “There are so many people imprisoned by their bodies, and I am the peace that lets them escape it. I know you’ve been waiting for me. I know about the teasing, the sleepless nights, the terrorizing dream you have of being an Olympian. I can make it all go away; I can help you become a star in the sky and you will eternally shine your light down on your family.”
Just then its bony fingers pulled back the silver lid, exposing a grisly set of raw lungs—my lungs. They were sitting on a bloody plate and still breathing, like two captured fish about to die. I looked down at my hospital gown and touched my chest, and there was a huge, open hole where my lungs used to be. I was empty, and if I stood naked, one could see right through me. Death grabbed the shiny silverware and began cutting into my lungs, slowly and evenly, and I felt the gnawing pain beneath my skin even though they were no longer in my body. I wanted to scream, to yell in pain, but I had no mouth, breath, or voice. Blood oozed out of my lungs as Death mindlessly cut into each slice, raised the piece to its mouth, and began to chew. I felt a sensation more agonizing than the cutting. I felt Death consuming my lungs, and the torture was unbearable. My blood dripped from the corners of its mouth, and still, Death looked attractive. It leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. I wiped the stain of the bloody kiss off my skin. Its seduction was paralyzing, and for a moment I had no pain. I felt free, sacred, and complete.
I woke up on the couch with sweat stinging my eyes and fear closing my throat. All the agony on Earth was concentrated in the center of my chest. My small, clasped hands turned to fists, fighting and drawing breath from beneath the Earth. I gasped and struggled, but nothing happened. Eventually that intense pain would become unbearable as Death waited patiently for me to beg. It wasn’t going to take my life unless I willingly gave it away. However, along with that discomfort came the greatest desire to hold on and fight to keep breathing with every fiber of my being. I should have called an ambulance, but I waited for my mom to come home. The hours fell into the night
