//------------------------------//
// Beyond Words 
// Story: Soundless Symphony 
// by Post Script 
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   	 I keep waiting to hear it. Perhaps it will be the chirping of birds, the soft rustling of trees, or the hoofsteps of those across the way. Perhaps it will be something as mundane as the dripping of the leaky faucet in my kitchen, or even that annoying tuneless whistling that she always does when she’s worried.

And these days, she’s always worried.

I’m not even angry. She had no idea it would happen, and frankly neither did I. It was just a prank, a silly harmless little joke at my expense that proved to be neither silly nor harmless. I was so sad, when I realized. There wasn’t even a ringing in my ears, just a perfect silence. Indeed, in the first few moments of glorious ignorance I was glad I couldn’t hear her anymore. I was tired of her excuses, her bad jokes and the sound of her voice. It wasn’t until I saw her face, her reaction once she realized I couldn’t hear her anymore, that she started to cry.

But like I said, I’m not angry. Not at her.

The spell was designed, according to the book, to drown out any noise that the pony it was used upon deemed stressful. The doctors have no idea when -or even if- it will wear off. It wasn’t her fault, however. She didn’t know just how difficult my life could become… I suppose that much was a miscommunication on my part. I suppose it will hardly be the first, from now on.

I can’t believe I just smiled at that.

It hasn’t all been bad. A counsellor has been with me every day, encouraging me to keep going despite my loss… I have a dark suspicion they assumed I would grow suicidal in the face of it, but thankfully I have not. There is still so much to be done.

I continue to play the cello everyday, of course. This surprised her at first, as it did everyone, but to me there was no other way. My cello is my life, and as long as I have the strength to play it I will continue to do so. In my head… I can still hear every note. I have even composed a new piece, and why not? Every chord is etched into my soul, after all, and a bird without wings can only sing.

In time, things will return to normal, whether I like it or not. The sympathetic gazes of those around me will turn away, and continue onwards as if I had little more than a grazed knee. In time she will laugh and joke about all of this, and I will laugh with her.

I hope my laughter doesn’t change, no matter how long I live in this silence.

She’s been pouring through old books for a cure, of course. It amuses me to no end to see her of all ponies spending night and day with her head stuck in a book. I know she never cared much for reading, or my composures, or anything of any real worth. 

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like had the tables been turned… as if I have to wonder at all. She would have turned to drink, no doubt. She always did tend to fall harder than most, and over the most trivial things… like when I forgot the name of her favorite album, or when I couldn’t attend her concert. As if she ever bothered to attend half of mine.

I’m not angry with her, though. Not even if I wanted to be.

The first few days were the hardest. I would speak in soft little whispers to myself, when nobody was around, in the vain hope that I would hear my pleas. I would even tap the side of my head as I did after every concert I attended, just to remind myself that my hearing was still there, however faint.

But it’s not there, not anymore. It’s gone, and the silence that has replaced it is nothing like I expected it to be. It is unyielding, absolute. Like sleep without waking could be likened to death, silence without end quickly becomes a heartbreaking thing.

I’ve already begun to pick up the subtle movements of a pony’s lips, and in time I hope to be able to hold conversations as I once did, as casually as if nothing had changed at all.

I have yet to begin learning sign language however, partly out of her insistence. She still believes that some day I’ll wake up, stretching and yawning and pushing her away, and telling her that her snoring could wake the dead.

A part of me still believes that day will come.

Besides, being like this has it’s advantages. The world seems so much slower now, so much softer. I have found hours in the day to write, where before everything seemed lost amidst the chaos of the moment. The incessant rhythm of life no longer sets my teeth on edge, the dull thumping of her bass speakers is now a soft, silent thud. I can almost fall asleep to it, ironically.

I will admit, however, that it has not been easy. That in my darkest moments, my weakness makes me think of cruel, petty things. Of enacting that same tragedy on her, of making her hear the world through my ears. And after all, why not? Is a partnership not a single life shared, a bonding of two souls into one? A harmony of two familiar notes, blended together into something greater than they could ever hope to be apart…

So yes, I will admit that a part of me is angry. She has taken my voice, my life, my favorite window into the world, and left me in a cold, unending darkness. Her willingness to endure it with me… sometimes it provides more comfort than others.

But every time I think of hurting her, I remember that cheery, cheeky grin. Those terrible jokes, those terrible habits, and the strange, earthy moments of wisdom she would come up with out of nowhere. The tears, the laughter, and the thousand little secret things that only she could ever be.

Vinyl Scratch, please, if you do me one favour above all others, please never stop saying you love me. Because those words I hear.

Every time.