Chapter Text
I have always been slightly different. Ever since I can remember, I have heard music from some individuals. I thought it was normal until I mentioned it to my parent one time.
Maybe I was five at most, but the consequences taught me to never speak of it again. Growing up in a no-name town, in a seemingly ass-backward state, it was unwise to highlight these disturbing differences.
My childhood was not out of the ordinary. I went to school, had some friends, and had some bullies. I tried to lay low and keep my nose clean to avoid getting belted.
It’s how you survive when you feel a little off balance. Don’t draw attention was the number one rule. It wasn’t until the summer of ‘87 that my world changed. If it were for the better, it has yet to be determined.
One sweltering June morning just after my 9th birthday, I awoke with a thick layer of gunk sealing my eyes shut. Recognizing this from the previous winter, it was probably pink eye.
The remedy was a warm compress to loosen the crusty, sticky discharge. Thankfully, the route to the bathroom was one I knew by heart, there was no need to see where I was going.
It was too early for my Mom to be up, and Dad was probably off to work already, not that they would be much help.
Once I loosened the layer clinging to my eyelashes with a damp cloth, I could see the yellow junk, confirming my suspicions. It wasn’t until I looked into the mirror that fear held me in place.
"It was not pink eye."
My eyes were no longer their usual dull brown. Instead, a pair of dark lilac-colored eyes looked back at me. I leaned over the sink, splashing warm water on my face, rubbing my eyes until they hurt, but they were still that same haunting lilac color.
I let out a scream, and within moments, my mother stumbled out of bed. The metallic snap of her lighter could be heard as she lit her Newport.
“What the hell is wrong?” she asked, standing in the doorway as the cigarette hung loosely between her lips, smoke billowing. The acrid smell was nauseating.
My head was in my hands, sobbing, afraid of what might happen when I looked at her.
She sighed loudly, “Shit, you got your period… pads are under the sink,” she mumbled as she turned away assuming her job was done.
“No, Mom, that’s not it.” She stopped. “Well, what the fuck are you screaming about at 9 a.m.?”
I turned, looking at her with apprehension.
“Fuck!” she said simply. She took a long drag of the cigarette. “Fuck, fuck FUCK!” was all she yelled. She turned on her heels and went straight to her room.
I was petrified. She would emerge from her room with the leather belt ready to teach me a lesson. Instead, I heard the receiver being lifted. Her voice was laced with annoyance.
“It's starting.”
“Yes, I am sure, Lyle.”
“Her eyes are fucking purple.”
“No, you call the Ministry.”
“I don’t care if you're busy at work, this was your dumbass idea.”
“Oh fuck off and tell them to send something to cover her eyes.”
“NO, people don’t have purple eyes.”
The phone slammed down, making me jump. Her footsteps thudded toward the bathroom.
My head raised as she approached, and she looked back at me with a sneer. “Creepy.” She tilted her head, studying me. Another cigarette sparked to life between her fingers.
“Look, don’t bother asking. I have no fucking clue what’s wrong with you, I’ll make some calls to see if I can get you into a doctor or something.”
She lied.
That entire week was spent locked up in the house until one day, Dad came home with a small blue box. He tossed it to me, “Go, you put ‘em in your eyes.” Then he walked to the fridge to grab a beer.
That was my first experience with contact lenses. It took about twenty minutes to figure out exactly what I was looking at, and almost double that time to put them in.
My eyes were never spoken of again.
Four years had passed, and my eyes were still that eerie lilac color. Things didn’t get better either. I was struggling in school. I couldn’t keep my grades, and I couldn’t keep friends.
I also couldn’t manage to stay out of trouble with my parents. They weren’t well-educated people, but they loved me in their own harsh way.
They became far more evasive and cruel to me after my eyes changed. Something was happening, but I couldn’t pin down what. All I knew was that I felt more out of place than ever.
In June of ‘92, I had just turned 13 when my parents told me we were traveling to Boston. They gave me a large suitcase and told me to pack it.
I looked at the size of the suitcase and had my suspicions, so everything I absolutely couldn’t live without was packed.
Living down east, as the locals call it, not many people had a melody. When I did encounter people who seemed to have music emanating from them, they were often older and weird.
When we arrived at the airport in Boston, the number of melodies was plentiful, which fueled my curiosity.
Over the years, I learned not to ask questions; the proof was carved across my back.
When my father grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and left it on the curb, I followed him obediently. Neither of them had luggage.
My fear escalated; they were not coming with me. What was happening? It was clear they were sending me somewhere, but where?
I racked my brain trying to find clues about what I did or where I was going, but I came up empty.
As we moved through the airport, the blend of voices, instruments, sounds, and faint whispers was disorienting. A stout woman with a cane sounded like a deep cello when she waddled past me. Another gentleman, in a pinstriped suit, sounded like cymbals clashing together.
Wading through the crowd in the terminal, I started feeling jumpy every time music passed by me. My nerves were fraying.
We stopped in front of a tall, sharply dressed man with a fedora neatly placed on his head. He also had a melody, like finely tuned string instruments. I stared at him, trying to discern what made him different. I saw nothing outside of his unusually formal manner of dress.
My mother punched my arm, “Quit staring, idiot.” If the man in the hat noticed, he didn’t let on.
My parents talked to him in hushed tones, the hat man periodically looking my way. His face showed no emotion.
Even though they were right next to me, the noise was too much, and I couldn’t focus on their words.
My mind raced through what was happening, and it felt like they spoke forever, my parents' demeanor shifting from self-righteous to downright insulted. They were embarrassing.
While staring at my shoelaces, trying to calm myself, I heard the most disturbing noise. It wasn’t music or common crowd noise; it reminded me of the white noise from television after broadcast hours, but there was something wet about it.
Immediately, my eyes darted around looking for the source. The man speaking with my parents drew his attention to me and looked in the direction I was looking.
There was a shadow of something—like a floating grim reaper. No wonder my parents were getting rid of me; I was going crazy.
The hat man grabbed my arm and started walking quickly. No further concern was directed toward my parents.
When he touched me, I could focus a little better. “We must go quickly!”
I didn’t have time to look back at my parents. I was never going to see them again. The most shocking thing about my revelation? The idea brought me a sense of real peace.