Chapter Text
From a very young age, Rin knew that something was off.
Not like the kind of off when her mother explained that nothing was wrong with their family, even if it lacked a father. Or the kind of off when she knew her brother had a rough day because he couldn’t get the last cup of chocolate pudding she gladly ate in front of him.
It was more like the kind of off when she noticed that nobody around her seemed like her, Len, or her mother, Asami .
The strange looks when others looked down at her and lightened when they saw Len, the odd stares when they moved their lips at her, or the pitiful, demoralizing glares they’d send at her—something was off, but, for the life of her, Rin couldn’t figure out what it was.
Asami would kneel in front of her and wave her arms to catch her attention from whatever she was doing. If she didn’t spot her mother’s funky movements, Asami would tap her shoulder, and that made her turn.
She loved it when Asami played with her hands and made exaggerated movements with her mouth. In return, she’d mimic her, stretching her lips and swinging her arms around. This would repeat for hours until she got bored or spotted Len come around the corner, and, after realizing his sister was getting their mother’s attention, he’d run forward to steal the show, copying Asami flawlessly, much faster than she ever could.
Eventually, Rin discovered these actions would get her certain things. If she was hungry, she learned to find Asami or Len and drag her cupped hand from her collarbone to her stomach. Likewise, if she was thirsty, dragging her pointer finger from her chin to her stomach would let them know that she wanted a drink.
When she and Len clashed and she managed to beat him to the ground by biting his hand or sticking her fingers up his nose, Asami kept rolling her fist across her chest until Rin mimicked it. Then Asami would force Len to do the same action, and their brawl was over—an apology, Rin thought.
When she and Len worked together to steal an extra sweet and would eventually get caught, only her brother looked ashamed when Asami grabbed both of them and threw them on the couch, lips opening and closing but nothing really happened—only Len seemed bothered. Rin thought Len didn’t like it when Asami moved her mouth, maybe it was something he was afraid of, but when she tried it a few hours later, opening and closing her mouth like Asami, Len hadn’t even broken into tears, only looking confused until he got bored of her.
It was only when Len and her started watching more television that she started putting the pieces together about what was off.
She watched animals and characters walking down a path, and not once did their hands move to recreate motions she knew. In fact, she hardly ever saw the characters use their hands outside of picking objects up. Instead, their lips moved, and the expressions of others around them ranged from happiness or anger.
So, something was going on with the lips, but she couldn’t understand what made that so special.
She caught Len spying on her several times when she sat in front of a mirror, opening and closing her jaw to figure out what made this so special. She ignored him every time, even if he mocked her.
Then, one day, when they were fighting—she was winning—her hands wound around his neck, she felt something move. She forgot about the blood dripping from his nose, now wholly, amazed and curious about the sensation. Len stopped, understood what she wanted when she had furiously tapped her throat, demanding answers.
Asami entered their room and found the twins on the floor with Rin’s fingers pressed against Len’s throat, his lips opening and closing just like she’d seen so many times on the television and what Asami and Len tended to do when she wasn’t around. He, somehow, managed to control the vibrations, just by moving his lips.
However, when she touched her neck and copied him, she didn’t feel anything. She tried over and over, and not once did she feel the same sensation.
At first, she believed Len was special, but when Asami wrapped her hands around her neck, she felt similar vibrations, and that only made her stomp and flee to her room, raging and upset that there was something her annoying, bothersome, stupid brother could do that she couldn’t.
She knew she felt something, she wasn’t crazy, but what was she missing? As much as she knew her mother and Len were special, she didn’t believe her younger brother had something she didn’t—they were twins.
There was no way that she’d let Len have something she didn’t , and she was determined to shine brighter than him anyday, anywhere, in anything.
So, she practiced moving her lips and studying Len. He’d open his jaw, contorting it into odd shapes, and she’d follow, even if she looked like a fool. At least Asami was better at copying; her mother wouldn’t laugh at her and would only squish her between her embrace and beating heart that entranced Rin.
She stopped using her hands for a few days even though Asami and Len continued. When her mother made sandwiches, while her brother touched the tips of his lips with pointed hands, she moved her lips. Her mother’s face fell, and she didn’t get her sandwich. So, she tried again, this time opening her jaw further, but still no peanut butter sandwich.
In the end, she gave in and repeated the action, jabbing her lips with her fingers, the sign she knew would get her food, and ate her lunch with a defeated scowl.
Then Asami taught her the word “talk,” and that concept was beyond thrilling. She learned that “talking” was something people did that involved moving their lips. That’s why every time they went outside she felt off—people were “talking.” Apparently, when someone “talked,” they used “words” to translate what they wanted, eating, sleeping, greed, playing, dancing, singing—oh, the list went on and on!
The new discovery brought too many questions. What exactly made “words” so great? How many words were there in the entire world? Where do words come from? How did words work? Did they work the same as her hands? Why hadn’t she learned of this concept before? How powerful were “words” if they could convey what a person wanted through lip movement?
She still preferred using her hands to signal what she wanted, though. Moving around suited her better. But why did her brother know how to talk and didn’t? Neither Asami or Len answered her when she asked, leaving Rin pondering past her bedtime, snapping just a bit harsher in the morning.
The day she learned that her throat did vibrate was one of the best days she ever had, especially since it happened the same day she had beaten Len in every game they played and had eaten more ice cream without vomiting into the toilet minutes later.
During her self-proclaimed victory of not puking up their dessert, she touched her throat—it was out of instinct nowadays—and her skin vibrated. She froze, and it vanished, so she tried again, forcing her stomach to jump and twist like it had been doing when Len was turning a paler green and like magic, something underneath her skin shook.
The vibrations were back, and she was the one making them!
She was like Asami and Len, and she grinned and did her best to convey her message to her worried mother and sick brother when he wasn’t shoving his face into the toilet.
Laughter. Asami spelled the word for her with her fingers, middle and pointer finger crossed in the R.
“You’re laughing,” Asami said, brushing her fingers along her cheeks a couple times. “Laughter. You.”
“Laughter,” she responded. “Laughter! Laughter! Laughter!” She ran behind Len, uncaring that her nose burned as she neared the spew and his smelly face, and yanked him out of the toilet. “Laughter! Laughter! Laughter!”
Len didn’t respond and fell back on the toilet seat, seeing his banana ice cream again.
Later, when she watched television and they moved their lips, she knew they were talking, but she couldn’t tell what words they were saying—why didn’t they use their hands—so there was something she was still missing.
So, she tested her hypothesis, laughter building in her throat, and this time, she made her throat rumble, much, much louder and stronger than before. Len winced, nearly falling off the couch, and that told her that she was doing something right.
Oh, she had so much fun with her discovery, but Len put a stop to it by finding Asami and that’s when she learned a new word, “pain,” signed by two contorting, pointer fingers.
Oh well, she was learning how to talk. It didn’t matter if they were suffering; she was having fun, and she was talking. But she never saw Len and Asami twist their fingers, never saw them tell the other person that they were in pain, while every time she spoke, it didn’t take long for her brother to say that word. Her mother was more patient, but eventually, she gave in, “Pain, Rin, pain. Stop,” and Rin was left to sulk.
Well, it wasn’t her fault that she discovered the concept of “talking” late—her mother should’ve told her sooner! She just didn’t have as much practice, that was all! So, she practiced when she thought she was alone, but if Len was entirely focused on the book in his hands or Asami was busy cooking, one of them just knew she was practicing.
This drove her crazy. Once Len was watching television where someone was up on a stage with a microphone in their hand, he was completely focused on whatever was on the screen—what was so great about watching people talk into a microphone? Once Asami opened her computer to make a video call, she was completely focused on whatever was on the other side—how exactly did Asami talk to the other person when they only moved their lips?
Each time when she was sure that they were both too occupied to notice her, they’d find her in the basement, her bedroom, bathroom, or attic practicing, despite being in completely different rooms. She never told them where she was going, but they could find in a matter of minutes.
What was giving away her location?
Finally, she learned enough words to convey her message to Asami.
“Something’s wrong,” she signed during dinner one day.
“What’s wrong?” Asami responded.
“How do you find me? Talking?”
“Just like how I find Len around this house, I know where you all hide.”
“No, you find me when I talk.” Rin pointed to her laptop. “You’re at the computer. Len watches tv. You’re busy, focused. How do you find me?”
“I always have time for you and Len, no matter what it is.”
Somehow, it didn’t satisfy her. “How do you find me?” Then, before her mother could respond, an idea struck her, both hands raising palm-up, her fingers wiggling. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”
She sped toward the restroom, shutting the door and took a breath. Seeing that nobody followed her, she turned on the facet, flushed the toilet, then kicked the door. Then, she came back out. “What did I do?”
“You washed your hands, flushed the toilet, kicked the door. Rin, we don’t kick furniture here.”
“No,” she lied. She wasn’t expecting Asami to get her question right, let alone list it off in the right order, and the fact that Len also said the same thing in the exact order only fueled her anger.
Asami raised an eyebrow. “Lying isn’t good.”
“Lying’s bad,” Len repeated. “What are you doing?”
“How do you know? The door was shut. How do you know what I’m doing?”
Asami and Len exchanged a glance, and when their lips moved, it fell into her head.
How had she not realized this earlier? How exactly were they understanding each other? How did they know what words the other person was saying when their hands didn’t come off the tabletop? How were they able to just know what the other person wanted all because their lips moved?
When they moved their lips, nothing happened, they only looked like silly clowns.
Her scream must’ve changed something because Asami hurried to her with a pad and pencil. ‘I heard you.’
Heard? Rin pointed to the word and scrunched her face.
“Yes,” Asami said. She touched her ear twice with her pointer and middle fingers. ‘ I can hear you.’
Hear ? Rin pointed to the word then back to her ear.
“Yes,” Asami repeated. “Hear.”
Rin tapped her ear twice. She saw a sinking expression befall Asami, her mouth parting and lips withdrawing, seeking a response from Rin. “How do you hear?”
The question left her mother still. Len peered over the kitchen table at them, his crystal eyes reflecting a similar heartbroken look on her own face as they waited for Asami to answer. Their mother curled her hands together, notebook and pencil clattering to the floor, but neither of them went to retrieve it.
Asami picked up her hands, her face painted with a sad frown. ‘It isn’t something I can teach you.’
She pinched her eyebrows together, touching her forehead with her right hand and flinging it out, her three middle fingers glued to her palm, leaving her pinkie and thumb sprawled out. “Why?”
She learned a few more words that day.
One word was “hear.” Someone could “hear” with their ears. It was through “talking” that people could understand what others wanted because they could “hear” words people were “talking” about. “Hearing” was also similar because that described a person who could hear.
Another word was “sound.” “Sounds” were something people produced when they talked, when objects hit each other, and apparently, every little action created “sound.” Certain sounds created certain words, and it was through hearing those words through talking that people could understand one another without their hands.
The final word was “deaf.” That word described people who lacked the ability to hear. They couldn’t hear those certain sounds that made certain words because their ears didn’t hear anything.
Deaf. Rin had a sinking feeling before Asami clarified anything.
“I’m hearing, I can hear you,” Asami said, pointer finger spinning in front of her lips. “Len can also hear you.” Her mother didn’t repeat the same sign for her. Asami touched her right earlobe with her pointer finger then swept it down to her chin. “I’m sorry, Rin, you are deaf.”
Deaf. She kept tracing her finger from her ear to chin. Deaf. That’s why she was so confused when people moved their lips. Deaf. That answered her questions about how Asami and Len could understand lip movements. Deaf. That was the reason she could never grasp what made her stomach feel uneasy.
Deaf. The inability to hear.
“I am deaf.”
“I am deaf.”
“I am deaf.”
Somehow, knowing what made her feel off made the pain worse.
Asami attempted to reach her, and Rin could barely feel Len shake her. Asami tried talking to her, her arms and fingers spinning sentences out of the air—that was cooler than any kind of vibrating throat, working, stupid ears—but Rin shook her head, biting her lips as her mother began scribbling on the notepad again.
“Mom?”
“Yes? What’s the matter?” Asami demanded. She signed a few more words Rin didn’t pick up on, but she did catch note of what her mother had written.
'Being deaf doesn’t make you any less special. I do not love you any less. You are my daughter first and foremost, deaf or hearing, you are my beloved daughter whom I love with all my heart. You are not, and will never, be a burden to me.'
“Why are my ears broken?”