Scream, Silenced

Scream, Silenced

I started screaming somewhere between the apple section — I thought a McCoun could soothe, be a slightly sweet and crunchy balm, but there were only rows and rows of Fuji, Cortland, Empire and Pink Ladies — and the jalapenos, red peppers. My screams so loud the dead in Grove Cemetery began perking up. At the end of Aisle five I accidentally jostled a magazine rack, knocking a TimeLife picture book of “Famous Natural Disasters” to the floor. The woman behind me swathed in Pashmina beat me to picking it up. She looked at my face, lips pursed thoughtfully. Like admiring an Edvard Munch painting.

When I made it to the check-out with an armload — Chobani plain yogurt, a roll of no-name paper towels and, for some reason lost to me, Reynold’s aluminum foil — still screaming, the cashier took my twenty, gave me change, never looked me in the eye, and didn’t say a word. She might’ve been screaming, too. I grabbed my tote, headed for the automatic doors, screamed on. In the parking lot, I forgot where my Honda CRV — the new one, taupe-colored — was parked. New to me — the 2016 replacement for “Zippy”, my 2013 used, burgundy-colored CRV, totaled last summer when I smashed a deer and my heart doing about fifty on Route One north of Stockton Springs. No insurance. No “comprehensive”, anyway. Hence, the newer — expensive! — CRV.  The deer had no insurance either. No comprehensive protection against me and my 5000-pound hunk of metal. She died slow. I might’ve started screaming then.

No, it was before then; I remember now.

Autopilot helped me find the car. I guess. I had to stop at the post office and, between screams, I gurgled out to the always kind postmaster of Searsport, Maine that I needed a change of address form. With the gentlest of voices he said, “Can I help with anything else today?”, and handed me government issue. Trying for a smile, I screamed through my contorted grimace. He grinned warmly, and, looking past my left shoulder, said, “Next?” My yell may have gotten louder as I angled through the Christmas package mailing crowd, desperate to get to the door.

By the time I got home, I noticed screaming had become like breathing. Habitual. Essential. Had I really been screaming through two hours of mindless errands? I’m screaming still. I’ve been screaming for near on a year — three years? Longer? How is the world tolerating this? Tolerating me? It’s so loud, incessant. Consequential, yet, no consequences. How have my vocal chords held up? How has my heart?

How is it no one hears?

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