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It’s midnight. It’s 1:11 and Noodle is silent.
Noodle is silent because the rest of Kong is making too much noise, even if she can’t hear it. She can feel it.
Her room is a haven and it blocks the rowdiness of everywhere else. But her room is not completely silent. The air conditioner hums. Some water trickles out of the bathroom faucet. She forces herself to get out of bed and pad to the bathroom to turn it off.
While she’s at it, she takes a look in the mirror. She isn’t very tall - she’s fourteen and she stands at 4 '11. Actually, she’s very short. She’s very short and she’s very skinny.
People have made condescending comments like: “Honey, are you sure you’re being well-fed?” or compliments that make her feel worse like: “I would kill to be as thin as you.” She wouldn't kill for anything unless she had to. She knew all about having to kill someone.
She’s very short, and very skinny, and very flat. She is, after all, curveless and boobless at the age of fourteen.
She’s heard it said multiple times, behind her back and once to her face that she looks like a nine year old. It hurts more than it should because it’s true. She’s short, skinny, and flat. How does that description not resonate with one of somebody five years younger than her?
She flexes in the mirror. She has a lot of muscle. She is, after all, an ex-child soldier. She’s supposed to be muscular.
Noodle has to chuckle, just a teensy bit. She can’t fit the criteria of a normal fourteen year old, but she does fit the one of a fourteen year old with trauma from battle fatigue and pain. She doesn't know why she chuckled. It isn’t very funny at all.
Noodle turns away from the mirror and heads back to bed. But she can’t sleep.
The air conditioner hums. Some distant music plays in the background. Her analog clock ticks. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The Kong spirits hoot. It’s really not all that much noise. She’s slept in louder conditions.
But she can’t sleep right now.
She is a warrior. A warrior in a garden. A garden because she’s safe here - to a certain extent. But she belongs in a war with the other warriors. She’s just lucky. Actually, the other warriors she knew aren’t fighting either.
All of the fight was drained out of them when Dr. Kuzyo - that nasty, cruel scientist that felt bad enough about invoking all that trauma on her specifically to save her - and other people that she chose to forget, gave them injections and poof! Just like that, they were gone. Like putting a dog down when they’re too sick. Except, none of the children were sick. They were simply human beings with less luck in the lottery for a normal upbringing, if you could call it that. She cannot.
The only sick people in that situation where the ones who tried to turn the human beings into weapons and exterminate them when they were no longer allowed to torture them.
She rolls over and turns on the lamp. Its light is obnoxious, but she needs it to see what she’s doing. She snatches the notepad and pencil on her nightstand because the only way she knows how to channel her emotions healthily is through music. And she starts to write an ode to the other 22 child soldiers that she knew.
Kids with guns
Kids with guns
Taking over
But they won’t be long
Easy does it, easy does it
They’ve got something to say ‘no’ to
Actually, they never said no out loud. They were perfectly obedient. They did everything they were supposed to do. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t want to say no. She knows for certain that she didn’t want to kill all those people. She didn’t like the smell of blood or the sound of guns or the horrible pain she inflicted on others and their families.The horror always ricocheted right back to her and plagued her dreams, even as she got older and eventually got more used to it.
They’ve got something to say ‘no’ to, indeed.
The sound of the pencil scratching the paper makes more sound. Silence is just something she’ll never reach completely. But she’s silent. Just for right now.
Living in the garden.
– Noodle, 2/18/04, age fourteen