Leaden Ears, Part 1

I could only perceive it sometimes. That was a common misconception. More often than not, maddening wrist movements interfered. It was probably good for my own good, sort of an instant karma for what I was doing. True, I had no business listening, but everybody listens, don’t they? Don’t they?

Most of what I heard was mundane nonsense. People thinking that no one understands them and life is bleak abyss, sappy lovesick poems, and the endless flow of he said, she said, none of which I had the slightest interest in. Everyone thinks it’s safe to pour their hearts out onto the ever-listening paper. They were wrong.

Obsessed with normality, a child intrigued by words at the ripe age of eighteen months wasn’t exactly welcomed. And a girl at that. Oh, the shame, the shame….

I was constantly reminded of the brother who had joined me in the womb, but never saw his first breath. The one who would have been welcomed with jolly whoops and general merrymaking. Needless to say, I was a disappointment. My “father” snidely questioned if they could make and exchange while still at the hospital. No one bothered to return what were clearly boys clothing. I’d be wearing trains and steam shovels until something came along that marked me clearly as “girl”. Before those glorious days arrived, something else would fill my veins, and more importantly my ears with complete individuality.

The first time my so-called parents realized something was “wrong” with me occurred shortly after my forth birthday, a morbid affair I am sorry to have memories of. It was merely acknowledged as a day to rejoice in the fourteen years they had left before being able to legally throw me out the door. A rare moment alone with my father was when I made the seemingly innocent mistake. He’d been composing a sordid composition to Mrs. Next Door. I sat, ears pricked curious as anyone would be to see what he could come up with.

“You…..girl!” A blunt voice jarred me out of my pensive state.

“Medalle?” I ventured.

“You think I care what you’re called?? No, because…” I’d already lost interest in his straining of vocal cords, and was concentrating once more on the noises the instrument in his hand was making on the crumpled paper.

“LISTEN TO ME!!!” he bellowed.

“ I am.”

“You’re listening to what I’m saying, eh?”

“No, why would I do something horrendous like that to my ears?”

“So, now you’re a smart ass—”

“By the way, shouldn’t passionately have two s’s? And I don’t know about your use of urge…” I’d been trying to advise the man, more love than he’d ever shown me. Instead of the malicious remark I thought was following, I was met by a blank stare.