kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"SylphsVoice.0"

words

Sylph licked the needle, tasting the music that had played just moments ago. On the flesh of her tongue, it was surprisingly soft. She imagined someone else's voice coming out her mouth--any voice coming from out her mouth. She imagined herself with the voice of Betty Carter--not perfect, perhaps, but powerful; creative, and agile. But no. She was just a silent movie blackface.

She pulled the record out of its slip, and found the point where it began, tracking the even spiral until there was just the slightest hint of wobble. Four notes belted out--she felt them tickle in her throat. A tear wriggled its way from her eye, and she let it crawl down her cheek, into her mouth. She imagined the salt running down the groove of the record, scratching Betty's voice, and she wanted to stop--to stop crying, to stop caring; she didn't want to hurt anything quite so precious, she didn't want to be jealous.

But she was jealous, damn it all. And damn Betty for making her care. And damn her parents for wanting to listen to Betty more than her. Sylph went to the kitchen for a knife, and sat down on the immaculate kitchen floor cross-legged, the record in her lap. She looked at her wrist, and imagined the feel of the knife sliding across it. But why should she hurt herself? Hadn't the world done enough? Hadn't her parents?

She jabbed the knife into the record, surprising herself with the action and the reaction, surprised by the knife sticking into the vinyl, surprised by the sudden resistance to her hand, the slight twinge in her bicep as her movement was halted, the hint of a burn in her palm. Quickly, she found again the opening of the record, and placed the point of the knife within. Then, with slight pressure forward and back, she ground the knife against the groove.

She would erase Betty, erase her from her mind, erase her from her parents' hoard. She peeled the voice away in spiral slips, in chunks and powder. And as she did, she felt the oddest burning in her throat; breathing the powder, she assumed, but did not care. It wasn't as if anything could do more damage to her voice at this point.

The hours turned in her hands, and she shifted the knife back and forth between them, the ache in them slowing her progress but only strenghthening her resolve.

A noise, then, from the living room. A key turned in the lock, and then another for the deadbolt. Her parents were, of course, arguing, and she was surprised she hadn't heard them from down the hall, from down the stairs. Their return shifted her perception and she saw, really saw, the childish damage she'd done. But with shame and fear came another surge of anger, and she set the record down and marched forward to the living room, where her mother was busy taking off her coat with jerkish motions and her father simply stood with the door locked behind him. Neither of them noticed or acknowledged her approach.

"I hate you!" screamed Sylph, and stopped, stunned at the voice coming from her chest. It was like and unlike anything she'd imagined; sounded nothing like the voice inside her head, nor anyone else she knew. She was neither of her parents, nor any of her friends. The warmth in her throat chuckled, and melted through her open mouth.

Sylph collapsed to the floor, and cried, her parents' arms around her.